Life In The Fast Lane

2011-09-18T18:04:00.000-06:00

Walking in here is like walking into an empty room that still holds lots of really cool stuff that I forgot I had. Things that I had to put aside because Life shit the bed and I had to go clean it up.

Am I back? I don't know. I miss this place and this space and the connections I felt. (Yeah, I mean you. You're fucking awesome, keep that shit up!)

It's been a shit show this year, for realz. I did leave Hot Stuff; packed up my goods and my kids and frappe la rue; found me and the little ones a place to live and by God, I did it. We started marriage counseling, sold the house... and then bought a new house, and moved into it together. I still don't know if it was the right time to do it. On one hand, it has been amazing for the kids. They have friends here. Friends that they can bike around the street with, or play in each others' backyards. It has been great for me, too. The deep, deep loneliness that I felt living out in the country - essentially by myself - is gone. Hot Stuff is working overseas and his schedule is 4 weeks gone and 4 weeks home. It's a really great schedule because it gives him solid working time, and then me and the kids get time with him when he's home for a month.

On the other hand... our marriage isn't fixed. We are on the road, but there is a far distance to travel. We still have issues that are pretty big. We're still going to go to counseling, still keep trying to figure all this shit out.

2011-02-19T15:25:00.000-07:00

Ok, it's time to get down to it. I've been futzing around other blogs for the last hour kind of trying to avoid writing my own post. Thankfully, I have a Dear Sister who will not rest until I have dragged ~~every single~~ ~~some~~ at least one emotion up from the dregs of my heart so she can see how I'm really doing. (I guess 10 - 15 phone calls a week back and forth between us isn't convincing enough.)

I don't want to get into too much about this, but Hot Stuff and I have separated. (Let's keep this off facebook, shall we? Private stuff for Blogger, only.) At first, things were back and forth from angry to amicable. Right now, we are amicable. So amicable, as a matter of fact, that when I got some wisdom teeth removed on Wednesday afternoon, he volunteered to watch the kids and keep an eye on me so I didn't die. (Just so you don't think I am a giant wimp, I had three teeth removed under general anesthetic. Being under GA means you are not allowed to be left alone for the first 24 hrs after surgery, should you decide to lock yourself in the bathroom and pass out.. or fall down the stairs. Somehow, I managed to avoid both!)

Post surgery, my face looked like I got dragged behind a car for a few blocks. Thanks to the two bottom wisdom teeth, which my dental surgeon referred to as, "Oh! Ho! Ho! They were some nasty bastards!" I had lots of swelling, and now have bruising and a sexy little patch of busted up skin on the corner of my mouth that resembles an eruption of gonosyphiherpelaids. I would have taken a picture, but I couldn't remember where I put the camera. Blame the narcotics.

So there I was, doped up on Emcat (Tylenol #3 without the caffeine), being very well taken care of by my separated spouse. It was nice. And weird. But very nice, none the less. It doesn't change my plans (to move out at the end of the month), but in him I think I saw a glimmer of a person that I would definitely want to be married to, should the person that I saw this last couple of days truly be the person that my spouse is changing into.

Either way, and this is the biggie, I am prepared to continue on my way. Making a life for myself where my happiness is not even a little dependent on someone else.

Sigh.

2011-01-04T14:35:00.000-07:00

I find myself heaving a lot of dramatic sighs these days. I need to make an important decision, and I can't seem to make up my mind. I have meditated until the cows came home, but I still don't find peace in my heart, no matter which way I think I should go. I'm worried that if I make the wrong decision, I won't be able to put it back together should it blow up in my face. You know? I haven't been talking about this with anyone, because I'm pretty sure if I talk about it, I'm going to start crying. I don't cry in front of other people. Like, ever. It's so uncomfortable for me and not at all cathartic. Anyways, I am now dragging my feet. Alternately agonizing over and ignoring the problem. Hoping that a solution jumps out of the bushes at me. Basically doing anything I can to avoid the grown-up business of Making The Tough Choices.

(I don't wanna be a grown up and you can't make me!)

Not Another Angsty New Year's Eve Post

2010-12-31T20:01:00.000-07:00

I just read my last New Year's Eve post, and boy, was I in a state. It was bad. I said I would make 2010 a better year, and it was. Going back to work, despite my deep insecurity and total lack of self-confidence in my abilities, was the best thing I could have done for myself. One of my friends commented the other day that I am a totally different person than I was a year ago. I think that's true.

Things have not been sugar-coated wonderfulness, though. There has been some (lots? well, less than in previous years) marital melodrama this year, too. I think the difference was knowing that I was not trapped. If I chose to put up with it, it was my choice, not because I was financially unable to leave. Boy that looks screwed up when I write it out. Why would someone choose to put up with bullshit? Ten years is a long time to be with someone. Three kids. (Listening to talk radio discussing books called, "Your Mediocre Marriage Is Good Enough For The Kids.") Accepting that today -- and tomorrow, and many other tomorrows -- is not the day the sun is going to shine on your dog's ass.

Today, my sister took my Princess back home to BC for a week (sad. missing my girl already. hope she's doing okay. she totally is. she's very independent.), so when the boys and I got home, the baby went for a nap and the Hurricane and I settled in to watch The Sword and The Stone and eat Cheezies (this is a BIG treat!). Later on, we ran into town to grab stuff for dinner, and I decided to stop at the movie store and grab a movie for myself. (This is the degree of lame to which I have fallen.. watching a movie at home by myself on New Years Eve. Sad. Even more lame: I didn't find a movie at the movie store. I'll be watching TV instead.) The Hurricane is in the back seat, ordering me to get him a movie and a treat. It makes me crazy.

I kind of let go of a friend this year. I felt like the friendship was very unbalanced (I was doing all the giving, and the friend was doing all the taking), and that I was allowing myself to be sucked into constant drama. I thought I would feel guilty for stepping back, but mostly I just felt relieved. We still talk, occasionally, but even those conversations inevitably turn one-sided...

I don't know what's going to happen in 2011. I have spent the last month just trying to get through Christmas. Just trying to get through. Shouldn't Christmas be fun and magical, and not something you just try to get through? I'm not making New Years Resolutions either, as it's almost 8pm and I've only now just remembered this is what one does for the New Year. Oh, fine! Even though I have an impossibly busy evening of watching TV and playing on the internet, I could probably muster something up, the usual I'll lose some weight, I'll try to be nicer and less of a catty bitch, I'll work on being patient, etc. Sure, let's go with that.

Happy Freaking New Year.

One-legged man in ass kicking contest.

2010-10-06T13:05:00.000-06:00

There is so much stuff going on these days.

The Hurricane started kindergarten, and he even gets on the bus with the older kids in the morning. My big guy! He loves kindergarten. He really loves the bus. He got off one day last week and this was our conversation:
Hurricane: "Hey Mom, guess what I said on the bus?"
Me: "What, honey?"
Hurricane: "I said, 'Shut up Dane, ya donkey's dick!"
Ahh.. older kids on the bus.. I just love them.

The two big kids are in swimming lessons twice a week (at 0840 what the hell was I thinking?!). The Princess is acting very shy with the teacher and the other kids; the Hurricane is effing terrified of jumping into the water. It's kind of painful to watch, actually.

We've decided to sell our house, as we have outgrown it. It's a really cute little house, and would be perfect for a family of four. Unfortunately, I am not willing to part with any of these little monsters I call my children (of the corn) on a permanent basis.

The realtor gave me a staging list, which is pretty much a list of things to change/remove in the house in order to make it look more appealing. I also decided that I should re-paint the entryway at the same time. Fast forward through three (four?) days of ass-busting, and she came yesterday to do pictures. Was very impressed. Made me feel good. :) The only thing left to do is strip and refinish the dining room floor. That's tomorrow's project.

So the night before the realtor came to do the staging list, I walked into the Princess' room and saw this:

You can sort of see where she colored on her bed frame, but you can't see that she also colored on her legs, her belly, her face, her sheets, and both of her palms entirely. Did I mention this is dark blue felt? As we get closer to her turning three, I am getting an increasingly ominous feeling.

Which reminds me that I have a birthday party to plan and also Halloween costumes to make.

A Short Post

2010-09-26T22:22:00.000-06:00

I fell at roller derby yesterday and I think I broke my knuckle. I felt it grind when I landed on my hand and then I felt it grind again when I stood up and tried to make a fist. I am typing with some of the fingers on my right hand taped together. It is as awkward as it sounds.

The swelling and lack of hand mobility has successfully taken my mind off of my sore tailbone, on which I fell a couple of weeks ago. Now that hurt like a sonofabitch.

I know how it sounds. Maybe you're not really cut out to play derby.

Seriously, I am getting better at it.

And I still love it.

Friend and money are like... two things that are very poorly matched.

2010-07-12T22:37:00.000-06:00

I know mixing friends with money is always a bad idea. I never do it; I made an exception this time because of circumstances and because I felt bad for this friend.

Last year I helped a very close friend out who was really in dire straits; I told my friend that I would not do the work for free, that because of my own financial problems I needed to be paid (we're talking just less than $200, by the way). I was told I would be paid as soon as my friend received some expected money. It didn't happen when my friend got that payment, so I asked to be paid before Christmas. I really could have used the money for Christmas stuff. My friend knew this and agreed to pay me before Christmas.

I didn't get paid before Christmas. I let it slide.

I let it slide through the new year and the first few months, bringing it up only once and was told yes, I would get some money. I didn't get any money. It's been a year now and I still haven't seen any money.

I find myself becoming very resentful when I hear complaints of I am so broke! interspersed with stories of shopping trips that involve name brand clothes or $340 worth of shoes. I am trying to remind myself that I shouldn't let this bother me; that it is none of my business what my friend spends money on, but (clearly) it is bothering me.

A large part of me feels incredibly disrespected by this. I feel taken advantage of. I am upset that my friend chooses to spend money on expensive material things instead of paying me back; I get mad when I read about it on facebook or hear about it over the phone.

I spent time with my friend last weekend and because I didn't have any cash on me, my friend graciously lent me some. I am going to be seeing my friend again soon, and I know I will be asked to pay back the money. I want to remind my friend of the outstanding money owed to me and suggest that I just subtract what I owe from what is owed to me. This is probably going to not go over well, as my friend is honestly hard up financially these days. I am worried about how this is going to impact our friendship.

I feel petty and small and kind of mean about this. At the same time, I feel like I should not have to wait a year to get paid. And yes, this is small potatoes, but I dammit, I worked for that money.

Thoughts?

Just hanging out.

2010-06-30T11:56:00.000-06:00

I got my kids back on Saturday. I didn't realize how much I missed them until they got off the bus. The first couple of days were like a dream; everyone smiling and lovey and lots of hugs and kisses. It didn't last (it never does). Right now, though, the Hurricane is yelling and jumping on the couch. The Princess is crying because the Hurricane pushed her. Little Dude is crying because he was running in the house. With his shoes on. And fell on his face. And now? The Hurricane and the Princess are fighting over which CD they want to listen to.

It's like they never left.

Surely I am not the only one who thinks kicking them outside and locking the door is a grand idea, right?

***

Roller derby is kicking my ass. My legs and butt and abs are SORE the morning after practice. I am really enjoying it, though, and I am even (slowly) getting better at it!

***

I'm still depressed that a certain person, let's call him Warm Stuff, killed my tomato plant by over-watering it. I'm trying to get through my sadness by looking on the bright side: it's a good excuse to buy a Topsy Turvy. My lettuces and carrots are coming up gangbusters. Cukes, radishes, and herbs? Nowhere to be seen. I am blaming this one on birds, mostly because I can't stand birds and think they are filthy, germy creatures.

***

Because I am kind of a jelly-heart (don't tell no one), I have acquired another dog. See, what happened was, a very good friend of mine moved out of the province and couldn't take her dogs with her. She found a home for one, and asked me to take the other to the SPCA because she just couldn't bring herself to do it. Turns out, neither can I. So now, we have two dogs.

And that, is summer so far.

Roller Wonderland

2010-06-19T22:22:00.000-06:00

My sister has my two older kids for the next week.

Just me and the baby here.

Yeah. It's awesome.

The last three weeks have been pretty busy around here. Hot Stuff and I are still Unresolved, but he's been out of town for work for the most part so the level of drama around here is minimal. I have spent some time doing Things That I Want To Do and Things That Are Fun and it feels wonderful. I went to see Joe Rogan last night. He was mostly funny, but some of his routine was.. way over the line even for me, I guess. I thought his opening act, Ari Shaffir, was absolutely hilarious.

I also joined a women's roller derby league. I went to my first practice today and holy CATS it has been a long-ass time since I strapped on a pair of roller skates. When I was a kid, I had roller skates (roller blades didn't exist until I was a teenager). In the summer time, the civic centre in my hometown thawed out the ice in the hockey arena and hung a disco ball; all the kids showed up on Saturday or Sunday (or both) afternoons for public skate and had a blast roller skating. Anyways, some of it came back to me fairly quickly and other stuff... not so much. Part of practice today involved learning to fall properly and I'm quite certain I will be a rainbow of interesting colors tomorrow. Of course, since this is a full contact sport, padding is mandatory. Knee pads, elbow pads, wrist guards, approved helmet: check. Not a single piece of gear prevented me from falling on my ass, which conveniently has lots of padding.

So I won't be around as much this summer, because I hope to be doing various and assorted fun stuff.

Winning Friends, Influencing People.

2010-05-28T21:56:00.000-06:00

So I'm in Sprawl-Mart the other day, and I have (foolishly) brought all three kids with me. Little Dude is in the cart, and the Hurricane and the Princess are shoving each other and myself, fighting over who is going to push the cart. I bark out, loudly, "You guys! STOP! I can't push the cart like this, so both of you move out of the way!" and who do I hear calling out to my son? His beloved preschool teacher. Yeah, it was awkward. All I could do was slap a big fake-ass smile on my face and pretend I hadn't just yelled at my kids in the middle of the store.

Later that day, after soccer had ended, I stopped at the store to get Hot Stuff some cigarettes. Since I only had the Hurricane, he came into the store with me. As I am standing at the till, waiting for the debit to finish, I hear a voice call out to my son!! Yes!! The Hurricane's beloved preschool teacher!! As I am buying cigarettes!! In front of my kid!! So we must chat!! And it's uncomfortable!! I feel the need to make the lame-ass excuse of, "Oh these? These aren't for me!" because that excuse is Highly Believable.

Sidenote: While we were in the Big Chain Store, my Princess decided to throw a whopper in the toy section because I wouldn't let her hang around and stare at the baby dolls all day, nor would I buy her one. (I should probably mention that we were well past nap time before we even went in the door.) By the time we had doubled back to the laundry aisle, she had ramped up the tantrum intensity from Extreme to I'm Going Nuclear, Motherf*ckers, So Watch Out. I gave her a choice: knock off the crap and walk nicely, or she was going in the cart. She loudly and vehemently refused both choices, so I carried her like a football from one end of the laundry aisle to the other and stuck her in the cart. Yes, she kicked and screamed and carried on the whole time. I just let her go on about her business, because it takes a lot more than a bunch of noise to embarrass this mama. As I am wrangling her into the cart and trying at the same time to place her so she doesn't smash my bag of white cheddar popcorn (Mmmmm), some lady - a total stranger - says to me, "Well, looks like someone needs to spend some time at my house," in this smirky, superior tone. Really? Really, lady? Let me guess: your children would never behave like this, because you would never allow it. You would have spanked them and that would have smartened them right up, I'm sure. Perhaps she has some secret child-beating technique that I am unaware of? Am I supposed wallop my kid for being tired, and that is somehow going to make her stop crying, instead of making her cry harder? Maybe I should have just given my child to this self-proclaimed Toddler Whisperer? At least I was able to give the woman the opportunity to congratulate herself on what a great job she did raising her children compared to the mothers of today.

Some people.

2010-05-22T22:51:00.000-06:00

I am trying to find the words without saying things I shouldn't. I want to post something light and fun but I am neither light nor fun. It feels fake to say anything but what I feel. Things are changing around here. I am not sure yet if it is for better or worse. Better, I think. There is still much to figure out.

I have pulled away from my real life people, and my internet people, too, while I come to terms with this change. (I tried with Five for Ten, I really did. The last two topics, Lust and Yes, were just too impossible for me.) This is my way; to pull away and let the hurt wash over me and through me, until I realize that I am not going to die. My pain is too private and I am uncomfortable with other people, even my close people, seeing my heavy emotions.

What else can I say?

I can only talk about my feelings:

hurt
sad
doubtful
relieved
disbelieving
lighter
intimidated
hopeful.

My heart; she is heavy.

Memory

2010-05-15T13:58:00.001-06:00

Five for Ten hosted by Momalom.com

I think I was ten or eleven. It was a cold, rainy, snowy evening. Other than my cold red cheeks, I was warm inside my winter coat. My mother and I were going Christmas shopping. This was big. This was huge; it was rare that I got my mother to myself without one of the other Klingons hanging around.

I remember my winter boots. I remember my mom's winter boots. I remember her winter-proof, water-proof (probably bullet-proof) Skanska Cement-gjuteriet winter coat; it was just so big. I remember the smell of cigarette smoke. I remember the bright headlights from cars, the streetlights, and lights in the storefronts, and the way they all reflected off the wet pavement. I remember the smell of Christmas in the air.

I remember walking across the street, feeling the wet, slushy rain on my face. My mother, smiling at me as she took my hand in hers and tucked them both in her enormous, warm winter coat pocket.

Happiness

2010-05-13T09:42:00.000-06:00

When you're done reading this sorry post, hit up Momalom.com; I'm pretty sure there are some actually happy people over there writing about actual happiness.

I am dragging myself kicking and screaming into this post. I am feeling anything but happy today; it has been a rough week for me. I will try my best not to drag you down with me as I go on about happiness.

Happiness:

spending some alone time with my not-so-tiny baby while the two older kids are having naps.

watching my littlest guy cry on the floor in desperation for just..one..more..cookie..please..oh! the angst!

letting my cutie-patootie eat way too many chocolate chip cookies.

getting wide-open mouth kisses (aka "lickers") from my baby guy, complete with complimentary slobbery cookie crumbs.

This is about as much happiness as I can wring out today.

Blogger, thy name is melodrama.

Debbie Downer is also fitting.

Courage

2010-05-10T23:51:00.001-06:00

(Go to momalom.com to find out what this Five for Ten business is all about. You won't be sorry.)

Seven years ago, a mother woke up in the early hours of the morning to the sound of her front door closing and, after checking on her two little girls, called the police to report a break-in. When the police came, they took the mother's statement and dusted for fingerprints. They got a description of the mother's wallet and purse, which the thief had taken. They called in a locksmith to change the locks and offered victim's services, which the mother declined. As the police were getting ready to leave, asking their final Well, if there's nothing else? question, one of the mother's little girls, the seven year old, said,

"He left something in my room."

The world, the world came crashing down.

The man who had broken in through the balcony door had crept down a flight of stairs into the seven year old's room and molested her while her five year old sister lay in bed beside her. As he was leaving, a marijuana roach fell out of his pocket. When he was done, he walked out the front door, as though it were his own house.

The mother cried.

The five year old and the seven year old talked to the police the next morning. The five year old only knew there was A Bad Stranger in the room and I just pretended to sleep, Mommy.

The seven year old talked to the police, and the children's advocate, and the nurse, and the doctor, and the counselor. The seven year old told her story over and over, as many times as she was asked. The seven year old went through intensive counseling. The seven year old picked up her life and kept going.

How much courage does it take at the age of seven to tell your story about The Night the Bogeyman Came?

The seven year old is now fourteen. She is a normal, annoying, funny, awkward, gorgeous fourteen year old girl. She is an excellent student and a loyal friend.

Recently, one of the girls that she has known since kindergarten, that she used to be close with, decided to be malicious and bitchy and mean. This friend told some other friends about the fourteen year old's molestation seven years ago. Some boys thought it might be daring to walk up to the fourteen year old and ask her, "Were you molested?" to which the fourteen year old replied, "Yup. Now you can let it go."

Most of them did. Two of them didn't. Two of them decided that they ought to make the fourteen year old's school life hell. Doing things like moving away from her when she came near. Or saying, "Ewwww," when she passed by. The worst, the final straw for the fourteen year old girl, was when one of these two boys said to her, "Gross. Don't sit by me. You're dirty."

The fourteen year old told her mother.

The mother, to her credit, did not go flying completely off the handle and start ripping the heads off of the friend who spilled the secret, the two boys, and all of their parents. The mother called the school, and there was a meeting between the girl, her mother, and the Vice Principal. The girl went back to school the next day. The school handled it.

How much courage does it take for a fourteen year old to do the right thing and tell someone? To risk being the object of even more harassment when her friends find out she told?

When I first found out about all of this, I was mad. I wanted to kick ass and take names. I wanted to get in someone's face and demand action. I wanted to protect the girl from these little assholes. I wanted to tell her, all of it means nothing, high school doesn't count once you're done; this sucks and it's hard and you just walk tall and keep moving and they can't touch you.

I didn't have to tell her anything. She already knows.

Courage.

**This is a close family member, not one of my own kids. Sorry for the confusion!

Well, sure, it's funny NOW.

2010-05-04T20:55:00.000-06:00

I take pictures because I don't really think people would believe me without evidence.

As the Hurricane was ~~being marched outside for running in the house and generally being a little shit~~ walking by the fire extinguisher, he yanked on an apron (see: dust-covered lump in Exhibit A, just west of the dusty blue sippy cup) that was hanging from it: both the apron and the fire extinguisher hit the floor. As it hit the floor, the top assembly popped off the extinguisher and the extinguisher skittered all over the floor (almost like it had contents under pressure or something!). In a matter of seconds, the interior of my house looked like a cage match involving cornstarch and super fine baby powder. Even with all the windows and doors wide open, it took about ten minutes for the dust to settle. Literally.

Since I'm all about sharing, let me pass on my new-found knowledge (thanks to Mike @ Fire Prevention): what's inside an ABC fire extinguisher is pretty much baking soda plus a couple of other chemicals to keep it from clumping up. It's non-toxic to ingest and harmless to breathe. It tastes like ass. And now you know.

Grateful (but not Dead) (almost, though.)

2010-04-23T22:13:00.000-06:00

I went for a run tonight. (Insert shout-out to Sarah because her mantra of "You can do it. You can do it. You can do it." runs through my mind when I feel like No Way Can I DO THIS. And FYI, you guys, I wear my momalom.com shirt alla time when I run. It's my running shirt.)

At first, I was hating it. Hating the run, hating the pain, hating the feel of my butt fat bouncing up and down. Then my inner voice was like, "Hey, dumbass. Be grateful you can run."

So I am.

I am grateful I can run. I am grateful for the good shoes I run in and the road I run on. I am grateful for the fresh air and the blue sky. I am grateful for the time and space to do something healthy for myself. I am grateful for the music on my MP3 player.

I was most grateful when I hit that halfway point and turned back for home.

Kids

2010-04-14T10:02:00.000-06:00

It's been a week of pretty heavy thoughts. Kids, though, they don't stop being themselves just because adults are "going through stuff."

Some things that make me smile:

A Princess-ism:

soapy soppeen: grocery shopping

How I know my kids are bonding with each other:

When there is much yelling and carrying on at the table at snack time, and I call out, "OK, who wants to go to their room instead of having snack?" My Princess yells, "Hurricane!" and the Hurricane yells, "Princess!" See? Their willingness to throw each other under the bus tells me that they are totally normal siblings.

Princess Fashion:

Stripes and prints and prints and stripes and some more stripes. Check. Pink and dark green and lavender and black. Check. Socks over tights. Check. A stuffed cat named Puppy. Check. Yeup, everything a Princess needs to stay on the cutting edge of fashion.

I don't even know what to say about this. I am pretty sure that is a Bakugan sticker on his forehead. He got in the drawer, but could not get out.

It's a good thing babies are cute.

Marriage, Part IV

2010-04-13T20:22:00.000-06:00

My original plan was to get a job and ask Hot Stuff to leave. Things became so awful between us, with all the fighting and silence and absence, that I told him even before I had found a job that I wanted him to leave. He refused. He wasn't giving up the house, and neither was I. I felt like I should keep the house because I was keeping the children; he felt like he should get the house because he paid for it. (Someone should tell this guy that I pay half the mortgage every month with Sweat Equity.) Neither one of us budged for weeks. It's impossible to maintain that level of emotion over the long term, so eventually we talked and decided that we needed to figure this shit out. I told him I was sick of his constant disappearing act and complete lack of respect towards me; he told me he was sick of me controlling him. We both agreed to change.

It lasted less than a week before he was going out till all hours. I tried a new tactic; let him do his own thing and I'd do mine. Perhaps when he saw that I was no longer waiting around for him, he'd realize that I was serious about not living with a part-time husband. The only condition was that if he was going to be out drinking or wasn't home by the time I locked the door when I went to bed, he could find somewhere else to sleep.

This is sort of what we've been doing up until now. I say sort-of because in the last two or so months he's been out of town for work quite a bit, and when he's home, the rule still applies: be home without the smell of liquor on you before I lock the door or you're SOL. There's been less of that, though. Hot Stuff has been going out less, and I do recognize that it has a lot to do with him feeling less stress and gaining some of his self respect back by bringing home more money. Still, it feels like we are in a holding pattern; there is a lot of unresolved stuff between us.

Sometimes when Hot Stuff is out of town, I start thinking things like, "Would this be my life if we split up?" I mean, when he's gone for a week or two or four, I am single parenting. There's never any easy relief. Yes, I can get a sitter. My only evening sitter charges $5 per kid per hour. Dinner and a movie GNO costs $60 in sitter fees alone. I don't consider that "easy."

If we did split up

Would I still get that hopeful feeling that he might be home and I might see his truck in the drive when I crest the small rise before our driveway? Would my eyes be drawn to pick up trucks that look like his? Would I always be hoping to run into him?

How much is too much? Where is the line between

this is a really rough patch, keep at it

and

what the fuck am I still doing here?

Where is the line between

my marriage is worth this battle

and

this battle is a losing one?

Where is the line between

don't give up easily, fight for your family

and

the only thing worse than being in a bad marriage for two years is being in a bad marriage for three years?

Do I stay or do I go? Do I want to be single? No. Do I want to be married to a part-time husband? No. Do I want to be married to the man I married 7 years ago? Yes. Do I want to be married to the man I am currently married to? Not really. Sometimes. Sometimes, when the man I am currently married to is the same man I married 7 years go. Do I think my marriage is worth saving? Yes, if I am not fighting the battle to save it by myself.

Sometimes, I am very lonely. Very married and very lonely. When my husband is home, sometimes I am lonely.

If I were to leave,

I know I would be alone. Alone, I can do. Alone, I kind of enjoy. I like me. But I would still be lonely. I would not miss having a companion, I would miss Hot Stuff.

I have suggested marriage counseling. I got some resistance to it. Funny, something Hot Stuff said made me really happy. "I don't know if counseling is worth it, because I don't know if I want to be with you." Finally, finally I felt like I was hearing the truth, and not whatever he felt would pacify me. He has agreed to see a counselor with me. He is out of town right now, so I think I may book an appointment for late next week, when hopefully he'll be back home.

I do know that now I am strong enough to walk away. I mean, I have always been able to do it, I just didn't think I could with two babies and a toddler. I don't want to walk away without trying everything. I do think there is something worth saving here. I love my husband, and I'm not ready to call it quits yet.

So here we are.

Marriage, Part III

2010-04-10T12:15:00.000-06:00

I remember the first few years Hot Stuff and I were together. We were pretty rock-steady. We usually had one major whopper of a fight per year. That's pretty good, I think. We never took each other too seriously. We never put our relationship or each other under a microscope to be examined or picked apart. We were easy with each other and there was always a good rhythm between us. Basically, our relationship was low maintenance. Over the last five years, our marriage has changed - starting pretty much with the birth of the Hurricane. Nobody can predict what effect having a child will have on a marriage. I think I changed drastically right away; the realization that I held someone's life above mine hit immediately. Hot Stuff changed somewhat, after a while. (And by the way, what is up with the fucking myth that men are awesome with babies? That's a load of shit. Any pregnant women reading this ought to know that lots of men are coolly disinterested in babies until they become fun, at about 6 months. Just lettin' you know.) Having a baby settled him down, some.

Just like my body after popping out a kid, our relationship was not as firm and fresh as it was before. It was a lot more work not to snap and go completely fucking insane on Hot Stuff after a night of crying baby, sore boobs, and no sleep. Eventually, though, our relationship evened out. We got the happy, easy rhythm back. We got the not-takin-you-seriously back. Things were smooth again, even including our little Hurricane and his super big personality.

My pregnancy with the Princess was healthy and happy. We were just a family of three waiting for our Even Number. We got her, and she was (and still is) a living doll (nowadays, sometimes closer to Chucky than Pretty Baby Pee-Pee Pants).

Can I tell you about the last time I went grocery shopping and bought a pregnancy test? I don't know why I did it. The Princess was just a tiny baby; I was on the pill, and I was breastfeeding. That's practically like surrounding my uterus with a moat and then stocking the moat with piranhas and ~~man-~~ sperm-eating alligators. I had been feeling "weird" for a couple of weeks. Honestly, I think I felt "pregnant" but was too scared to admit it to myself. Hence, I figured I'd take a preg test, have it come up negative, and go on with life. Only it was not to be. I peed on the stick. The stick had two bright pink lines even as the pee was crossing the second line. I did not have to wait for some faint-ass is-it-positive-or-is-the-lighting-just-bad positive. It was positive. I took the stick downstairs and went out the front door, where Hot Stuff was having a smoke. I had the stick in my hoodie pocket. I started laughing. I kept laughing. Hot Stuff kept asking me, "What the hell is wrong with you?" I laughed until I was shaking and tears were rolling down my face. Then I was crying. Then I was giving him the stick with the two pink lines. Then he was staring at me. "Are you sure?" No, dumbass, I'm not sure. I mean, I peed on the stick, yes it's my pee, but there has to be a problem with this lot of pregnancy tests. I'm going to check it out on the internet, because I am sure as hell not pregnant as I already have a 2 and a half year old hellion and a 3 month old baby. Not. For. Real.

For. Real. Once it sank in, I was happy. My third child was a complete and utter surprise. There is no negative connotation in that statement. Simply, I did not go from pee on the stick to immediately overjoyed like I did with the first two. I made a few stops with this one, including scared and overwhelmed.

I discovered this pregnancy sometime in spring 2008. After my terrible summer, Hot Stuff lost his very high paying job in October - a month before Little Dude was born and a couple of weeks before the Princess turned one. He got hired on at a different company doing a job that paid less and was a few giant steps back on the ladder. I know it killed him. It killed him to have to step back. It killed him to have to take a job that he despised, because it came with a guaranteed salary. A job that forced him to face what he thought was a lesser man in the mirror. A job that forced him to show up every day and work for 8 hours doing something he hated. A job that I specifically asked him to not take any out of town work; to only work in or around town, thus drastically cutting down on his ability to make a decent wage, instead of just his guaranteed salary. As a mother to three and feeling incredibly insecure, I needed him to be close to home. As a family, we needed him to have that job. That job, as shitty as it was for him, saved our butts. So, so many people went under in 2009 because the ass fell out of the oil and gas sector. There was no work. To have a job, even a crap one, that paid our bills was a godsend. None of that ever mattered to Hot Stuff. His self worth and identity seemed to be so tied to his muckety-muck job and high dollar paycheck, that he could never see himself as anything but a failure for losing both.

And so it began. Going out after work a few days a week turned into everyday, turned into staying out late, turned into sometimes on the weekends too, turned into big, big problems at home. I felt very angry, abandoned, resentful, and I felt like I was drowning. I would ask (beg/plead/cajole) him for help; for him to be home for dinner, help with the kids, help at bedtime, a hug and a conversation after the kids were in bed. I got the answers I wanted to hear, but I never got the actions to back it up. I felt enormous pressure to squeeze a dime out of every nickel; from my perspective, Hot Stuff didn't have to give up any of his fun money. I became very resentful that I literally had to figure out groceries down to the dollar to stay under budget, but he was still smoking as much as he wanted and going out whenever he wanted. As I said in a post a while ago, the more I expected from him, the more he pushed away from me. The more he didn't live up to my expectations, the angrier I would become. I put so much of my own energy into forcing him to be what he wasn't or couldn't be or didn't want to be. I just felt so overwhelmed. I think I felt that if I could control him, then I at least had some measure of control over one thing in my life. It blew up in my face.

Towards the end of 2009, things got better financially but worse in our marriage. Hot Stuff switched companies and started going out in the field to work and making more money. Things between us had deteriorated so much that I was thinking about a separation. I started looking for a job at Christmas time, and found one in fairly short order.

Marriage, Part II

2010-04-06T22:37:00.000-06:00

I have said before that 2009 was the worst year of my life. 2008 was just as awful, but because 2009 was a continuation of the shittiness, I always call 2009 the worst year ever.

Something in my marriage changed, if I am entirely honest about things, the summer my mother died (2008). Two weeks before my mom died, my aunt and my sister both told me that she was dying. I had been keeping in touch with my dad, and he said we were playing a waiting game to see if the last round of radiation had shrunk the cancer. (Radiation can take up to two weeks to have an effect.) My dad seemed calm and rational and hopeful; what I didn't know is that he was in deep denial. He could not face that his wife was dying, so instead he dug his heels in and kept his hope alive by telling himself, and me, that we just had to hang in there. What he didn't tell me is that she was in so much pain that she cried constantly when she was awake and mostly the doctors were snowing her. (This is also known as keeping her comfortable by doping her into unconsciousness. Don't judge. If you have never seen someone crying and writhing in pain, you don't know what it's like.) I was so scared. I did not want my mom to die before I could say goodbye. I had my own children and my niece and nephew staying with me for that whole week, as my brother and sister in law had gone on a trip. I had to wait until they got back before I could fly home and see my mother. Hot Stuff was so supportive; he offered to come with me, to drive me, to do whatever I wanted to do. I asked him to stay with the kids and not take any work until I got back.

Going back home and being with my mom and watching my dad suffer was hard. It was so incredibly hard to see my mother dying, fighting, refusing to let go, burning through the morphine and the hydromorphone and the other super-narcotics in different combinations and being in agony, and my father dying with her. The crying, the crying out for her own mother, the lucid moments of talking to her and telling her again how much I loved her, the long periods of restful and restless sleep and telling her to let go, just go. The apneic periods when I wondered if she was gone and feeling happy and relieved and sad; seeing her start to breathe again, and feeling happy and relieved and sad. The seizures which scared me at first then became routine. Oh Mom, another seizure, I'll ring for the nurse. My beautiful, strong, amazing mother turning to dust right in front of me. Fighting so hard to stay alive when the cancer was everywhere. Losing the battle, but fighting it every inch. Every day, twice or three times a day, for two weeks, I would walk up to the hospital to sit with my mom for four hours to give my dad and my aunt some relief. At the end of the day, I would call Hot Stuff at home and he would ask me how I was doing, was I okay, was I taking care of myself (I was 7 months pregnant with Little Dude). I would say, okay, yes, yes. He would tell me about our two at home and assure me that the world had not come to a screeching halt without me. Until the beginning of the third week. I don't know what caused it, whether he had a bad day or what, but he started pressuring me to come home. I was shocked when he said that I should come home right away because, "it's been two weeks already, you need to be home with your kids." He got angry when I replied that no, I needed to be with my dying mother, for as long as it took her to die.

As much as it may seem so, I am not trying to vilify Hot Stuff. This was just so hurtful that it was like the first chink in the marriage armor. Each phone call after that first one was tense because he kept at it; telling me I needed to come home right away. Me telling him he could suck it if he thought I was coming home one minute before I was ready. My mom died halfway through the third week, and I came back home. Once I got back, Hot Stuff was back to supportive and caring and tender. (My cynical side wants to throw a dig in here, "Yeah, because he got what he wanted.") Two weeks later I drove back to BC with my brother and sister in law and all 4 of our kids, for my mom's memorial ash-spreading. Hot Stuff offered to take time off of work and drive me and the kids, but I told him no. I felt I needed to stand on my own. (I wonder if this made him feel excluded. Not that he would have said anything. He hates my hometown. Thinks it sucks.) Part of me now wishes I had said yes, and part of me still thinks I made the right decision.

The thing of it is, these little nicks and chinks in the marriage armor don't always buff out. I have definitely forgiven Hot Stuff for getting angry and being very selfish when I needed him to be completely selfless. I haven't forgotten, though. I never will. I feel like I reached out for a helping hand and got my hand slapped, instead. It made me wary. It made me feel unsure about Hot Stuff's willingness to give me emotional support. That doesn't sit right with me. Shouldn't I feel completely solid that Hot Stuff will catch me when I fall, no matter what?

Am I asking for too much? Are most men like this? Am I asking him to give me something that men don't have to give?

Marriage, Part I

2010-04-04T22:38:00.000-06:00

Bear with me as I work through some stuff.

March was, on the whole, a pretty good month for Hot Stuff and I. We were getting along, he was home quite a bit, I got to go out without the kids and do fun no-kids grown up stuff. I was starting to feel that our marriage was getting to more stable, comfortable ground.

Last Tuesday morning, I took the Hurricane to preschool and when I got back at 10, Hot Stuff said he was going out to get supplies for work, as he would be heading out of town the next day. (Hot Stuff's job frequently takes him out of town for extended periods of time. This is how it is, and how it always has been. I've never had an issue with it - with the exception of Little Dude's birth, when I asked him to stay close to home for quite a few months. I did not feel like I could manage things completely on my own.) I asked him if he would be home before lunch, and he said he would.

He did not come home until 7 am the next morning. I called him a couple of times on Tuesday but figured out by supper that he was not going to be coming home. I wasn't frantic with worry, or anything. I mean, I was a bit worried, but definitely more pissed off. After he got home, I spent Wednesday morning stomping around and ignoring Hot Stuff until he left for work.

He called on Wednesday night and left a message, but I haven't called him back. It's Sunday night. I'm being stubborn. I don't want to talk to him. I am tired of always being the one to hold out the olive branch; to open the lines of communication; to suggest a hundred different compromises to solve an argument. I'm sick to death of always having to give up and give in because he absolutely refuses to budge, let alone meet in the middle. It's gotten real old, having to explain time and time again that doing things that hurt my feelings hurts my fucking feelings and I deserve a damn apology. An apology that may or may not be given.

I love my husband, but he can be a very hard man. It literally feels like running into a brick wall, trying to explain why I'm upset and why things like staying out all fucking night without a phone call are hurtful. And disrespectful. And generally a shitty thing to do.

So that's why I haven't called him back. Because I'm tired of explaining, compromising, giving in, not getting an apology or any kind of acknowledgment of "I fucked up"-ness, and sucking up the hurt. I do not want to turn my back on 10 years together. So my internal conversation goes like this:

Me: I'm so fucking tired of this bullshit.

Me: What are you going to do, leave?

Me: No. I'm going to give him a taste of his own medicine. I'm going to dig in my heels and let him twist, for once.

Me: You know that's childish.

Me: Yup. And I don't care. Hrmph. I'm gonna do it anyways.

Me: What is it going to solve?

Me: Nothing. But it's making me feel better.

Me: Is this what is best for your marriage?

Me: I am thinking about what is best for me, in the most selfish way.

Me: Hot Stuff is not your Mortal Enemy in a Fight To The Death. Marriages are living, breathing things that need patience and care and constant maintenance to stay alive. Communication is the roots. Ignore the roots and the plant dies.

Me: I'm still not going to call him.

Me: You're being stupid.

Me: I know you are but what am I?

You see? I'm being childish and irrational but for the first time in a long time, I don't feel angry and resentful about caving in, once again.

2010-03-25T06:07:00.000-06:00

5:47am

Hot Stuff is dropping the kids off at daycare today, so I am not presently rushing around gathering bags and sippy cups and setting out coats and boots for my kids to be helped into, half asleep, then rushed out to the car. I have a few minutes of quiet. It's really nice.

We put Little Dude into a booster seat at the table yesterday - no more highchair! A small part of me is sad that he is moving away from the baby things, but a larger part of me is relieved. Now if I could only convince him to start walking. I am going to re-christen him Stubborn Like Goat if he doesn't fall in line. (His big brother is aka Listens Like Stick and his sister is aka..well.. Princess.)

The other day Little Dude was crawling around and the Princess accidentally stepped on his hand. He started to cry, of course, so she knelt down to give him a hug (as much as it may appear that she has him in a headlock, it is a headlock of love), and squished his other hand under her knee. She was puzzled as to why he cried harder when she "hugged" him.

6:04am

So quiet. Why do I think I am forgetting something? Oh yeah, because I have forgotten what it is like to not have to fly out the door.

I'm pretty sure I just about DIED today.

2010-03-20T22:25:00.000-06:00

Where do I get these stupid ideas?

Today I decided to take my shiny new MP3 player with Sport Band out for a run. A RUN. What. The. Eff. ?.

I haven't been for a run for years. As in, 3 years. Not only that, I haven't been working out with any kind of consistency lately. In some kind of vicious circle, the not working out has led me to be disappointed with the scale not moving (169.0 last Friday), which has led me to believe that I need to start RUNNING.

What is wrong with me, people? (Actually, Rootietoot pegged it a while ago: "You're kind of an idiot." It's as valid a diagnosis as any.)

So anyways, needless to say, I am shockingly out of shape. So far out of shape as to be classified as dodecahedral. I started out with this harebrained idea that I would go running for 20 minutes today; you know, nice and easy. Something I could build on, because obviously for me, 20 minutes is nothing. I can do 20 minutes on my recumbent bike practically standing on my head.

Before I go on, I need to explain something so we can all really, really appreciate the richness with which I received my comeuppance today. One of my favorite shows to watch is X-Weighted. I love to watch people transform themselves with good old fashioned hard work and self-denial. I do need to admit, however, that when the people are doing their initial fitness assessments, I am the first in line to tsk-tsk about how poorly they are doing. Honestly, what is taking you so long, lady? You're going to have to move your ass faster than that. (Sidenote: I am usually snacking while watching X-Weighted. Sick, hey?) I then compare myself with how the contestants fare during that first fitness assessment, and (without fail) I can congratulate myself on Having Not Let Myself Go Quite As Much As That.

Until today.

Today, I got a giant smack-down. You know how far into my run I made it before I had to stop? 1 minute, 30 seconds. 1:30 and I was done. My legs: on fire. My lungs: begging for mercy. I had that thick, metallic taste at the back of my throat and cramping in my sides. I was pretty well ready to pass out on the side of the damn highway. I spent the following 10 minutes alternating 1 minute of running and 1 minute of walking. Then I was able to build myself up so that by the end of this "fun" run, I was doing 2:15 running, :45 walking. Oh. My. God. I am so, so out of shape. Thank you, Life, for kicking my ego right in the babymaker, and then kicking it some more while I was down.

In some sick, twisted way, it has given me a challenge. Instead of being all high and mighty about my non-existent Superior Fitness Level, I am forced to admit that I am going to have to work really, really hard to get to that 20 minute mark. You know, the super-easy 20 minute mark that was just somewhere to start; somewhere to build from? I guess (big sigh) I also should (big eye roll) acknowledge some bad habits (super pissy pouty face) like eating junk in front of the TV (another giant sigh and eye roll) and being all judgmental (finger quotes and catty tone).

7 hours later and my lungs and legs still hurt.

Joining the 21st century

2010-03-18T22:26:00.000-06:00

On the phone with Doreen a while ago:

Me: I think I'm the only person in the entire world who doesn't have an MP3 player.

Doreen: No, I'm sure lots of people don't have MP3 players.

Me: Sigh. I doubt it.

Later, Doreen called me back.

Doreen: Hey, it's me, you remember how you said you were the last person in the world without an MP3 player?

Me: Yeah.

Doreen: You were right. Even the Duggar kids have iPods!!

Oh yeah? OH YEAH, DOREEN? Well I got NEWS FOR YOU, SISTER! I am the PROUD owner of a NEW 4 Gig MP3 player. In YOUR face. Yeah, I said it. In YOUR face.

How do I use the stupid thing anyway?

I bought special headphones-- or pardon me, "ear buds" - and a "sport band" so I could wear my new MP3 player on my arm and go jogging, and have music: handsfree!

I downloaded LimeWire and then downloaded some music (in Canada P2P is still legal, so in YOUR face, FBI). I downloaded such gems as: Pump Up The Jam (oh yes I did, and you know you love it), Bad Romance (don't act like it's not on your MP3 player too), Milkshake (my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard. I could teach you but I'd have to charge. Cash only, no credit. Sorry), and Everyday People (both the Arrested Development and Sly & The Family Stone versions, because they are both so funkalicious). I also downloaded a bunch of other stuff that I didn't think anybody would have heard of. If you have any suggestions for good-to-work-out-to (or just plain good) music, I would love to hear them.

I figured out how to transfer the music onto the MP3 player.

My MP3 player got locked and loaded in the Sport Band.

Yesterday I strapped on my locked and loaded MP3 player in it's Sport Band, put my shoes on, stretched out, and:

unloaded the dishwasher and made granola bars.

It's nights like these.

2010-03-11T19:56:00.001-07:00

I am back to work tomorrow (after a few days off) for three 12-hr shifts in a row. I had really hoped that tonight would be calm and smooth and what the hell was I thinking?

We had a big lunch, so I decided french toast for supper would be just right. In my infinite be-on-top-of-things-ness, I put the two little ones into the tub before supper. After bathtime and while I made supper, I let Little Dude crawl around just in his super-cool Diego poncho-style towel.

In the middle of making french toast, I dropped the cinnamon on the floor. It may have been due to the fact that I had just discovered the front door knob was broken. Broken as in, I had to completely remove it from the door to get the front door open. Or maybe I dropped the cinnamon because I realized that I had a front door with a hole instead of a doorknob, that was basically a giant neon sign saying "Come In and Rob Us" and I was going to be working 12 hour days for the next three days and it was 5:40 and the hardware store was going to close at 6:00 and I had one half dressed kid and one completely undressed kid.

I half-assed dressed the children and practically threw them into their carseats. I sped to town. I made it to the hardware store with minutes to spare. Luckily (*snicker*), my children had the good sense to break the doorknob when doorknobs were on sale at the hardware store. Gee, thanks, kids.

Well, since we're in town, I should pick up milk, I think to myself. As I am pulling up in front of the little convenience store, my son threw something at me. From two rows back. I got nailed in the ear with the insole of one of his new boots (what the hell? I don't get it either). I came unglued. I'm pretty sure the whole entire street now knows how dangerous it is to throw something at someone who is driving and why my kid is never, ever, EVER going to do that again.

Home again, home again, jiggity jig. The kids eat. I change out a doorknob. I walk into the bathroom after attempting to clean the kitchen. My children, my beautiful older children, have dumped water all over the floor near the sink. My baby has toilet papered the wet floor. With a whole roll of toilet paper.

Shower the big kid. Teeth brushing for everyone. Quick, quick, it's past your bedtime. We'll do stories tomorrow. Extra stories. Into bed now. Love you.

A half clean bathroom.

Two loads of laundry to fold, one still to go into the wash.

A half clean kitchen.

Two baby bags and one lunch to pack for tomorrow.

One Princess, refusing to stay in her bed.

One Little Dude, wailing away in his crib.

Why is this shit happening tonight?

Princess-isms and Brownies Plus!!

2010-03-09T16:44:00.000-07:00

My little girl is learning more and more new words everyday; along with the learning comes the mangling. Some of my favorites:

GICKLE GICKLE GICKLE!: tickle, tickle, tickle. At top volume (of course).

Sedder: sweater

Fu-uhk you: thank you

Bye see ew wader: bye see ya later

Wan cuhwuh: i want to cuddle

Pe-ah buhyur: peanut butter

Peanut butter makes me think of chocolate. Chocolate makes me think of Brownies Plus. Thinking of Brownies Plus kick-starts my salivary glands and reminds me that I should post the recipe. This recipe is straight from the book Cream Puff Murder by Joanne Fluke. Cream Puff Murder is a Hannah Swensen mystery and has a lot of yummy recipes. As a matter of fact, all of the Hannah Swensen mysteries have great recipes to go along with entertaining stories. (I have tried recipes out of all of the books I've read in the series. What can I say? Hannah Swensen runs a cookie shop. I love cookies.)

OUTED!!

2010-03-04T20:34:00.000-07:00

ZOMG, somebody stop my inner twelve-teen year old from Freaking the Fark Out before I go completely Nuclear and my head explodes.

Sigh.

My sister has outed me on Facebook with the following:

Meg* "wishes her sister wasn't so damn busy...she needs to keep writing her blogs...they are so freakin' funny and lets face it, I need a really good laugh (among other things..LOL)"

HI FAMILY AND FRIENDS. I'm just as obnoxious here as I am in real life. Happy reading.

*I tried to link up her blog with her name, but it appears that she has taken her blog down. Skank.

I am going to drown my sorrows with some Brownies Plus.**

**You don't want to know what the "Plus" is.***

***Yes you do. It's chocolate bars. Yes, brownies with the chocolate bars built right in. Never again will I be forced to make that second trip to the kitchen to get a chocolate bar with which to wash my brownies down. Homemade convenience food. How awesome is that?

Way more awesome than your Dad potentially reading your blog. (Did I forget to say thanks for that, Meg? And by thanks I mean, "The Opposite Of Thanks, But Way Harsher.")

Just sayin'. (Skank.)

chirrup

2010-02-28T00:27:00.000-07:00

I am a neglectful blogger. Since I went back to work (which I still love), I have less time to do the same amount of things, and sadly, less time to compose my Delightful and Highly Intelligent Musings. I do have a few ideas swirling around my head, but I haven't felt like getting them organized and writing them down. Well, that's not entirely true. There are some thoughts in my grey matter that have been yelling louder than the other thoughts, and the squeaky, disruptive wheel must be slashed and/or shot out before the other, non-squeaky or disruptive wheels. I do have a private, secluded spot where I am writing things down that I do not have permission to make public. I have just now put a dumptruck-load of squeaky-wheel disruptive thoughts in my Garden of Secluded Delusions and hopefully, will be free to once again regale you with my Fanciful Witticisms.

I Blame The Kids..

2010-02-20T22:56:00.000-07:00

..for causing me to treat my bathroom like a public toilet; making sure there is 100% T.P. coverage of the toilet seat, using my shoe to flush, and for godssake, don't touch the faucets.

..for individually and together breaking about 90% of the "nice stuff" and/or shit that isn't nailed down.

..for touching the remaining 10% of stuff not nailed down and moving it, and then promptly forgetting where they put it.

..causing me to speak these words, "Hello, Poison Control? Yes. How much bug dope can a child ingest before we need to go to the hospital?"

..for the state of my vehicle. Yes, it may appear to be an SUV from the outside; from the inside it looks like a flop house for hobos.

..for killing the battery in the digital camera (the one they are not allowed to touch), usually just hours before I am going to want to use it.

How ARE you?! I have missed you SO MUCH!

2010-02-14T21:46:00.000-07:00

So the last post may have given you the impression that I am bitter and angry about life these days. That's actually pretty far from the truth. 2010 has been really awesome so far. I went back to work. I got rid of the old, disgusting carpet and put new laminate flooring in the living room.

Things I Learned While Installing Laminate Flooring:

-carpet and underlay is really easy to roll up together and the more you roll, the heavier it becomes,
-I am not as strong as I thought I was,
-banana knives are really sharp,
-my knees cannot tolerate pulling carpet staples for more than 10 minutes at a time,
-MOST IMPORTANTLY: when you roll underlay over a sizable hole in the floor (oh, lets say.. the size of an old intake vent about 12" x 14"), do not tell yourself that you will cut the underlay from over the hole later when you get to it. Inevitably, you will step where the hole is covered, thus putting your foot through the underlay and then through the old sheetrock that someone nailed up to close the hole, and then you will smash your thigh against the subfloor and give yourself a giant, puffy, multi-hued bruise above your knee and have pain for days.

It's the little things, you know?

So anyways, back to the List of Really Great Things That Have Happened In 2010. Where was I? Work. Check. Flooring. Check. Ah, yes. My BFF Trish came to visit for five whole days, and her and her kids stayed with me and mine. We had a blast. My stomach hurt from laughing every day. I love me some Trish. And? My SIL (you know the one) and I mended fences. I got the apology I needed. I got an explanation for the way she was behaving. Things are okay between us. Funny enough, something she said is sticking in my mind, "After everything we said to each other back then, there's nothing we can't say to each other now." Wouldn't you know it, it's true. I don't keep my opinions quiet around her anymore for fear of setting her off; I just give it to her straight. Things are still in very early stages, but I sense a change in her. I don't know for sure, so we wait. And we see.

So even though I have a husband who is doing his own thing on Valentine's Day and I have only my period and my pinkeye to keep me company, I am doing really amazing, thanks. And you?

Happy Valentine's Day

2010-02-14T21:00:00.000-07:00

Oh, it's happy around here today..

White: the color of the tissues overflowing from every garbage can in the house because the Princess and I have disgusting runny noses.

Red: the color of my period. Which I got today. (OH YEAH! Thanks Mother Nature!! I wonder if Always will make a commercial about it! That would be awesome!!)

Pink: the color of my PINK EYE. Because a cold and my period isn't enough? Really? It's hardly sporting to kick a gal when she's down.

Regarding Mexican Standoffs:
My husband is MIA tonight. Again. Third night in a row. Valentine's Day, no less. Thanks for the lovely evening, honey.

Conversations with a 4 year old

2010-01-28T14:05:00.000-07:00

At supper time:

Me: "Hurricane, sit down and finish eating, please!"

Hurricane: "I need to go wipe my butt some more."

~~~~~~~

Hurricane on the toilet:

"...10...11...12.. Hey Dad! Guess what? I got twelve inches!"

~~~~~~~

On the way home, in the truck:

Hurricane: "Mom, I hate girls."

Me: "Hon, you don't really hate girls, do you?"

Hurricane: "Yah I do. Well, not Moms. Just girls and Bad Strangers."

Letters of Intent, Jan 22/10

2010-01-21T21:43:00.000-07:00

Brought to you by Julie @ Foursons. Woof!

Dear Weirdo Lady Who Owns The Runaway Dog Who Was Living In Our Garage For 5 Days,

Listen, I know living out in the country allows us pet owners to get away with things that would not be allowed in the city. Nobody buys dog licenses out here. No one is going to call the dog catcher on you when your dog runs away. We all kind of watch out for each other's dogs. If you want to be afforded this same consideration, you need to be a more responsible pet owner. When your dog first showed up, I looked for posters or something with your dog's picture on it at the mailboxes and in town. Nothing. Weren't you worried about your dog? Seriously. Five. Days. I would be knocking on doors and checking the ditches along the highway if my dog was gone overnight. You asked me when your dog showed up here. Don't you know when she ran away?

These three things really pissed me off: you purposely do not get your dog yearly vaccinations because she's "just a mutt;" you have no collar and no tags for her; and this is at least the third time she's run away, according to you. If you don't want to get your dog's shots, fine. Personally, I think this is lousy dog-ownership but apparently not everyone gets vaccs for their dogs. At least get her a rabies vaccination every other year or so. Do you know how many rodents and bats there are around here? If your dog gets rabies from a badger or a bat and bites my kid, I will freak the fuck out and it will not end well for you.

Look, your dog can't be running around with no tags and no collar. Your dog was living in my garage for five days because I had no idea who she belonged to. That's no life for a dog. Spend the five bucks and buy her a collar with a tag that you can etch your number into. Not everyone is going to put the effort into making posters in order to find you.

You need to either build her a dog run or pay better attention to her. In the winter, our gate is snowed open and our dog can get out. Fortunately, she is old enough that she doesn't go very far anymore when it's cold, mostly to the side yard to pee. Your dog is a puppy and will run away, obviously. In the summer, you can believe that our gate is closed when the dog is outside. That's called Being Responsible.

So, Irresponsible Pet Owner, if your dog shows up at my door again I will be giving you the What For.

Just sayin'.

Stone

In with the In Crowd

2010-01-17T22:19:00.000-07:00

So I happen to be close, personal friends with some Big Deal On The Internet types. When you travel in such high society circles, doors open and things happen. Things like scoring some swag. Some really, really cool swag from some really, really amazing women. (You see how Big of a Deal they are? They have their own swag.)

I highly recommend you go there. To Momalom.com (not "there" as in "my bedroom" even though that's where I took those pictures, but only because that's the only mirror in the house that's at the right level.) Go forth and be welcomed into a community that is smart, funny, understanding, and supportive. For realz.

To Jen and Sarah, my kindred spirits: thank you for the shirt. I love it.

(Sorry I could not get a shot of the back; it took me 20 (yes, twenty) shots to get two good ones of the front!)

I am no longer a shiftless, jobless, energy sucking drag on society. For this week anyway.

2010-01-14T22:55:00.000-07:00

Today was my first day back to work. In honor of my first day, yesterday I went out and bought myself some new tank tops to wear under my scrub tops (honestly, they gape open and everyone can see right down your shirt) and a new pair of shoes. The shoes are not sexy. They are white and they have that "balance ball" technology - and NO, I did not pay $115 for them. But hot damn, are they ever comfortable.

Going back to work was like.. like I never even left. I slipped right back into it.

It was: awesome. It was: fun. It was: everything I hoped it would be, and then some.

My legs. They are sore.

I go back tomorrow and I'm booked for all next week. After that? Hopefully I will have myself a shiny new part-time rotation on a surgical unit. If the rotation doesn't work for me, I will get on the casual list and start picking up shifts. Either way, it feels really, really good to be Mom, Wife, and Nurse.

Changes

2010-01-12T08:46:00.000-07:00

How things have changed in the last week or so. This has turned into a Mexican standoff. I know, and Hot Stuff knows, that we will work through it. We will figure it out, because we love each other. I am not angry, or upset, or scared. I am waiting.

Hot Stuff told me awhile ago that I am controlling. Of course I got all huffy and threw a hundred arguments and justifications at him that proved I was not controlling, and even if I was, I had good reasons. Looking back now, I see how the more insecure and inadequate I felt, the more I pressured him to live within the expectations I placed on him. I needed him to be exactly what I needed him to be, because I felt insecure within myself. The truth of it is, I am not cut out to be a full time stay at home mom. I have always worked. From the time I was old enough to go to work with my mom and she would pay me $5 do the crap jobs at her office on a weekend afternoon, I was out in the world making my own money. So much of my identity is tied into being a Working ~~Girl~~ Person that I am not a success at being at home full-time. My self-esteem and self-worth have been sliding away for months because I am missing a huge chunk of "Me."

At the same time that this thing was coming to a head between me and Hot Stuff, I was coming to the realization that I needed to go back to work. For my own sanity. To be a better wife. To be a better mother. To be a better me. For a long time I had been feeling scared about going back to work. I worried that my skills would be too rusty. I lacked self-confidence. I told myself stupid things like, 'don't bother, you'll never find childcare.'

Well, I found a dayhome for my kids. I called the department I used to work at in the hospital and put myself on the casual list. I sent in a resume to a small regional health complex. I applied for part time on a surgical unit at the hospital.

My old department called yesterday and gave me some hours. I am so freaking excited, I am like a kid. I am so pumped about going back to work, I am already wondering what color scrubs I should wear, and which top I should go with. I think I may even go so far as to try them on to make sure they are not going to look like painted-on spandex. That's always a confidence-builder, isn't it? Worrying about splitting your pants on the first day back.

Letters of Intent, Jan 8/10

2010-01-08T19:52:00.000-07:00

Brought to you by the written stylings of Julie @ Foursons.

Dear Preschool Fundraiser Moms:

Re: Ladies Night

Already I feel myself getting pulled into the drama. Why did I volunteer for this shit? Oh yeah, I'm a sucker!

At the meeting today, the three of us (did you other three even know about it?) made some decisions. The Spring Fling theme? Gone. The tea party idea that included tea pots and flower pots as centerpieces? Out the effing window. Lame, PG-rated entertainment? Not happening. It's called "Ladies Night" not "Ladies who don't believe in fun and prefer to be in bed by 8:00pm Night." So we came up with something better. Think: a classy, elegant Casino with proper hosts* and hostesses, and good entertainment. A hypnotist, some belly dancers, and a live band. Not to mention food, door prizes, raffles, and a silent auction. We know there will be women of all ages and tastes there. Some of them may think our casino is tacky. Some of them may be disappointed that they are not sitting under bright fluorescent lights oohing and aahing over the flowerpot centerpieces and (undoubtedly) giant ugly crepe-paper carnations adorning the tables. Hopefully enough of those women will get liquored up enough to make the hypnotist's show really awesome.

*"Hosts" will be played by half-dressed male strippers who are eager to take you into the back room and show you a good time.**

**And by 'good time' I mean the raffle prizes. Or do I?

Sure, you're gonna be upset when we have our next meeting and you see that we have changed the theme. You'll get over it. Nobody is gonna pay to attend what amounts to a Grandmother's Day tea.

See you at the next meeting! (Looking forward to the sparks flying!)

Stone

Childhood friends

2010-01-06T11:42:00.000-07:00

Christina (this is where you met Christina) and I were inseparable in elementary school. Her brother, Dave, and my brother were also best friends. We spent all of our free time together, either at her house or mine. Her parents were like second parents to me. My house was like her second house. Funny story: one night my family and I were sitting at the table eating supper when Christina's brother walked in. He said hello, washed up, grabbed a plate, and sat down with us, and then filled- nay, heaped his plate with food. No one batted an eyelash. This is what it was like. My brother at the time was I think 15, so Dave would have been 16. My mom was used to cooking for an army just to feed one teenage boy, so what's one more, right? It just meant no leftovers for my brother to eat while he cleared the table. Anyways, David finished his plate, gave my mom a kiss and said, "Sorry to eat and run. Gotta get home for supper." You see?

In junior high, Christina's family moved away, but then her and Dave moved back to live with their dad when we were just starting senior high. Sometime in the summer before 11th grade, she went from a chunky, kind of nerdy-looking girl to this smokin' hot blonde with big boobs and a slim but curvy body. I am pretty sure she was the subject of many a jerk session for many a high school boy. (Did I mention she was extremely smart? Yeah, she's a doctor now.) I would say I was a mite jealous, not of the male attention she received, but because she didn't really want to hang out with me anymore. Perhaps it wasn't so much jealousy as hurt. I can't really describe it, only to say we had one of those really tight we'llbebestfriendsforever friendships that girls have.. and then we didn't. So really, I guess hurt describes it. When we got to senior high school, she had a bunch of new and different, older friends who would take her to the bar on Friday night. She had a boyfriend and hung around with him and his friends. We still did stuff occasionally, it just wasn't as often. After high school, she went to university and I went to work. We traveled to California together once, for a week. After the trip, we did keep in touch through letters, and saw each other once in a while. Eventually, our connection faded. I would send her an email once in a while, I think she wrote me back once. In a strange twist of fate, her dad died a week after my mom did. I tried to get in touch with her after that but no response.

So here I am on Facebook yesterday, checking out a friend's page just to see how her New Years was. (I wouldn't exactly say I'm a Facebook creeper.. let's go with borderline creeper.) Wouldn't you know it. There is a comment left by Christina. Christina has added two high school friends to her friend list. Neither one of them is me. It's awkward, now. Since I was on Facebook first (and oh yes, I looked for her a couple of times on FB), she should send me a friend request, right? Or do I send her a friend request? Do I wait for her? It's like running into the mother of an acquaintance in the grocery store. It's a pretty tenuous connection, so whaddyado? Say hi or pretend not to see her? And then if she says hi make up some quick lie like, "Oh, I wasn't sure if that was you or not?!" Am I over-thinking this?

I look back wistfully at the days when I was a kid. Things in my world were so solid, so literal, that I never questioned that they would go on forever. As a kid, there weren't many shades of grey. As a kid, I would have staked my collection of New Kids on the Block posters, tapes, and memorabilia that my friendship with Christina would last forever. Of course, I would have bet my NKOTB stuff that NKOTB would Rule The World Forever, too.

It's probably a good thing I don't gamble very often.

Yo.

2010-01-04T21:58:00.000-07:00

About this?

There was discussion, disagreement, back-and-forth-ness, and then compromise. Now, there is peace in the house. For today.

Dum dum DUM.

Conversations with a 4 year old

2010-01-04T20:27:00.000-07:00

Some things were said by the Hurricane over the Christmas holidays. For your reading pleasure:

Out of nowhere, at the supper table one night: "I'll rock your ass."

In the bathroom, talking to his sister, not wearing a shirt: "Want to see my tits?" Aunty Meg busted him and he tried to cover by saying, "No, I said 'do you want to see my kits,' Aunty. I said kits, not that other word."

After Grandma and Poppa took him to McDonalds for lunch, where he received an Avatar movie toy in his happy meal: "Mom, look what I got from Old McDonalds! It's a Battle-tard toy! It's a Battle-tard horse!"

Smiling When Your Friends Are Watching

2009-12-31T23:07:00.000-07:00

I'm still here. I'm barely hanging on by the skin of my fingernails but I'm still here. Life is handing me lemons, and I'm not interested in making lemonade. I'm more interested in cutting the lemons in half and then squeezing them into the eyes of one who needs a fucking wake up call.

The tension in this house is freaking unreal. (Sorry, dear sister, that you received some of the lemon-squeezy. I do love you enormously.) My guts are completely twisted up. In my mind, I am alternately curled up in a ball and bent over barfing because I can't stomach the stress. Since Hot Stuff reads my blog sometimes, I am not going to get into detail, although again, like it was here, it is rocky between us. Only worse. And this? Was me. Still is. Only worse. To those who left a comment; thank you, my heart was touched.

Last year at this time I could not wait until 2008 was over. In 2008, my mother died. My relationship with my brother fell apart. My Little Dude was born. It was all too much and I kept telling myself, don't worry, 2008 is almost over. 2009 will be better. It wasn't. This year I am not telling myself that 2010 will be better. This year I am telling myself that I will make 2010 better. I will not leave it to someone else.

The meaning of Christmas

2009-12-21T09:06:00.000-07:00

A conversation yesterday morning between Hot Stuff and I as we (finally) put up the tree:

HS: So.. what do you want for Christmas?

Me: Um.. I don't know.. whatever.

HS: Well, don't say whatever, or I'll end up coming home with a frying pan or a house coat or something. And how many house coats do you have, like three upstairs that you don't wear?

Me: Yeah. Well, why don't you get me an apron? I need an apron.

HS: Are you serious? You want an apron?

Me: Well, kind of.

HS: uncertain smile

Me: Lookit, I'll tell you what. You think about me, and about what I would like. If you put some thought into it, I'm sure you can figure it out.

HS: Are you fucking serious?

Me: Well, yeah. You need to put some thought into it. Seriously, it won't be that hard. Just consider me and what my tastes are, what I like and don't like, and I'm sure you'll come home with the perfect gift.

(I am such a shit.)

Hot stuff leaves to go pick up a gift for me and then grab my sister from the bus station. On the way into town, he calls me from his cell.

HS: Hey, were you serious about all of that earlier?

Me: Yeah. Hon, you have to put some thought into it, okay? I'm sure you'll do great.

HS: Fuck.

Is it wrong to take such delight in playing cat and mouse with someone's sanity? Is it fair to lay down this pressure five days before Christmas? The answer is a most enthusiastic Yes! I have learned that the true meaning of Christmas is being able to put the screws to your partner in life for your own personal enjoyment.

Thank you, honey, this was the best gift ever.

I am not without mercy. After Doreen and I laughed about it, I gave her the okay to call Hot Stuff and tell him that an iPod would also be a good gift. (Although, I am fully aware that I will be opening another frying pan and/or housecoat Christmas morning if he reads this.)

Letters of Intent, Dec 18/09

2009-12-17T21:49:00.000-07:00

Brought to you by Julie @ Foursons.

Dear Little Dude,

I'm tired, okay? I'm sorry that you are teething, but there is nothing I can do about it. I give you Motrin, we cuddle, we laugh, you have a bottle, I put you to bed, you commence with the wailing. I get you out of bed; you don't want a teether, you're not hungry, you don't want the facecloth, you don't want me rubbing your gums, and as soon as I put you to back to bed you start this crying business again. It needs to stop. Seriously. I am all done, baby. Alllll done. I am also WAY ALL DONE being woken up two or three times in the middle of the night. I am taking care of all your little baby needs before bed so I don't have to be coming down in the night to settle you back to sleep. One of these times I am going to break my damn neck on the stairs because my brain, which is supposed to be at the helm, is still actually asleep. If you could just tell me what you want, I would try to do accommodate you. If all you want is to yank my chain, which is what I think is really going on, sorry. I'm not that kind of Mama. You'll have to get over your adorable little self and cry yourself to sleep. I'm not going to play the game tonight. It's been a stressful week and I have nothing in the tank except nausea. Just a few more days until your Aunty Meg comes to visit; she is a much less tired second-mother and has much more stamina. Tough it out, kid.

Love, Mom

Dear Hurricane,

Thank you so much for making me laugh today. Yes, that guy was weeeeiiirrrrrddd looking. Maybe next time you could tell me in a quieter voice. Also, you don't know this but after you went to bed, I came downstairs and laughed because you asked me why I was freaking out. Who taught you those words? Oh yeah, me.

Love, Mom

Dear Princess,

Please, please stop taking your pull ups off during naptime. I am tired of scrubbing poop out of your carpet. It's very labour-intensive. Yes, I know we are going to replace the carpet soon, but come ON. Cut me a bit of slack, okay? I can't be changing your sheets every day or washing your toys all the time because you got poop on them, either.

Love, Mom

Letters of Intent, Dec 11/09

2009-12-11T16:42:00.000-07:00

Brought to you by Julie at Foursons. Click over and read some other great letters. After you finish laughing at me, of course.

Dear People Who Are Having A Shitty Day (and/or Anyone Else Who Needs A Laugh),

In the world of Stone Fox, days are seldom without some laughter/drama/tears (kids)/tears (mine)/carpet scrubbing (and that's not a sexual innuendo, unfortunately). Today was no exception, although I did wake up and wonder to myself, Self, what are you going to post about today? Nobody has spewed any bodily fluids on any carpeting and/or upholstery for 24 hours straight.

Before I knew it, the morning was over and I picked up the Hurricane from school and headed into town. A quick stop at Greyhound and then on to Wendy's, as I am not made of actual stone and the whines and pleas of the childrens does wear me down. Know what I discovered when I pulled up to Wendy's Order Here microphone? The Order Here microphone in the lane where there is no way to get out of the lane because it has a high curb and you can't drive out because there is a minivan in front of you and you can't back out because there are two guys in a pick up truck right behind you?

I discovered that my driver's side window was frozen shut. Frozen. Shut. Tighter than a duck's arse. So while I am wondering what the EFF is wrong with my window, I open my truck door, get out of the truck, and proceed to place my order into the microphone. All the while, I am jabbing the open/close button for my window, trying (unsuccessfully) to get the son of a bitch unstuck. I could hear the lady at the drive through window laughing her ass off when she repeated my order back to me. I am pretty sure I heard the two guys in the pick-up truck killing themselves as well, but I was too embarrassed to even look in their direction. I get back in, drive up to the Pay Here window. Get out of the truck. Give the lady, who is still laughing, my bank card as I lamely attempt to explain my truck window is stuck. While I am waiting for the transaction to go through, I grab my window scraper and make a huge deal out of scraping the bottom edge of my window. Then grab my bank card and get back into the truck. Hammer again, still unsuccessfully, on the open/close button for my window. Drive up to the Pick Up Order Here window. Get out of truck. Pick up order. Hear several people inside the drive thru windows laughing. Don't even bother giving lame "window is stuck" excuse. Hang head in shame and haul ass back to truck. Lay down rubber speeding out of drive thru lane.

I drove four blocks before I pulled over and gave the kids their meals.

We're probably going to start eating at A&W's now.

Having a great day,
Stone

10 Reasons I don't babysit for a living

2009-12-09T19:58:00.000-07:00

I am a sucker for a hard-luck story, so when one of the other preschool moms asked me to watch her kids on a short term temporary please-please-my-last-sitter-crapped-out-and-you're-probably-not-a-psycho-I-mean-you-seem-like-a-nice-person-and-I-am-so-desperate-please basis, I caved and said yes, even though I have sworn never to look after anyone else's kids at least twice before.

The Mix: in addition to my three, I also had a 4 year old girl and a 15 month old boy.

So here's why I keep swearing off babysitting:

1. This shit always happens at the worst time; like when my Little Dude is cutting 2 molars at the same time and does nothing but sit in one spot and cry all day unless I carry him around or wear him on my back like a Gee-Damn pack animal.

2. I have my own little psychos to trash my house, I don't need anyone else's little psychos to help.

3. The fact that I referred to other people's children as "little psychos."

4. I really needed to go to the liquor store today but couldn't because it doesn't look good when you leave the truck running with 5 small children in it to go grab alcohol.

5. I didn't have time to work-out this morning before I picked up the little fartknockers. I had my short-shorts and runners on, rolling with my black socks (how's that for a visual?) before I realized that shit, I was getting paid to watch someone else's kids and maybe I should be at least on the same floor of the house as them.

6. Loading 5 kids each with their own backpacks/diaper bags/booster seats/carseats into a vehicle, by yourself, is a fucking bitch to do.

7. The noise level. It's like a Nine Inch Nails concert what with the discordant screeching and incoherent shouting all freaking day.

8. HAPPY HOUR. There is not enough sarcasm in the world to infuse into those two words when they are used to describe the hours between 4pm and 6pm, when children the world over go into full-on Nuclear Meltdown.

9. Today is not Free Day but I ate a lot of cookies. From the stress. Yes, the stress from the little psychos.

10. I am way too tired to think of a #10.

Technically, I only "misplaced" the baby & Why sleepovers are awesome*

2009-12-06T20:31:00.000-07:00

This morning as I was working out, I was planning my day. Since the Hurricane was at a sleepover and I wasn't due to pick him up until 2 (2pm! Can you believe it? Usually it's noon pick up), I had all morning to Get Stuff Done. The schedule: caulk some weatherstripping around the Princess and Little Dudes' windows. Run into town, go to Michaels. Grab stuff for prettifying cafe noir chocolate truffles. Go to grocery store. Grab groceries. Pick up Hurricane. Come home, prettify truffles. Try not to eat them all. Make some Chocolate Candy Cane Cookies. Try not to eat them all. Congratulate self on Getting Stuff Done. Have relaxing evening.

Well. The first hitch came when I was putting on the weatherstripping. I was in Little Dude's bedroom and I thought I heard him in the Princess' bedroom. When I went in her room to do her window, he wasn't there. He wasn't in his own room, and he wasn't in the living room. I checked the bathroom and the dining room: no baby. Kitchen: no baby. Entryway: no baby. Man the Panic Stations. Check every room again. No baby. Flip open the cover of the Panic Button. Check every room again and even open front door to see if by some stretch of physics he opened the door and decided to go for a walk (in -28C weather). Can't hear baby noises anywhere. Try to make brain stop thinking of horrific and terrible accidents that can occur when children are out of direct eyesight for 60 seconds. Insert and turn key of Panic Button to Enable. Tell self to calm the fuck down and order heart to stop having heart attacks. Hand is hovering over Panic Button. Get brilliant idea to check staircase. Run to stairs, see baby sitting on bottom stair in the corner, smiling and playing with the Princess's magic wand. Have complete and total nuclear meltdown on the inside from the sheer relief.

Then we went to town. Town was good. Town was a success. I got Doreen's older daughters to watch my two babies. (It is not lost on me that a 13-year-old and an 11-year-old did not misplace the baby.) I got the stuff I needed from Michaels and the grocery store, and Doreen and I got to hang out for a couple hours while I did my running around.

When I went to pick up the Hurricane, his little friend's mom told me that the kids had a great time, my son was well-mannered (yay! threatening their little lives does work!), they were up until 11, and Hurricane was up at 7 because he had gotten sick and puked all over the bed and himself. It was at that moment that I remembered the Princess had some nasty poops the day before, so I figured it was a virus that the kids had passed to each other. He said his tummy felt much better after he threw up. As I was profusely and sincerely thanking her for taking such good care of my kid, I was also thinking in my head, Score! At least he didn't barf in his bed at home.**

**This completely blew up in my face.

*I thought of the title right before this happened:

On the way home; as in, we are less than 3 minutes away from our house, my Hurricane says to me, "Mommy, I don't feel goo-BBBAAARRRRFFF! GLLURRRRRP! REEEETTTTCCCCHH!"

He varminted. All over himself. His booster seat. My truck seat. The floor of my truck. Various and assorted toys laying on the floor. Poor, poor little guy. He was so upset. I sped home and got him into the shower while I brought in groceries and babies and baby paraphernalia and wondered how the hell I was going to get varmint out of my upholstery. After throwing the toys and his booster seat into the snow, I ended up using laundry soap and a scrubber to scrub out the barf. At -28C (-18F) I don't have the intestinal fortitude to do a good job, or even a half-assed job. I maybe did a quarter-assed job, but I sprayed lots of Febreze. That must count for something.

And that is why this post is being done at 8:30 on Sunday night. It is currently -27C (hey, it warmed up!) and the last thing I want to do is go outside in the cold and the dark and scrape varmint off a booster seat and throw on a wash of barfy clothes and toys. Instead, I sit in a nice, cozy house and write about it instead.

And how was your weekend?

Letters of Intent, Dec 4/09

2009-12-04T08:39:00.000-07:00

Brought to you by the letters F-O-U-R-S-O-N-S.

Dear Tiger Woods,

I, for one, am not surprised that your wife took a golf club to your SUV. What did you think would happen when you inevitably got busted for cheating? Haven't you ever heard of Miranda Lambert or Carrie Underwood? Woman are not just going to sit back and take this crappy treatment anymore. You should be feeling damn lucky that it was only the SUV that got the business end of your club. You know what amuses me the most? That you told a friend your wife went "all ghetto" on you. Excuse me? The woman who takes care of you and your kids and puts up with your enormous ego and then finds you cheating went "all ghetto" on you? QUEL. SURPRISE. I would be getting "all axe-murderer" on you, myself. It's funny how you accuse her of being ghetto when you're the one slinking around like some horny ghetto dog sniffing at all the females.

Oh yes. You may be worth a billion dollars, but you are still a dog. I hope she takes your worthless ass for everything. Oh, and nice role-modeling, by the way, I'm sure all the little boys who idolize you are taking notes. Cochon.

Disgusted,

Stone Fox

Dear Dr. Google: I have this weird rash..

2009-12-02T15:26:00.000-07:00

Winter skin, oh winter skin, how ugly are thee.

After 10 years, my outer layer still thinks we live in a moderate coastal climate, and not this vast and frozen prairie. As soon as the temperature drops below about -15 C the backs of my hands start to crack and bleed from the dry air. I lotion, and I lotion ("It puts the lotion on it's skin. It PUTS the LOTION on IT'S SKIN.") and it's an okay solution at best. I have tried every type of lotion out there, to little avail; inevitably, I start to dry out and wrinkle up and I look like this:

"I'll just have a spring water, no ice, please."

That's normal.

Not normal? Breaking out in a rash. The backs and insides of my arms. My legs. My forearms. I know it's not just regular eczema or psoriasis, as I have both of those all year round. (Those lotion commercials that show the babes with the smooth arms and legs.. so relatable for me!) It's not scabies, because I had that when I was in my early twenties (don't judge, it's highly communicable). It's not allergies, because I'm not eating anything different. I don't think it's fungal, because it's not showing up in dark, sweaty crevices. And, I'm showering these days. Like, every day. Yeah, I'm impressed, too.

I have narrowed it down to two possibilities: stress, which is entirely possible, although if that is the case, I would expect to be a solid mass of itchy redness; or dryer sheets. Oh I love me some fresh smelling Fleecy. Cheaper than Bounce, works just as good. I fear, though, that I may have to give up the nice sniffy stuff and go with the environmentally-friendly, fair-trade, sustainable-responsible-growth-organic-hemp-woven-by-certified-hippies-no-perfumes-not-tested-on-cute-fuzzy-bunnies dryer sheets, or no dryer sheets. No dryer sheets?! HA! Yeah, right. Frizzy..er hair and socks static-clinged to the ass of my pants? Not to mention all the dog hair I'd have stuck to me? Think: Teen-Wolf.

As if I need any more help to look like a spaz.

Speaking of my spazziness, Temerity-Jane interviewed me for the Great Interview Experiment, and she did an excellent job. Click here if you want to read about me talking about myself. Go forth and laugh heartily.

Picture credit: http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/news/article-23381234-moment-600-years-ago-that-terror-came-to-mummies-of-the-amazon.do

Milestones

2009-11-30T16:22:00.000-07:00

The Hurricane got a "cell phone" with his kid's meal from Wendy's. Wouldn't you know it, he was getting hang up calls almost right away. So inconvenient when your imaginary conversations with your imaginary friends are being interrupted by imaginary calls and when you answer these intrusive imaginary calls, nobody is there. How rude.

The Princess has added a ton of new words to her vocabulary; shockingly, none of them are curse words. Her favorite stuffed cat is now known as "Puppy." She is saying, "Hap, mama" when she needs help. With the help of the Hurricane, pee, poop, and butt are becoming more common. NO!, MINE!, and I DO! are also still in heavy rotation. She used to be shy on the phone, now she is more than happy to hold an extended conversation completely in Baby Gibberish. No, don't worry, you don't have to do any of the talking. As a matter of fact, if you are on the phone with her, don't count on getting any words in.

Little Dude has discovered a Super Awesome Really Fun way to give mommy a HEART ATTACK. Stand up in your high chair and turn around. Then lean waaaay over the back of the high chair so you can touch stuff. When you get tired, just sit down on your high chair tray. Eat some snack. Repeat. Wait for your mom to turn around and DROP DEAD FROM FEAR. If you don't want to scare mom by letting her find you standing up, then you can slide your legs down and get your fat butt stuck under the tray with both legs wedged in on the same side of the divider. Then squeal like a.. well, like a stuck piglet.

Little Dude is also using the dining room chairs to walk; he got himself stuck underneath the table today. It's probably not very nice to laugh at a baby, but I did. I have discovered that the word "Snack" will distract him from whatever is making him cry; the downside is that I really do have to give him a snack. The way this kid is eating, it's going to be expensive. I may have to pimp him out Toddlers & Tiaras* style so I can afford to feed him.

*Seriously, 4 year olds with spray tans? This is what your children will look like:

"Next time I won't point all the jets at my face."

I found even more stuff wrong with me.

2009-11-27T13:50:00.000-07:00

So I'm at the doctor's office the other day, waiting patiently ("patient"ly, get it?) in the exam room, and I notice a sheet entitled Therapeutic Management of Hormone Excess and Deficiency with Marvelon or something similar. Basically, it's a graph sheet showing estrogen, progesterone, and androgen levels at different times of the cycle, along with other signs and symptoms that the birth control pill, Marvelon, (aka Alesse) can help alleviate.

Curious, I started reading it. I was surprised to discover that I am Estrogen Deficient:

Forgetfulness
Difficulty falling asleep
Poor concentration - It's why I never play those stupid Facebook apps.
Forgetfulness (I shit you not, it's on the sheet twice)
Decreased verbal skills
Irregular bleeding
Lower libido
Emotional instability - Did you just call me a flake?

Strangely enough, I am also Estrogen Dominant:

PMS - Pass My Shotgun
Irregular bleeding
Low libido
Heavy menstruation
Bloating
Weight gain - Because all the other shit on this list isn't enough?
Mood swings - Do you have a problem with my moods?
Sleep disturbances - They're called KIDS.
Sugar cravings

And yes, Progesterone Deficient:

Fluid Retention
Stressed Easily
Weight gain - HELLO? We get it.
Irritability - YEAH. I KNOW ALREADY.
Break-though-bleeding
PMS - Pardon My Sweatpants
Heavy Periods
Cramps
Irregular cycle/spotting between cycles
Over Reacting - Excuse me? Excuse *Me*? What, exactly, are you trying to say? No, no, really. Let's hear it.
Stressed
Mood swings - I'm sorry I snapped at you.
Irritability - Is there a POINT to this constant repetition?

Oh My Lanta, Androgen Dominant, too?

Acne/oily skin - Especially my forehead. It's reflective, almost.
Facial hair - If I ever run out of turtle wax, I will be sure to use some of my Forehead Grease to keep my mustache and also my chiskers nice and shiny.
Agitated
Angry - Well, duh, look at what I'm dealing with, here!
Irritable - Stop bringing it up! You're just pissing me off!

Of course I'm Androgen Deficient as well, why wouldn't I be?

Loss of libido
Loss of muscle tone
Wrinkled skin
Lack of drive - Meh..
Demotivation - I'll finish this later..

So what it all comes down to, is that I am a big fat shiny whale with a hair-trigger temper, a mustache, and a bad attitude and I tend to overreact and go Nuclear at the slightest provocation. After said outburst, I'm likely to flop down and have myself a good cry. Who knew I was so much fun?

Awesome.

Resentment

2009-11-25T14:42:00.000-07:00

Doreen and I were hanging out yesterday, and we got to talking about how our kids came about. Not the sex talk, you dirty birds, just the timing of our kids. (Just for the sake of background, Doreen is in her mid-thirties and has a 13 year old, an 11 year old, and twins who are 20 months old. All of them are girls.)

Little Dude was totally unexpected. He was unplanned. He was not unwanted. I had my boy and my girl - who was, at the time, still a tiny baby. I was done having kids. Another baby was so Not In The Plan. As soon as I got over the initial shock of being pregnant, I was in love with my baby. Doreen felt the same way with her twins. At the time she found out she was pregnant, her daughters were both school age and about to head into the tween/pre-teen stages of life. A baby, let alone two babies, was definitely Not In The Plans.

Is there some kind of taboo that prevents mothers from expressing negative feelings towards the way children come to us in life? As soon as a woman says, "You know, this is not exactly what I had planned," when it is in reference to children, immediately she qualifies it with, "I wouldn't change a thing, I love my babies." Just so no one ever doubts her love for her kids.

To be clear, I am not talking about resenting your children for being born. I'm talking about the resentment towards Life In General. It was so hard for me for the first 10 months of Little Dude's life. It was really difficult for Doreen for the first 15 months of her twins' lives. Why can't we talk about this? Why can't we say, to the world at large, to Life, having these babies so close together made me feel like a failure lots of times, overwhelmed lots of times, and mad and frustrated with myself for being a failure and overwhelmed? And frankly, I'm still a little pissy about it.

Why can't we say having twins at 34 when I thought I was way done having kids was shitty timing, Life? Or, gee thanks, Life, I loved being in the hospital for 6 weeks on bedrest and suffering from severe PPD? You know, I'm mostly over it, but not completely. (Ok, so Doreen's life starting getting "difficult" before the twins arrived.)

Just re-reading what I've written, I noticed that I did it myself. I qualified "Little Dude was unplanned," with "He was not unwanted." Are we not supposed to say these things out loud or write them where other people can read them, without making sure everyone knows we 'wouldn't change a thing'? Truthfully, if I could do it over again (with the guarantee that I would still have the same kids), I might choose to have 18 months between my little ones. Or maybe 2 years. I'd be willing to bet that Doreen would seriously think about having her twins at 28 instead of 34.

I really think there is a fear about being judged for this. It's almost as though no matter how many times you say, "I wouldn't change a thing, I love my kids," it never seems to be quite enough to make up for, "I feel a tiny bit resentful towards Life In General for making this child-rearing business so fucking tough."

Me.. I don't really care about being judged. I want to put it out there for any other mother (or father) who is or ever has been pissy with Life In General because of the wrenches that get thrown in the gears. You know you love your kids and wouldn't trade them for the world. I know you love your kids and wouldn't trade them for the world. You don't need to qualify it anymore.

Let them eat cake. Dinosaur cake and Rainbow cake.

2009-11-23T15:53:00.000-07:00

So here are some shots of the cakes I made for the joint birthday party for the Little Dude and The Princess last weekend, which we held at Boston Pizza. BTW, holding a party at a restaurant is a great idea: zero clean up, and they don't charge you for a "room." If you're lucky like us, they will seat other patrons in a different section until the dinner rush starts.

Little Dude's Dinosaur:

And the Princess' rainbow cake:

(That's my arm moving reallysuperfast! in the picture and blurring it up. Hey, I was in a hurry to get my piece, people. It's yummy rainbow cake. Don't judge; you would be blurry too. This is the best picture I have right now of the inside of the cake.)

Neither of these cakes are my own ideas. The dinosaur cake is from the Betty Crocker website. The rainbow cake is from MckMama's website.

I had a blast making them, because although they look difficult, they are quite easy. By that I mean you don't need specialized skills or pans or whatnot; just the patience and the time to make a zillion pounds of icing and piss around with cake batter to make sure your colors are bright and your batter is split equally. I am fairly certain that our house is experiencing frost heave right now, because the back of my cake pans was significantly higher than the front of my cake pans. (Think tsunami wave. In rainbow colors!) Despite this, they turned out fairly well. The rainbow cake looks more lopsided in the picture than it did in real life, mostly because the scrolling around the top edge was bright pink and distracted the eye.

Everyone thought the dinosaur cake was really cute. Then I cut into the rainbow cake. The chorus of Oooohhhs and Aaaahhhs when people saw the inside is the real reason I go nuts with birthday cakes. The compliments from our birthday guests and some of the waitstaff at the restaurant made me feel so good. Not to mention our waitress taking pictures of it on her cell phone because she wanted to show her friends; how awesome is that? Totally awesome.

Everyone Is Somebody

2009-11-22T22:48:00.000-07:00

Neil over at Citizen of the Month is again running the Great Interview Experiment. All you have to do is post a comment on the GIE post. You interview the person who commented just before you, and the person after you will interview you. The goal is to help us all ~~suck fresh blood into our blog vortices~~ meet new people who are - hopefully - vastly different from ourselves; think International Singles Mixer plus online speed-dating minus the time limit and illicit bathroom stall sex. At least, I didn't get any. But there's always Temerity Jane, who will be interviewing me. No pressure, TJ, we'll go slow.. it's my first time, too.

So my assignment? Monica Peters, from AkwesasneWomensFire.com Monica created this website to share information on the events that occur in the Akwesasne Territory. The Akwesasne (pronounced Ah-kweh-sauce-nee) Territory is a Mohawk Nation: it's western border runs down the St. Lawrence river and around the southern edge of Cornwall Island, ON and includes a chunk of New York and a slice of Quebec. Monica is also a writer, YouTube wiz, and web app developer. She is of Onkwehonwe descent and lives on Kawehno:ke (Cornwall Island).

How about a little bit of Personal Information? Married? Kids? Job – as in, which of the many hats you wear is the one that comes with a paycheck? Hobbies?

I married in 2005, to a strong Onkwehonwe man from Akwesasne. He is the love of my life.

I pay my bills, by working as a web applications developer since 1996. I also author books, technology documents, and an upcoming tabloid about life in Akwesasne. I am a published author (Army of Web Bots by Monica Lamb). I also host Website Launch parties for clients, that I develop websites for.

Some days I develop innovative software and websites. Other days, I teach my clients how to manage their own Internet business adventures or how to use various Internet technologies. I am an entrepreneur with 'Oldest Child Syndrome'. I enjoy serious challenges and tend to 'go after ant hills with an elephant gun', according to my mother.

I'm the 2007 NAAF recipient for technology, because I developed the world's first Endangered Language translators, back in 1997. More info: http://www.Onkwehonwe.com

What prompted you to build AkwesasneWomensFire.com?

A group of women in Akwesasne discussed that we all wanted to have a safe place to share what we are experiencing in Akwesasne. Historically, various governments have taken advantage of their position, by publishing false and damaging stories about Onkwehonwe. We all agreed that we wanted to speak up and share our stories, pictures, and videos with the world, without asking for permission from any government agency.

I invested my own money and resources into starting up the website. Within a few weeks, some of the women, did not like the stories I posted and they wanted me to ask them for permission before I posted
any of my views. I reminded them that I am a free Onkwehonwe and I do not ask permission to think or speak freely. So, we parted our ways and they started a new group and a new website for themselves.

I continue to post stories, videos, and pictures that I capture during my normal daily routine, living in Akwesasne. I am fortunate that women and men from our original group are still helping to discover and share information, so that I can publish stories on our website. We are a small group and we all work very well together (especially during times of crisis). Some days, we have a handful of videographers working simultaneously to get all angles during crisis situations.

During crisis situations, we are threatened with violence from various border agents, police officers, military groups, and local government agents, if we try to document the situation, leave or return to our homes or travel freely around our community of Akwesasne. We are currently receiving the most threats, from various governments that want to force every 'Indian' to become fully assimilated citizens of the USA or Canada governments.

Sometimes, police threaten to take our cameras and equipment. Other days, border agents threaten to arrest Onkwehonwe if they question the agent, when the agent demands that they answer weird questions - or to
step out of their vehicles.

It can be very scary living in Akwesasne. It seems like a 'police state' out of a science fiction movie on some days. The past few weeks have been fairly quiet though. Except for the coast guard boat that runs so close to our shore (in our backyard) that I think it might hit our trees or rocks, while they peer in our house windows and wave their Canadian flag. Very strange here sometimes.

Before this year, I enjoyed a relatively quiet happy life here in Akwesasne and traveling the world for my career. I am still relatively happy for the most part, because we have beautiful and brilliant people in Akwesasne that are always happy to support the sharing of knowledge and resources.

Have you always been involved in social activism, or was there one specific incident that affected you deeply enough that you jumped in?

No, in fact, I can't stand politics at all. I was able to avoid it all my life, right up until this year. I have been forced into speaking out, because I have literally been under attack and threatened in my own community this year.

I have no criminal record, I don't smoke, I don't drink, and I do my best to follow the Great Law. I am not armed nor dangerous, because I respect The Great Law and that is a very peaceful way of life.

You are very clear about your dissatisfaction with the way the Onkwehonwe people are treated by the Canadian and US governments. In a perfect world, what kind of relationship would you like to see between Akwesasne and the two countries?

Two Row Wampum*. I don't try to control others, trick others to become my slave, tell others how to believe, behave, and exist. I demand the same respect in return. Respect (as I understand it) is the ability
to co-exist with no fear of intimidation, harassment, or harm of any form (mental, physical, spiritual).

*a wampum belt containing two parallel rows of purple beads on a white bead background was used by the Haudenosaunee to record their 1613 treaty with the Dutch. The purple rows signify two vessels traveling in the same river side by side but separate. One boat never tries to steer the other. (Source: Wikipedia)

I get the impression that you regard the Mohawk Council of Akwesasne (MCA) as just another Canadian federal agency; it says on your website, and I’m paraphrasing, that the MCA recognize the Government of Canada as their employer and thus are bound to do whatever the Canadian Government tells them to, even if it is detrimental to Akwesasne. What, specifically, is the MCA doing or not doing to give you this viewpoint?

MCA has many good Onkwehonwe working in their system too. The problem is not the Onkwehonwe. The problem is the system - it is created and owned by a British corporation that has proved it's intentions for
hundreds of years now. They intend to fully assimilate every last 'Indian' into becoming citizens of their corporations (by force and trickery).

Onkwehonwe that have knowledge of our origins, our lands, our waterways, will never agree to become citizens of USA nor Canada. They treat their citizens like slaves and it's very disappointing to witness. Today we witness the governments mistreating their own citizens, in every way imaginable.

With regards to the bridge that runs from Cornwall, Ontario to Cornwall Island, and then to the Massena Border Post, NY, why is there such conflict between the Canadian Border Services Agency and the people who live on Kawehno:ke (Cornwall Is.)?

C.B.S.A. has abused Onkwehonwe and travelers to the point of causing death, harm, and much distress on our small island (Kawehno:ke) since they were forced onto us in the 1950s. They continue to abuse their position and they continue to harass, threaten, bully, and even outright lie about their abusive interactions with Onkwehonwe and travelers they encounter.

They have stated in public media, that they view 'Mohawks' as armed, dangerous, and so scary that they (C.B.S.A.) had to leave their building, because they became so emotionally distressed. Yet, all the
photographers that were present, show the 'scary mohawks' as Children, Elderly, Men, and Women that are most certainly not armed or dangerous. In the next statement, C.B.S.A. said that they must carry guns. What kind of person would ever allow an emotionally distressed agent to carry guns?

The public is just learning that C.B.S.A. actually have been planning and orchestrating a massive media campaign to criminalize all 'Indians'. Many other government agencies are involved.

A common lament among older First Nations people is that the younger generation is not carrying on the old traditions. Do you see that happening in Akwesasne? Are you losing your young people to mainstream Canada or the States?

We are actually alot healthier that some of our sisters and brothers communities. Of course we have our issues, similar to every community on the planet. Onkwehonwe do not stop existing, just because they are not acting or living, in the way that books, movies, or laws claim they should be acting or living as.

If you could change one stereotype that Whites have about Natives, what would it be? Conversely, if you could change one stereotype that Natives have about Whites, what would it be?

I don't refer to myself as 'Native, Indian, Mohawk, First Nation, Aboriginal, Indigenous' or any English language term.

Every single one of us, is part of this Creation. The Great Law, is for all and it's really not about 'white' vs 'black' vs 'red' vs 'yellow'.

When we acknowledge and understand The Great Law or Natural Law, we can understand that everything is temporary and truly start to just appreciate everything and everyone we encounter. We can proudly look in the mirror, even while our hair, eyes, or skin are not what the man-made laws, dictate they should be.

Best advice I can share with anyone, is to find out what 'Natural Law' is, especially compared to man-made laws.

Who has had the greatest influence on your life? Why?

Creator, because I sincerely do appreciate every experience here. What an incredible experience!

What is the one thing that you would love to do but are absolutely terrified to try?

Hmmm, this is really tough to answer, because I consistently do things that scare me. Even things that I'm not too keen about. For example, I keep my cameras rolling during scary incidents around Akwesasne. Sometimes it's scary, because they are often rude and one even asked their followers to shut down my cameras during public gatherings.

Ok, I know what I'm terrified to try, but I would love to be good at. I would love to be a motivational public speaker. I would love to share my own story of how I am a survivor of child abuse and learned to sincerely forgive all those that abused me as a child. That is a terrifying thought, because it's hard to talk about a subject that causes listeners to want to become abusers and go harm the adults that harm children. I would like to help others learn to move into and beyond the knee-jerk reactions to painful events. I am so honored to have learned how to be truly appreciative and peaceful, even in such chaotic and scary times.

A big thank you to Monica for giving thoughtful answers and not calling me out for the clumsy amateur I really am.

Letters of Intent, Nov 20/09

2009-11-20T08:18:00.000-07:00

Letters of Intent, brought to you by Julie @ Foursons. Don't forget to click over there when you're done here.

I'm sure anyone with a husband will relate this week..

Dear Husband with a Death Wish,

Yesterday you played hooky from the job you will be leaving soon to do some online training stuff for the company you are about to start with. I am fairly certain the online training took about three or four hours, but you sat at the computer all day. You watched me clean the house, wrangle the kids, make bread, and do laundry. Then I cooked supper. I did not ask you to watch the kids, or intervene when they were taking turns trying to kill and maim each other. I specifically told the kids to leave you alone so you could get your computer stuff done. When I took the Hurricane to tae kwon do at 5, I assumed that you would clean the kitchen, because it has been our deal since the beginning of time that if we are both home, the person who does not cook has to clean.

Much to my dismay, when we got back home at 6, the kitchen was half-assed done. I appreciate that you cleared the table and ran the dishwasher (that mostly I loaded), but the job is not done until the pots and pans are washed and counters are wiped. I did not appreciate the shitty way you left it all for me to clean and flat out told me that you weren't going to do any of it. Then you sat your ass right back down at the computer.

We both know that I am a Woman On The Edge these days, what with the hormone stuff I'm going through. My doctor's appointment isn't until next Wednesday, so you'd be wise to watch your back, Jack. This kind of disrespect will take you places you really don't want to go. Do you really want to share your side of the bed with those unwashed pots and pans? Or maybe you would prefer that I stuff your pillowcase with every stinky piece of dirty laundry you own? Which, if you keep giving me Shitty Disrespectful Attitude, is going to pile up as I will go on laundry strike.

It is not wise to mess with me, Husband. I have ways of making your life extremely unpleasant.

Your Loving Wife,
Stone

I'm Feeling Old Today

2009-11-18T10:18:00.000-07:00

Last night, I had to run down to the gas station to grab some milk. While I was in line, I overheard a conversation between the young cashier and a male friend of hers. They were discussing whether or not they should get a place in the city together and whether or not the cashier's boyfriend would move into the city, too, so they could all share an apartment. The cashier tried to explain to her friend that (like.. honestly?) her boyfriend would (totally) not move into the city. The male friend looked part mystified and part taken aback and said, "Why would he stay in this small town?"

Well, friends, that instantly made me feel about 80 years old. Only because at the age of 19 I couldn't wait to leave my own small town and spread my wings in a Big City. I could never imagine living in a small town ever again, because why would I stay in that small town? Now, I am the 32-year-old Mom driving the Mom-mobile, wearing sweatpants and very-unstylish-yet-waterproof boots to grab milk at 10:45 at night, only to return to my husband and 3 small babes sleeping in beds in the house on the small acreage in the country, not even on the edge of that small town.

Gone are the days of being young and having endless possibilities for your life. Gone are the days of having boundless energy; energy to stay up all night, study for a test on the way to school, and pass the test with a B. Gone are the days of being responsible only to myself and having much more time to donate to Deep Thinking. Gone are the days of wandering around my Big City smelling the smells and hearing the sounds and visiting my most favorite places.

Here, though, are the days of being wiser. Here are the days of having a bunch of drunken Mini-me's running around like total maniacs and making me laugh. Here are the days of getting into bed at night and it's already warmed up. Here are the days of seeing the world through the eyes of a child again. Here are the days of watching those children make the connections (I swear, sometimes if you're watching their eyes, you can actually see the synapses firing) when they figure out something new.

Here are the days of struggle; of knowing that as much as a struggle as it is, one day you will look back with wistfulness at these days, too.

Me, circa 1990

2009-11-15T22:42:00.000-07:00

As a teenager, I truly was awkward. In pretty much every sense of the word; I was awkward looking, awkward in school, awkward around other people.. well, you get the picture. In case you don't, this should help you out:

What was I thinking? Perhaps that the hideous shirt would take the emphasis off my face?

We didn't have much money when I was growing up; most of the time we made do with very little. While my siblings and I did not go to school dressed in tatters, the clothes we wore were rarely name brand. It was Saan's, Field's, or Woolworth's clothes. Once in a while, if there was a bit of spare change in the budget, Mom would let us order something from the Sears catalogue.

As soon as I was old enough to babysit and start making my own money, you can bet your sweet ass I took every babysitting gig I was offered. Four kids? Under 7? All day and overnight? For a pittance? SURE! My mom was very supportive of my babysitting; not only did it (eventually) ease some of the financial pressure of having a 'tween daughter who desperately needs name brand everything or she will die on the spot!! but committing to people and setting up a babysitting schedule helped Teach Me Some Responsibility. As long as it didn't affect my school, I could babysit a few hours on weeknights, too. I didn't earn very much at first, and I spent what little I made on candy and Tiger Beat.

Vividly, I remember being at the peak of my Ugly Duckling stage in the 8th and 9th grades. I was tremendously shy, geeky, smart, and most definitely an outsider. There was a group of girls that I used to hang on the fringe of during first break. I didn't consider them my friends, they were just girls that I followed behind and sat in the same end of the hallway for 10 minutes before it was time to go back to class. I spent most of the time hoping no one would notice me. One day, one of the girls got it in her head to pick on me a bit, just a bitchy remark or two, and I sniped right back at her. So she said to me, "I don't mean to be rude, but," which we all know really means I'm about be really fucking rude, "didn't you wear those jeans yesterday? And the day before? Is that like, your only pair of jeans?" Truthfully, it was my only pair of jeans. I was so embarrassed. All I could do was stand up and walk away, my face burning with humiliation. Never once, until that moment, had being poor really bothered me.

After that, I started hustling up jobs and saving, saving, saving. Once I got up enough scratch to buy some new threads, I took myself to the boutique-y Jeans North store and spent a wad of cash. I did mention I was awkward, yes? Did I also happen to mention I was hopelessly inept at all things fashion-related? See picture day shirt above. I cringe as I remember myself trying on pair after pair of Guess and Levi's jeans and finally walking out of the store the proud (PROUD!) owner of four pairs of jeans: one teal, one green, one red, and one bright blue.

Can someone please explain this to me? This fashion trend of looking like a fucking reject from the Reading Rainbow? ("Take a look, it's in our book.. Reading Rainbow.. Reeaaaddding Raaaaaaiiinnnbooooww" sing it with me, Lavar Burton!) AS IF I needed anything else to make my already painful life harder. I would love to travel back in time, pull my 13 year old self aside and say, "You look fucking ridiculous. Just buy regular blue jeans."

Alas, I wore the heck out of those jeans. For $50 a pair, what choice did I have? I had spent all my money. Besides, I thought I looked good. The jeans all kind of had the Mom-jean high waist fit - you remember high waisters. Low rise jeans were still pretty far in the future in 1990. I think we were just heading into the Return of the Bellbottoms and Other Hippy Shit and the ~~Look Like a Hobo~~ Grunge trends. My God, the clothes we wore. It's just all so embarrassing. See picture day shirt above.

At 13 I was sure I was going to be chubby and have pimples forever.

Hmm.

I just realized, at this moment, that not only do I have 20 lbs to lose, I also have a few heaters percolating on my face. Meh, whatever.

Important Life Lesson: What you thought was life ending at 13 is not so much at 32. Which probably means that what you think is life ending at 32 is not so much at 52.

Letters of Intent, Nov 13/09

2009-11-12T22:32:00.000-07:00

Letters of Intent, brought to you by Julie @ Foursons.

Dear ~~Circles of Hell~~ Save On Foods,

I truly enjoyed our visit through your ~~bolgia~~ aisles tonight. I know, maybe it's not the best idea ever to drag your three children through the ~~Inferno~~ grocery store at 7pm after a long day and when everyone is tired. Oops, my bad.

Well, it didn't start off terribly. I didn't realize the magnitude of my catastrophic mistake until we were just about ready to leave ~~Circle One: Limbo~~ the frozen food section. That's about when the Little Dude got stuck in the foot-well of the two-child steering wheel "fun" cart, and let out a very unearthly screech when the Princess tried to sit on his head. And then another screech when I got him unstuck. Did anyone else's ears start bleeding? Sorry about that. I had just listened to him cry for the whole ride into town, so I barely heard anything. Just felt the blood trickle down my face.

Wouldn't you know it, as soon as Little Dude was settled down with a bottle and a jerry-rigged seatbelt so he couldn't slide down anymore, we hit the ~~Third Circle: Gluttony~~ lunch snacks section, and some serious, major whining of, "I'm hungry," and dangerous cart-driving by the Hurricane forced me to ~~enter the Fifth Circle of the Wrathful and the Seventh Circle of the Violent and grab him by the damn jacket and threaten his life~~ firmly yet gently reprimand him. I hope that guy that the Hurricane plowed into doesn't sue you. Hey, I apologized. As a former Single Person myself, I know that Single People much prefer to do their grocery shopping in the evening so they don't have to listen to a bunch of loud, obnoxious kids.

After I got One and Three taken care of, Two figured it was her turn and began leaning precariously over the steering wheel kid-containment area of the shopping cart into the grocery area of the shopping cart. Her aim? To open and/or squish and/or smash and/or dump as many boxes and bags as possible ~~like the wraith of the Fourth Circle of Wasters that she is~~. I bet your stock-boy thought it was cute; I'm sure he loved chasing after us giving us stuff that was being tossed out of the cart. The baby's bottle, granola bars, stuff out of my purse..

Eventually, we did make it to the till with all present and accounted for. I was reminded that there is nothing like a crying baby to make a checkout girl haul ass and get those groceries through the till. I could tell she was real happy to see me pull out my coupon wallet, too ~~cause I'm still queen of the Fourth Circle Spendthrifts, bitches~~.

So thanks for showing us a good time, ~~Circles of Hell~~ Save-On Foods. Let's do it again soon!

Sincerely,
Stone

In Remembrance..

2009-11-11T08:46:00.000-07:00

A Poppy

To remember and honour the men and women who fought and died to protect the people and freedoms of our great country.

To pay respects to the soldiers who fought and came home, forever changed.

To support the members of our armed forces currently serving in peacekeeping missions and in conflicts across the world.

Thank you.

Thank you guys so much..

2009-11-09T06:45:00.001-07:00

for kicking my ass.

After reading your words of encouragement and feeling the love, I decided I needed to get back on the wagon. I also decided that I needed two things to accomplish it: Rewards and Accountability. So I have set up a reward system that gets me awesome stuff whenever I drop 5 lbs. I have also set up another blog, for accountability. If you feel like poking your head in the door, click here: The Skinny Bitch Inside Me (Tasted Great With Ketchup!). I just set it up. Like, Five Minutes Ago just set it up. So it still has that 'new blog' smell. And because I am a generous soul, I'm willing to share my title of Grand Poobah Muckety-Muck and the accompanying Posting Permissions on that blog with anyone who is interested.

To answer your unasked question, I have been eating nothing but healthy food and I actually worked out yesterday and today. So yes, I am sore as all hell. Hey, my first reward is a massage, so the pain is completely worth it.

Conversations with a 4 Year Old

2009-11-07T22:02:00.000-07:00

Sitting in Wendy's on Friday at lunchtime, my Hurricane was staring behind me; not saying anything, just staring...

Me: What are you staring at?

Hurricane: Is that wady a zombie? *points behind me*

Me: What? *looks behind, sees little old lady at a table by herself, eating a burger bigger than her head*

H: Is she a zombie?

Me: *desperately trying to hold in the fits of laughter* No honey, she's not a zombie, and quit staring. Don't point, either. It's bad manners.

H: Why is her face painted like a zombie?

Me: *again, trying not to choke on french fries and laughter* Her face isn't painted like a zombie, honey, she's just pale. That's just the color of her skin.

~~~~~~~~~~~

In the truck on the way home from the grocery store, where the Hurricane was a total shit and I was still seriously pissed about his bad behaviour:

H: Are you mad?

Me: Very.

H: Am I going to my room when I get home?

Me: Yup.

H: No I'm not. When we get home, I'm going to hide behind the shed. silence for a minute.. You won't see me right?

Me: When we get home, you'd better run your little butt up to your room. I will not put up with bad behaviour in the grocery store.

H: No, I'm going to run behind the garage. I'll sit down under the window and you won't see me.

This kid? Going places.

Letters of Intent, Nov 6/09

2009-11-06T09:40:00.000-07:00

Letters of Intent, brought to you by Julie @ Foursons. Click on over for some more chicken-scratching and pencil-licking. (pencil-licking *snicker*)

Dear Lungs,

As of yesterday, we are now Officially 3 Months Smoke Free. How do you feel? Like a couple of shiny pennies, no doubt. Or a pair of shiny lungs, even. I am going to continue to try my hardest to not fill you up with cigarette smoke. Also, thanks for not getting infested with some gnarly bacteria, or worse; The Virus, The Name Of Which Will Remain Unsaid So As Not To Jinx Us.

Keep up the good work!
Stone

Dear Cardiovascular System,

In case the Lungs haven't told you, we are 3 months smoke free. Yes, it is Fan-freaking-tastic! Have I told you lately you're doing a great job? Because you so are. And hey, I really appreciate that since we quit smoking, I'm not getting those scary dizzy spells, which always occurred while I was driving, anymore. Was that actually smoking-related? Or just a psychosomatic mechanism to scare the ever-loving shit out of me? Whatever it was, it worked!

Great job!
Stone

Dear Psyche and/or Relevant Parts of My Brain,

Okay, so obviously you know we are past the 3 month mark. Now, it's going to be a bit tricky for the next couple of weeks, because in the past, this is where you tend to drop the ball. Don't try to convince the rest of us that, "we can have just one; after all, we've proven we can quit!" We'll all be smoking again in no time if that's how you're going to play it.

Since I have your attention, I'd like to address something else. It's time to shut off the Negative Eating Patterns. Honestly. I get the whole concept of replacing one addiction with another, but could we please pick something other than food? Something that will keep my hands busy but not cause me to bust out of every pair of pants I own? There is only so much Lycra in these jeans, Brain.

So how do you feel about knitting? Can I get a hell yeah for knitting?

Thanks very much,
Stone

I'll even let you kick my ass.

2009-11-04T13:41:00.000-07:00

As a teenager and young adult, I could never envision a future self who was not filled with an abundance of energy and lust for life. I would always be decisive; life for me would always be black or white. I could not see a future time when I would not have the coordinates for the exact direction my life would go. I had always been able to chart my path and follow it, so why would my adulthood be any different?

Looking back, I have this irresistible urge to give my young self a pat on the head as I laugh in a knowing, condescending way.

I feel as though I have been in a fog for a long time. I can't say exactly when it started, only that it has been building up for a while. At the same time, I feel as though I am coming out of the New Baby stage with my Little Dude, and that is like a weight slowly lifting from my shoulders. Tiny babies are so much work and they take everything. So, on one hand, my physical workload is getting smaller, but it feels as though my mental workload is getting bigger. So many things to keep track of, all the time. Kids, and kid stuff, and money stress and marriage stress, so many balls in the air for one juggler.

The root of the solution begins with me. I know that. Finding the root of the problem is unimportant right now, as I need to get out from underneath everything first. I am missing two things to accomplish this: clarity, and motivation.

All this fog has left me wishy-washy and seemingly unable to make a decision on anything one way or another. I spent a good 15 minutes on the phone with Hot Stuff yesterday humming and hawing about whether I should get winter tires or winter-rated all seasons. He found a great deal on top-of-the-line winter-rated all seasons, and I should have immediately jumped all over it. I didn't. I insisted we go through all the pros and cons, because I couldn't decide. Because I'm some kind of tire expert? Because I can't just take his word on it? I had to yell at myself, Take the damn tires, already, before he divorces your soul-sucking ass! before I agreed to get winter-rated all seasons.

What is killing me most is my lack of motivation. I have really let myself go. Not just packing on pounds, but not doing anything for myself. I haven't worked out in a couple of weeks, and I have not been eating well at all for a couple of months. My diet consists of breakfast, supper, and large amounts of junk food. Literally. Not an exaggeration. I can't actually remember the last time I ate a healthy, decent lunch. I only shower about twice a week, and forget about keeping my nethers tidy or shaving my legs. Again, I am not sleeping well. I am tired all the time. My period is here and gone, here and gone. In the past, I have had the most success by starting with diet and exercise, and most of the other stuff resolves itself. I am really struggling this time to get on track, or even just to tone it down some.

When the Hurricane was born, I lost about 30 pounds of baby weight through breast feeding and just being a new mom, with all that entails. When he turned one, I got on the scale and weighed in at 172 lbs. (Just so you don't have to do the math, I was 219 lbs right before I went into the hospital to have him. He was somewhere between 7 - 8 lbs when he was born. Obviously, I am fucking awesome at eating for 2.) I was dismayed, to say the least, to realize that I still had 25 lbs to lose to be at my healthy weight. I did it, though. The healthy way, with diet and exercise; it only took me 12 weeks, too. Man, did I feel awesome. Anyways, this is relevant because: Little Dude turns one in a week; my weight, as of this morning, is 170.5 lbs. I had seriously hoped to not be in this position again.

I need an ass-kicking to kick-start me back into exercise. I really, really miss the sweat and pain, as sick as that sounds. I always feel so much better about myself when I know that I am strong and my clothes feel good. Heathy body, healthy mind, yo. I just can't seem to make myself. My get-up-and-go done got-up-and-left.

Since I can't decide which method I should use to get myself fired up (rewards? threats? psychology? reverse-psychology?), I would love to hear your ways of getting inspired, and/or any fire-in-the-belly speeches you can lay on me. Feel free to virtually and verbally kick my ass in the spirit of encouragement.

This soapbox has my name on it

2009-11-01T23:40:00.000-07:00

The Olympic Flame landed in Victoria, BC, Canada this past Friday morning, amid much controversy. The Flame had many supporters turn out to see it's arrival; the protesters showed up later.

Protesters?

Yes. Protesters.

People who have a problem with our provincial governments spending $6 billion dollars on the Olympic Games; I think I might just agree with them. It's not just the taxpayers of British Columbia who are footing this bill; according to this article in the Vancouver Sun, many of the provinces chipped in financially so Vancouver could hold these Olympics.

Just think about this amount of money for a minute. Six billion dollars. $6,000,000,000. Do you know what that could buy?

One MRI machine costs $1 million.

Supportive housing costs about $22,000 - $28,000 per person per year.

The BC Government gave $43 million to victims of crime and domestic violence support in the last budget.

NASA spends $450 million per mission to launch a space shuttle.

In 2008, some mad scientists flipped the switch of a $6 billion dollar machine designed to find the origin of mass by recreating the Big Bang.

A degree costs $50,000 - $75,000 for four years at a Canadian university.

I just grabbed a random sampling of Stuff That Looks Expensive for the sake of comparison. Really, I doubt many of us want our governments to blow $6 bill on Recreating the Big Bang (it would be really awesome to find out what makes stuff stuff, except that the machine has been on the fritz for the last year, and I feel rather let down by that).

I, however, would like our governments to be more responsible and instead of wasting our money on the pomp and circumstance* that surrounds the Olympics, would like to see that money put to much better use.

*Please note that I did not say the Olympics are a waste of money. I said all of the "stuff" that goes with the Olympics. For example: building and/or completely gutting and renovating the hundreds of buildings and pavilions that will be required for holding the games (what's wrong with the arenas that are already there?), housing the athletes; the conference centers; the planning and celebration costs as well as the advertising and displays set up in other countries across the world, etc. On the surface, it looks good; it will provide jobs and stimulate the economy in the short term, but what happens when the Olympics are all done?

I do think the Olympics are a good morale booster for our country, and God knows, we could all use a little morale boost. I just can't get past the idea that as much as the Olympics are "good" for Canada, it would be really, really "great" for Canada to spend the money on building more schools and hospitals, or getting abused and/or drug addicted kids off the streets.

One more thing: while the City of Vancouver, Government of BC, and the Vancouver Olympic Committee are all talking about how they want the world to see Vancouver as the fresh, livable, wonderful Utopia it really is, the police have recently been given the power to force homeless people into shelters. Sure, Vancouver is fresh, livable, and wonderful, as long as you stay far far away from the Downtown Eastside; the most drug-infested, poorest neighborhood in Canada.

Why not just design a giant broom to sweep all the ucky homeless and addicted right out of the city? Hey, I bet it wouldn't cost $6 billion dollars.

Just sayin'.

Letters of Intent, Oct 30/09

2009-10-29T22:52:00.000-06:00

Letters of Intent is brought to you by Julie @ Foursons. I can think of nothing witty to say. You can have either witty or sensible. I am incapable of both at the same time right now. Happy Reading!

Dear Old Man Winter,

I'm not sure what kind of monkey business you are trying to pull here. The first snow we got today was supposed to be here two weeks ago, and it was only supposed to be a light dusting. Not the big, puffy snowflakes that arrived today; you know, the ones that are not going away like they are supposed to? They are turning the highways into Snow Fields of Death (not 'death' literally; nobody died today that I am aware of).

You know I don't have winter tires, right? Were you not aware that my all-seasons are on their last legs as it is? I don't want to drive them in any amount of snow, let alone this dumping you sent, because I have a slight aversion to flipping my vehicle upside down and landing in the ditch and killing us all in a fiery wreck. Yeah, I'm a real party pooper. ("pooper" *snicker*)

Fair warning: The other folks who drive on our secondary highway will be seriously cursing you for this weather when they are forced to drive 50km/hr (what is that, like 35 mph?) behind me because I have zero traction on my bald tires at any kind of reasonable highway speed. Hairless cats greased in Crisco trying to climb a waterslide have more traction than my tires. Just sayin'.

The worst part of this ridiculous snow is having to bundle three kids up for the 15 ft trek from the front door to my vehicle in these blizzard-like conditions. This is not just a silly quirk of mine, it is a limb-saving requirement. Neither myself nor my kids have any grace or balance to speak of, so it is a given that every single time we go out, someone will bite it on the walkway - which I haven't had a chance to shovel yet. It's just better for everyone if we are layered in padding from head to foot.

And that's another thing, OMW, are you punking me? I mean, when I finally do get around to shoveling, why is it that you always make it snow again right when I'm just finishing up? I bet you think you're a real comedian, don't you?

So, Old Man, enough with this bull. Get rid of the snow before Saturday night, because I really don't want to watch my children fall down repeatedly as they trick or treat ~~and get me some candy~~. After a few falls, the kids will be sick and tired of being cold and wet and covered in snow and they'll start whining to go home ~~and then how will I get my candy~~. All this snow will really ruin the excitement of Halloween for the wee ones and that's just not fair ~~neither is me going home without scoring the big candy~~.

Sincerely,

"Crisco Kitty" Fox

~~Don't fuck with my candy, old timer, it's not wise for your health.~~

Conversations with a 4 Year Old

2009-10-28T20:21:00.003-06:00

Hurricane: Mommy, do you have a new stomach?

Me: What? No, I still have the same tummy.

Hurricane: If you ex-dercise, you will have a new stomach?

Me: Not exactly. Exercise and not eating too much junk food will make your tummy not have any fat on it, so it kind of looks as good as new.

Hurricane: No. That's not what the wady on TV said. The wady on TV said that if you do her ex-dercise, you will have a new stomach.

Where do I even go from here? Do I argue with the wady on TV, who was actually Jillian Michaels, shamelessly hawking her new colon cleanse or some shit?

Me: How about you do her exercises and tell me if you get a new stomach.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Hurricane, getting out of the shower:

H: Mommy, I washed all my parts.

Me: Good job, buddy! (this is kind of a big deal because usually he just stands in the shower and fools around)

H: I washed my boobs, and my tummy, and my arms, and my back legs, and my front legs, and these parts (points to top of feet) and my peeeenis and my bu-um.

Me: Awesome, Clean Boy!

H: Mom, is my watch waterproof?

Me: No.

H: Oh. Well, it will still work right?

Me (in my mind): Oh SURE it'll still work, heck I musta paid $10 for that cheap-ass Cars watch that is probably made of BPA and painted with lead paint.

Me (out loud): We'll see tomorrow.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I'm George Hamilton, and I know toasted!

Important Life Lesson #1: Put cream on kid's face before you paint it up like Spider Man's mask.

Important Life Lesson #2: Don't believe the hype. Red make up is never totally washable!

4 Dozen and 1 Reasons You Should Be My Friend

2009-10-28T00:33:00.000-06:00

Got a little motto
Always sees me through -
When you're good to Mama
Mama's good to you..

(Mmmm.. sugar cookies, just waiting to be frosted..)

There's a lot of favors
I'm prepared to do -
You do one for Mama
She'll do one for you..

(Decadent Chocolate bundt cake with orange Buttercream icing; frosted sugar cookies for stem. Don't ask about leaves. Too tired to do leaves; it's 1230am.)

I'm still working on my presentation abilities, but I tasted all of this stuff. Oh. My. God. So good, I need to hire someone to help me enjoy it

Now accepting applications:

Must love food, especially chocolate. Must supply own stretchy elastic-waistband sweat pants. Napkins and tasting spoons will be provided. Good opportunity for the right individual to be promoted to Beater Licker or Bowl Scraper.

Baking with Stone

2009-10-26T09:32:00.000-06:00

I truly love to bake. I also love to eat what I bake, so.. there's that. It's why I can't seem to get my weight to stay under 160 lbs (145 is my healthy weight). Lately, my ego has taken a bit of a hammering, what with the "mishaps" in the kitchen.

I was making Chocolate M&M Cookies with the Hurricane and the Princess the other day (you know, just re-reading that made me realize why things go so very, very wrong). Here's how they should be made:

Preheat oven to 375 degrees.

1/2c butter or marg
3/4c packed brown sugar
1/2c white sugar
1 egg
1 tsp vanilla
1 c flour
1/2c cocoa powder
1 tsp baking soda
1 tsp salt
1/2c M&M's
1/2c chocolate chips

Cream butter and sugars together. Add egg and vanilla, mix well. Add flour, cocoa, baking soda, and salt, mix well. Add M&M's and chocolate chips, mix well. Spoon onto ungreased cookie sheet, bake for 10 - 12mins.

(This recipe is actually the one on the back of the Chip-its bag, except you bump each of the sugars by 1/4c and add 1/2c cocoa. I don't use a whole cup of M&Ms because that's just a little too sweet for me, so I go half and half with chocolate chips.)

Where Things Went Awry:

I added the extra 1/4c of brown and white sugars, but somewhere in the process of coralling my two wonderful children into staying on task, I forgot to add the cocoa to balance it out. I think I lost track of what I was doing when my FLOUR CANISTER HIT THE FLOOR. AGAIN. AND BROKE. (RIP my friend.. we made some good cookies together..) That is what happens when mama doesn't pay attention to her two small children who are standing on the same chair and one asks the other, "Can you pass me Teddy Bear, Princess? He's behind the flour fing."

I realized that I had forgotten the cocoa when the first batch was already in the oven.. right about the time the whole kitchen started stinking like cookies-on-fire. This was also right around the time I remembered that my oven runs hot and I really don't need to crank the heat right to 375; usually 360 does just fine. I tried to correct the next batch by turning down the oven and adding a handful of flour (why didn't I just add cocoa at this point? I don't know. I think my underwear were on too tight that day) before I scooped out the next sheet.

The second sheet seemed okay, but I still hadn't added enough flour. So they weren't the greatest cookies ever, but they were certainly better than the smoking, gooey piles of sugar the first sheet turned out to be. The kids ate the second batch with no problem. Actually, the Princess loved hers so much that she took it to the bathroom with her when she went pee. Something I never thought I'd say: "Honey, you can't wash cookies with soap." At least I am 100% sure the brown smears on the sink are chocolate this time.

After another half-handful of flour, the third sheet turned out reasonably well, albeit a bit brown; likely due to the fact that I was busy scrubbing "Cajuned" (we don't use the word burnt around here) cookies off of cookie sheet #1 when the timer dinged.

Really, a whole lot of work for 12 measly cookies.

Important Life Lesson: Wrecking two batches of M&M cookies for one good batch while wasting about an hour of time actually is worth the effort.

Attics aren't the only things that need venting

2009-10-24T23:53:00.000-06:00

Frankly, I'm feeling pissy. The thing that is between me and Hot Stuff is not yet resolved. I'm not going to go into specifics, suffice to say that it is pretty big and has resulted in me sleeping on the couch. For the last 5 days. I just wish that stubborn man would talk about this. Sometime in the last few days that I have been on the couch, the Princess has figured out how to open doors (and she's just turned two! baby genius!) and has been waking up in the middle of the night and coming into the living room. If I don't let her sleep with me on the couch, she freaks out and cries to wake the dead. If I try to put her back to bed, she carries on even louder; then just comes right back into the living room.

Last night was pretty brutal. I have no idea what time Princess came out of her room, only that it was the dead of night and instead of sleeping with me, she was getting into stuff. Trying to convince her to lay down on the couch with me was minimally successful at best. Nevertheless, I kept trying. All. Freaking. Night. I felt yucky this morning, with a sore throat and a headache. Hot Stuff got up at 8am and threw kibble out for the children while I went back to sleep on the couch. He woke me up at 830 to say he was going out to grab a coffee; he was gone for an hour and a half. He said he was out doing an errand, but really? An hour and a half? That shit makes me really mad. If you know you're going to be out for a while, why not just say that? Why lead me to believe that you'll be gone 10 minutes? The second he got home, I dragged my ass to bed this time to try and get a nap without the children yelling in my ear or climbing all over me. I slept from around 10am till 1pm.

I felt a bit better when I woke up, but I still have a bit of a sore throat and a headache. I don't have any other flu-like symptoms (knock wood), but even a sinus cold or strep throat would really suck.

I am not looking forward to another night on the couch. I just can't go back to bed until things get worked out. During the day, Hot Stuff and I are friendly with each other, and it's genuine. After the kids go to bed, I keep hoping we can talk, but no dice. Every time I bring it up, I am told that there is nothing to discuss. I hate the feeling of being dismissed. Just because he doesn't want to hear it doesn't mean I don't want and need to say it.

I guess I'll keep doing what I'm doing until I think of something better to be doing.

Letters of Intent, Oct 22/09

2009-10-22T22:08:00.004-06:00

Letters of Intent, by Julie @ Foursons. Who chewed all the pencils? Not me. Ok me.

Dear Life,

At this very moment, I am feeling quite overwhelmed by you. I need you to stop throwing so much at me because as much as I like to "keep busy" this is getting ridiculous.

The baking. You know how much I love to bake. Seriously, though? Two items each for the library Bake Sale and the pre-school Halloween party, and something for the daycare Halloween party? I do not have unlimited amounts of time to stand in the kitchen.

The sewing. (Yeah, I am domesticated like that.) I'll take part of the heat for this one, because I did open my big yap and offer to make a sling for my friend Kim, seeing as how she just had a baby girl. I only offered because my other friend Amber also just had a baby girl and since I can't afford to buy expensive baby gifts.. well.. fleece was on sale, and you get two slings from one piece of fabric. Okay, so that one is on me. But did the zipper in my only winter coat really have to crap out? I had to buy (and will have to sew) not one, but two zippers in order to fix my inner liner/outer shell-style of coat. Why, oh why, does the Hurricane's taekwondo** uniform require hemming of sleeves and leg cuffs? Why couldn't it just magically fit?

The cleaning. I can't stand all the crap that accumulates on the floor; the idea of my Little Dude crawling around in dog hair and slobbery cheerios and other icky detritus is just too much. Daily, I battle the mud and sand that is carried in by the boots of small children. Small daughter, specifically, who does not remove her boots at the door, instead wearing them all the way into the living room where she can jump on the couch. In her boots. So I feel compelled to vacuum every day, because I am disgusted by the state of the floors and carpets in this hovel. I am not even going to get started on the hell-hole that is called the living room, the wreck that is known as the Potty Training In Process bathroom, or the disaster that resembles the kitchen.

The money. We're struggling these days. I hate that we are forced to scrimp and pinch every penny in order for our kids to have some fun stuff. Taekwondo cost $155 today, for: uniform, sparring helmet, training manual, belt, and monthly payment of $40. I wrote another check for $36 for school pictures for the Hurricane. It was the 2nd cheapest option. I paid $20 for pictures at Sears for the Princess and the Little Dude. $20 isn't much, except when you don't really have it to blow on pictures. (I thought I could pay when I picked up the pictures, not at time of ordering. I really wish the woman had explained that to me when she said, "We can have your pictures for you today, but it's an extra $4 charge," and I specifically said, "I have no money today, so I won't be getting them today." Unfortunately, I was running late to pick up the Hurricane and it was just faster to pay the $20 instead of wasting ten minutes I didn't have while she changed my order.) Some days, I really hate being poor.

Myself. I am feeling very left behind, as all my girlfriends have jobs. What a silly thing to whine about, isn't it? We can't afford to pay daycare for me to go back to work. I should feel lucky and grateful to be able to be home with my kids. Well, I don't. I feel pouty. I wish I could work a couple of days a week. Allllll my friends get to wooooorrrrkk!!! I'm feeling kind of melancholy. I feel like I have lost my groove with life, and at the same time, I'm stuck in a rut. I am trying to get so much done in so little time, and it's killing me to do it. I also must give myself some Me time; usually it is reading blogs and writing. All of this adds up to staying up later and not getting enough sleep. Also, I think my hormones are out of whack. I have been keeping a period calendar for the last few months, and my cycle is all over the damn place. I just finished two weeks ago, and again I'm spotting. I have to get to the doctor and have my hormones checked. (Yet another thing to add to the list.)

The marriage. (I am kind of breaking a rule here. It is not a rule that has been discussed between Hot Stuff and myself, but I think on his end, it has been implied that I do not talk about our marriage, unless it's good happy stuff.) You know how they (the All-Knowing They from the Fake Institute) say that marriage is for better/for worse? It's not all for better. We're going through a for worse part right now. It's tough, and crappy, and we're hardly talking. I can't get him to talk to me about the things we need to talk about. He says he "doesn't want to get all upset right now," but seems indifferent to the fact that I have been "all upset" for the last three days.

So, as you can see, Life, there are many irons in the fire right now. I surely could use a bit of a breather. The tank is just about empty. (See? I have almost run out of cliches to express how run ~~down~~ over I feel.) What I could really use is a day off. A day where I don't feel the pressure to get as much done as possible before more shit comes rolling downhill towards me. That? Would be lovely. Please consider it.

Thanks a mill,

Stone

**I smelled Mr. T and he smells great! Still no picture as of yet.

Too much free time

2009-10-22T00:06:00.003-06:00

This is hi-larious. Little Dude is going to be a star, for sure.

Try JibJab Sendables® eCards today!

Late Slip

2009-10-21T16:31:00.002-06:00

Please excuse Stone from posting today as she was at the clinic in town all day with her daughter, who discovered that Ass Over Teakettle is not the best way to travel down the stairs at daycare.

Stone will be handing in her post tomorrow instead.

Thank you.

Happy Birthday to my Princess

2009-10-19T09:07:00.005-06:00

Little Princess,

Today you are 2 years old and I can't believe the time has gone that fast. I still remember you being so tiny and quiet, with your dainty little self. Now, of course, you are big and loud, and so very, very funny. You, more than any other little kid I have ever met, make me laugh. The way you get your point across with your limited vocabulary and your limitless facial expressions is nothing short of marvelous. I love your smile. I love your soft baby skin. I love the feel of you curling into my lap for a snuggle; the smell of your hair, the sound of your sweet pixie voice, all of you. I am awed by all of you. Your brothers and your daddy are madly in love with you, too, and boy don't you know it! I see how you work those sweet baby blues on daddy; too bad for you I have those same blue eyes and therefore, am immune to yours.

At this exciting age of 2, you have definitely found your voice. Physically, you are at the top end of tall and somewhere in the middle range for weight. Certainly, you are big enough to push Little Dude over when you walk by. (Every time.) Your receptive understanding is astonishing! Is there anything you don't understand?! Your expressive vocabulary is a bit smaller than other kids your age, but getting bigger every day. Some of your more well-used words: MINE! (top volume), NO! (also top volume), puppy, kitty, daddy, mama, pee-pee, poopy, Dora. You are also getting really good at saying both of your brothers' names. My favorite of your nonsense words is balub-balub-balub. Just tonight, you learned how to say Hallowe'en. How do we go from puppy to Hallowe'en? I'm not really sure. That's just how you roll.

You are turning into quite a little athlete. Only 6 months ago you could not make it across the living room without tripping on three or four imaginary things, and once or twice your feet. Now, you can run quite fast for a little kid, dribble a soccer ball while running, jump on two feet, dance (I love your dance, I have named it "The Lurch" because you like to lean from foot to foot while keeping your legs straight), overhand and underhand throw, kick and punch like the Hurricane at Taekwondo, and many other assorted sport-like things.

You are extremely attached to your little white and pink stuffed cat, named Mr. Meow-gi The Karate Kitty, by your daddy and me. Hey, what can I say? Children of the 80's. Don't worry, this is only the beginning of many embarrassing and lame things we will do to you.

You have been potty training for the last few weeks, and while we still have accidents every few days, I am so proud of the progress you've made. Yesterday was not so much a good day, what with the take off your pull-up at nap time and finger paint your body with poo and grind it into the carpet all over your bedroom incident, but I don't think you'll be doing that again. You seemed kind of distraught by being covered in poop. Just in case you forget you ever did that, I will be sure to remind you when you are 16 and you make the mistake of bringing home a boy.

You are my little helper girl, too. You like to help me unload the dishwasher, fold laundry, clear the table, dust the furniture. You love to act like mommy and clean up around the house. Other things you love: singing to your dolls, pushing Mr. Meow-gi in the swingset, reading books, telling Little Dude stories, jumping on the couch, eating, playing with your big brother, running around nakee bum, splashing in the bathtub, eating baby wipes, and playing in the sandbox, just to name a few.

You are so loved, my little girl. These past two years have been incredible, watching you grow and change and stretch your wings. In a little corner of my heart, you will always be two years old, no matter how big you get.

Love you,
Mama

The Stomach Flu: Not Just for Yakking on Yourself Anymore

2009-10-16T23:54:00.000-06:00

This week saw me laid out on the couch ~~even more than usual~~ for a couple of days, too exhausted to even ~~abuse~~ amuse myself while wandering the internet. I had the stomach flu *sad face*. And a wicked fever *super sad face!!*. Even the throes of delirium are not enough to rid me of my inner horny-18-year-old-manboy-trying-to-get-laid mentality (that's just a metaphor, it's not like I have an actual "horny 18 year old manboy" ~~chained up in the basement~~ ~~locked in the barn~~ nevermind.)

So anyways.

Where was I? Oh yes. Throes of delirium: didn't stop my dirty mind from thinking of how I could use the flu to hit on people. Feel free to get your humpty-hump on with my awesome ~~not~~-guaranteed-to-work unproven pick-up lines:

1. I'm probably not contagious anymore.*

2. I think I'm in love with you, and that's not the pyrexia talking.

3. Yeah, I do oral and rectal! Temperatures, that is.

4. These chills? I'm like a giant vibrator. *wink*

5. Is this a fever dream? Because you're too amazing to be real.

6. Oh yeah, I'm hot enough to vulcanize your giggle stick, baby.

7. Trust me, babe, I really know how to sweat up the sheets.

8. My sex is on fire, and so is the rest of me. How about we play Fireman and you cool me off with your hose?

9. Wanna help me break my fever?

10. I'm feeling a little warm; would you take my temperature with your meat thermometer?

*This is my absolute favorite pick up line of all time; it can be used in any situation on anybody.

Boy I sure used a lot of strike-out in this post. ~~Yeah, I noticed that too.~~

A Letter to My Brother's Wife, Part 2

2009-10-15T23:30:00.000-06:00

Thanks to Julie @ Foursons for Letters Of Intent. Click on over and wouldja stop straightening all the paperclips, already?

For Part 1, click here.

Letter, con't:

During the three days we stayed on the coast, you made it painfully clear that you would rather be anywhere but there. Forget that my dad had just lost his wife of 36 years. Forget that the herd of little kids running around and yelling were just about the only reason he got out of bed for those three days. Forget that this was supposed to be about our family. You made sure that you and Bobcat and your kids were at my dad's house as little as humanly possible. And when you were there? You were sullen and standoffish.

I gave you exactly what you asked for when we got back to Alberta; I did not call you. You threw another tantrum. Were you mad that I didn't come begging for your forgiveness? Two weeks after we got back from spreading the ashes of my mother, I discovered you were running me down to the whole family. Two weeks. God, I hope it's a long time before you lose one of your parents.

What did you hope to accomplish by completely trashing me to the rest of the family? Did you actually think that going to my sister and asking her to rate my parenting ability would escape my notice? And you had the nerve to be pissed off when she wouldn’t call me a bad mother? Did you think I would not find out that you discussed, at length, with your mother (who is also the mother of my husband) what you both thought of me as a parent? Are you unaware that your step-mother and I are close, and that she told me you called her with this ridiculous litany of complaints about me? Boy you sure were busy burning up the phone lines. Funny. You never called me. If you were so unsure of my parenting skills, why did you leave your two children with me for almost a week, only two months beforehand? Most importantly, who the hell are you to judge my parenting? Are you some kind of parenting expert? Do you have some kind of degree in child psychology? Do you have any credentials at all? I mean, I know you diagnosed the Hurricane as autistic when he was 2 years old based on a magazine article you read. Obviously, since my son is not autistic, I will require something more credible than just your ability to read if you want me to take you seriously.

I could have let all of this go, except the part where you tried to intimidate my sister into agreeing with you. That's when I got pissed off.

When Bobcat called me two weeks after we got back from the coast, I had heard from everyone all the nasty little things you were trying to pull. So I verbally handed him his ass, you bet I did. Of course, you just can’t keep your nose out of anything, so you just had to jump on the phone and tell me what a terrible mother and lousy human being I am. Again, your temper got the better of you. Some of the stuff you said was just fucking bizarre. Hot Stuff is going to leave me? Really? Because it’s been over a year now and he’s still coming here every night expecting to be fed and then falling asleep on the couch by 8pm. I don’t like my kids, I avoid them whenever I can, I never take them anywhere, I never talk to them? Wow, that sounds tricky. How can I possibly avoid them if we are always home together? Why is my truck full of kid paraphernalia if I never take them anywhere? I'm a bad, bad, bad mother doing a bad, bad, bad job? Really? My kids are happy, healthy kids. With a mother who loves them. The craziest; the absolute craziest-crazy-to-the-point-of-actually-scary thing you said was this: “I have never seen a boy as sad as Hurricane is when I leave your house. He’s sad because he wants to come home with me. He knows that he will be intimidated and threatened by you. He wants to live with me because he knows I will take care of him and he loves me more.” That’s frightening. That's insane. Hearing someone say that about your kid is the kind of thing that brings a mother's heart into her damn throat and every muscle and nerve in her body slams on the fucking brakes. For a long time after that, I would remind Hot Stuff before he brought the kids over to your house for a visit, that he was NOT to leave you alone with my kids, at all, for any reason, in any circumstance, no exceptions.

What were you hoping the outcome of all these nasty stunts would all be? That I would come begging to you to please be my friend, and please teach me how to be the exactly perfect person and mother you are? That I would knuckle under and tell you I was sorry for whatever you wanted me to be sorry for, just so we could have peace in the family?

Have you met me before?

I don’t want to be your fucking friend and I won’t apologize for things I’m not sorry for. I won’t play into your drama and I don’t give a shit about peace in the family. I once asked your brother why you act like this and he said, “She’s always been this way.” You have always been able to throw a big enough tantrum to get people to cave. I have heard stories from your brother, your mother, your step-mother, and you, about your legendary ability to hold everyone hostage with your emotional outbursts. Well, sister, it doesn’t work on me.

I feel kind of sorry for you. You have this horrible temper that you refuse to learn to control which causes you to say terrible things that, in turn, makes life difficult for you. Add to that your inability to admit you were wrong, and you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place.

I have maintained a level of better-person-ness throughout this whole mess and not resorted to name calling. Since this is my space, I am going to tell you exactly what I think of you. I have never known anyone as selfish, self-absorbed, and judgmental as you are. You throw your Christianity around with smug righteousness, as though going to church and saying the word God a lot all of sudden makes you a better human being than anyone else. In all the judgments you have passed on other people, have you ever stopped to ask yourself what their circumstances might be? You have so much empathy and compassion and forgiveness and understanding for yourself, that there is absolutely none left for you to give to anyone else. The biggest concern you appear to have is maintaining your image. As long as you successfully present this picture of a calm, serene, perfect mother and all-around Jesus-loving person, life is good. Maybe it fools other people, but not me. I have seen the wicked end of your temper; you are not perfect. Nobody is. Nobody.

So, now it's a year later. I hear it's still uncomfortable for you and your mom to be around me. There's so much tension, apparently. I didn't know there was tension. Why would you be tense? You have successfully separated my brother from every single member of his family. He has called my dad maybe what, twice in the last year? He has no relationship with my sister anymore; you have succeeded in breaking him and I apart. You have gotten what you wanted, and now you're still not happy?

Also, I am certainly not going to pretend it never happened. Stop for a moment and imagine me laughing. Pretend it never happened, that's really funny. You made this big giant mistake by trying to break me down. It didn't work; it totally blew up in your face. Any resulting discomfort or awkwardness is completely your fault, and I don't even feel bad about doing nothing to alleviate it. In a way, this whole ordeal was almost worth it; I don't have to nod and smile or censor my words anymore to keep you from having a freak-out. This Thanksgiving, when we are thrown together for the sake of visiting family, we will both know there is a giant, fuzzy, pink elephant in the room. Do not think, for one moment, that I am going to deny that giant, fuzzy, pink elephant if your particular brand of crazy joins the party. Just. Sayin'.

Sincerely,
See Ya, Wouldn't Wanna Be Ya

A Post That is Not About Puppies, Beavers, or Drunks.

2009-10-13T23:28:00.001-06:00

WARNING: This post mentions bodily functions. For once, it is not my bodily functions. Don't say I never do anything for you.

I have come to the conclusion that my kids are like eccentric homeless people. The way they mistreat our things and mess up the house, it's like they literally wandered in off the street one day and decided to declare Squatter's Rights.

We're potty training the Princess these days, and she is doing really well (it's true what they say about girls). We're not having too many accidents anymore, but for a couple of days there I was finding puddles of pee all over the floor. You know what I realized? That's what bums do. They pee wherever they want, and they don't clean it up. (Puppies also leave pee everywhere, but we're not talking about puppies today.)

Every single time I leave my Hurricane alone in the living room for even five minutes, I walk back in to see all of the couch pillows and cushions in a pile on the floor, and my kid laying on or underneath. God forbid he finds a big enough cardboard box to play in! He'll stay in for hours, coming out only to steal food. Who piles a bunch of shit in a bad spot and calls it a house? Shifty-looking ne'er-do-wells, that's who. (And beavers, but we're not talking about beavers today.)

My Little Dude had a bottle right before bedtime the other night and when I sat him up to burp, he simultaneously burped and hiccuped at the same time. Which caused him to throw up all over the couch, my face, my neck, my shirt, and some even soaked through my shirt and dripped down to the waistband of my jeans and underwear. Because the velocity of the projectile matter was so fast, some of it bounced back on to him. He cried his big fat raindrop tears while I tried to wipe him up a bit. Can you possibly think of anything more hobo-like? Barf so hard you nail everyone and everything in a 4 foot radius and then complain about the mess. (Drunks also do this, but we're not talking about drunks today.)

Nobody seems to have a job, and there's not a lick of money between the three of them, except what the oldest can nick from my truck's console. They all like to travel, especially if the trip is less than 30 minutes. The two biggest kids take turns dumpster diving at the kitchen garbage, and the little one is content to eat whatever he finds on the floor. I can't read the newspaper without the three of them hanging off of me to either read the paper/shred the paper/shred and eat the paper. Why should I be surprised? Vagrants love newspapers.

And the way they eat. They are all eating us out of house and home. All three of them just shovel the food in, because you never know when one of the other tramps might try to take it away. Also, rubbies need to keep their strength up, just in case all the La-Z Boys at the oil-drum fire are taken and they are forced to stand.

They all need to get jobs, in order to offset the cost of keeping them around. I am just about ready to drop them off downtown, each with a coffee cup and a little sign that says, "I'm a Baby and I'm Hungry," or, "Will Look Cute For Food." I'm willing to spend a little more for quality squeegees and name-brand dish soap, but I draw the line at dreadlocks and pricey crocheted marijuana pouches.

Let's See Your OCD

2009-10-10T21:52:00.016-06:00

When I was still in nursing school, one of the subjects I loved and was fascinated by was Mental Health. On the very first page of my Mental Health module was a small introductory paragraph. The introduction itself is not memorable; what I remember, and always will remember, is the opening sentence:

Each one of us has small, varying degrees of different mental illnesses.

Oh sure! Now you tell me. Here I thought I was just a superstitious old fool. Now I can call it by it's proper name: Superstitious/magical thinking, a tiny corner of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. (A corner where we throw chicken bones to decide who gets first dibs on the bathroom faucet.)

The "crazy" thing is, the more superstitions you invent, the more things you start noticing. The more things you start noticing, the more things you start noticing going wrong, if you haven't completed your ritual. Also, you will notice more things going right, if you have done your ritual.

My superstitions began at the tender dewdrop age of ten. My best friend at the time, Christina, got me started. (Let's blame her; what the heck, she's not here.) The first superstition I ever had was the one she gave me: never, ever step on the first or last step of a staircase, whether you were going up or down. If you did, it meant you were going to grow up and marry Joe McK. and nobody wanted to marry him because he picked his nose and stuck pushpins through his sneakers. With the sharp ends pointed out.

Christina lived in a house that had stairs leading from the kitchen to the front door. When I would go down the stairs, I would touch the ceiling of the foyer where it ended to allow for the staircase. But only once per visit, because if I touched it a second time, my good luck would disappear and be replaced with bad luck. Bad luck like Christina's ghetto blaster would fall out of the window where it was perched. Or we would not be allowed to have a bonfire and a sleepover. If I touched that spot on the ceiling a third time, my good luck would return.

Now, I can look back and see that the ghetto blaster probably fell because we had New Kids on the Block cranked and ~~it committed suicide~~ we were jumping around and someone probably knocked it. Perhaps we were not allowed to have a sleepover and a bonfire because we were constantly at each others' houses and our parents wanted a break from our togetherness.

I no longer feel the need to avoid the first and last steps of a staircase, because I am already married and thus, the chances of marrying Joe McK. are slim. (Sometimes, just sometimes, I wonder if nose picking and thumb-tacked shoes might just be marginally better than nose picking, denial-farting*, and improper use of the flat sheet in bed.**) (I don't think Hot Stuff is open to the concept of a Brother-Husband, either. He's kind of stick in the mud like that.)

I do, however, still feel the urge to touch the top of doorways once, and only once, when I pass through. If I'm not by myself, I can usually resist the urge and tell myself that thinking of touching the top of the door-frame is an acceptable alternative. If I really need a shot of good luck, I will pretend that I'm stretching, or rubbing at a nick or scuff at the top of the door-frame. If by some chance I touch the top of the door-frame a second time, I must immediately touch it again a third time. It has to be either once, or three times. Never just twice.

Another of my superstitions is about salt. If you spill salt, you must throw some of the spilled salt over your shoulder. If you don't take this precaution, Bad Things Will Happen To You.

Here's the thing: when you eat breakfast at a restaurant and you knock over the salt twice (once right after the other), you must throw salt over your shoulder twice. One shoulder-throw is not sufficient; it must be once per spill. If you fail to do this, Bad Things Will Happen To You.

Bad Things like: You Will Make A Giant Mess Out Of Your Daughter's Birthday Cake And Spend Over An Hour Fixing And Cleaning Because You Caused Three Separate Small Oven Fires, In Addition To Giving Your Ego A Painful Blow Because You Like To Think Of Yourself As A Pretty Talented Amateur Baker.

Important Life Lesson: It's not OCD, people, this superstitious shit is REAL. Make sure you follow your rituals or Bad Stuff Will Also Happen To You.

So, let's see your OCD.

*Denial-farting: two people are in a room. The first person, oh.. let's call him "Warm Stuff," farts. The second person, we'll call her "Stoney" says, "Gross. Farty McFarterson from Fartertown Falls." Warm Stuff denies ownership of the fart, and continues to deny ownership of the fart, even though they are the only two people in the room and it is clearly Warm Stuff who cut the cheese.

**This is when one person, again, we'll call him "Warm Stuff" refuses to sleep under the flat sheet (the one that is NOT fitted, for all of you bachelors out there), so "Stoney" has no flat-sheet movement and is constantly trying to yank more flat sheet loose from the hulking, snoring beast known as Warm Stuff.

A Letter to My Brother's Wife, Part 1

2009-10-08T01:14:00.025-06:00

Letters of Intent, brought to you by Julie @ Foursons. Go on over for a visit (after you're done here, of course); bring your favorite coffee mug and your lucky Troll dolls and set in for lots of good reads.

This is a whopper of a doozy; Part 2 coming next week.

Dear Haley,

I don't even know where to begin. I'm going to lay it all out. I'm not going to spare you embarrassment, even though I am embarrassed for you; I will not spare you shame, even though I am ashamed for you.

From almost the very beginning, you got into this power struggle with my mother, with my brother in the middle. She tried very hard to like you. She actually did like you for the first bit, until she saw what you could be like. The moment you called her a 'fucking psychotic bitch' eight years ago changed everything. I know my mother was no innocent; she was the master at using words to slice and dice. It still does not excuse what you said. Nothing could excuse that. My mother forgave you, because she was graceful like that. Make no mistake; she never forgot what you said. Neither did I. Ever. I know my sister and my father have not managed to forgive you even to this day.

Still, after a long while, I did forgive. It was easier since you, fortunately for your own well-being, were not living anywhere near me at the time.

When you were pregnant with your first child, I watched as your temper spun out of control and you physically attacked my brother. In the kitchen of that dungeon-like old apartment you two had, Hot Stuff and I could only stare, our jaws sitting on the floor. You were slapping and hitting Bobcat on the back so hard that his only choice was to curl up in a ball on the floor. You are 6' tall. You are strong. You hurt my brother. I wish I could go back in time and make it stop; I was just so stunned.

Again, I forgave. Later, I told myself it was because you were pregnant and you couldn't control your hormones. I also told myself that if I ever saw you lay a hand on my brother again, I was going to kick your fucking ass.

I have been watching you force my brother to choose between you and the rest of his family for years. Eight years ago, it was my mom. Even though you called her a psycho, you used my brother's feelings against him ("You need to support me. I'm your girlfriend, don't you love me?"). Why did he have to pick a side? Why did you purposely force my brother to choose between you and his own mother? Sure enough, my brother stopped calling my mom so frequently. Stopped sending her the odd letter. Stopped taking the time to fill her in on his life. It broke her heart. More and more he talked to me about how he 'never got enough love growing up', and how our parents 'need to be making more of an effort to have a relationship with him.' I saw his lips move, but it was your voice I heard.

Over the next few years, the phone calls and letters to my dad and the extended family got fewer and farther between, until there were none. I had to almost constantly badger my brother to call my dad. You didn't have to try to keep our sister from him; she dislikes you so much that she stayed away by her own choice. You could never be rid of me, though, could you? As much as I’m sure it irritated you, you couldn’t control that relationship. I'm married to your brother, who might possibly be the one person you can’t browbeat; did you just figure it would be easier to make friends with me?

For ten years, I listened to everything you said. I heard you cut down everyone else on your side of the family; gossip, gossip, gossip. I just nodded and smiled. Undoubtedly, you did the same to me when talking to other people. Some of the shit you have said is just plain vanilla crazy. I can recall you telling me that you hoped your son, who was a baby at the time, would be gay when he grew up because then you could be the only woman in his life. Wow. Therapists everywhere would salivate on that one. Do you remember in your backyard, when we were discussing how your Ethiopian adoption was progressing, you said you thought a baby from Africa would probably be really grateful for being adopted? I froze. Areyoufuckingcrazy?! is what I was thinking. Nod, and smile. Do you remember telling me that you would not approve of Bobcat and I going for lunch one day, or Bobcat spending any free time with either me or our sister? What? Did I just hear this crazy bitch say her husband isn't allowed to spend time with his sisters? Nod. Smile. Gently suggest that I would have no problem if my husband wanted to take his sister out for a meal.

I need to get to the heart of the matter. The trip to the coast last September for my mother's ash-spreading. Your daughter getting her fingers pinched in a door was no reason to get hysterical and go running Mach Chicken out to the truck demanding that we go to the hospital. For fuck's sake, every kid gets smashed-in-door fingers. And you know what? It was heartless of me to say that even if her fingers were broken, it's wasn't a big deal. In the moment, yes. In the bigger scheme of things? No. Pinched fingers are not like bleeding from the ears and on fire; pinched fingers are not gaping open abdominal wounds or diabetic ulcers or car accidents. The treatment for sprained, broken, and other mangly finger issues is basically the same: ice, splint, tape, and Advil. So sure, we could have gone to the ER and wasted everyone's time. Or, maybe, you could have listened to me, a nurse (Hello? Hi, yes I actually AM a nurse. I have a license and everything.) in the beginning, and iced her fingers while I went and grabbed a splint and some tape instead of turning this into a giant drama. I probably should have apologized on the spot for being cold about it, but can I please remind you that I was 8 months pregnant and stuck in the back of a Dodge Durango crammed with three adults and four kids; 10 hours into a 22 hour drive? Oh yeah, and my mom just died. Maybe a bit less of your everybody look at me, I want some attention too! bullshit would have gone over better. When you said, "When we get home, you and I are done," I agreed. You made a huge, inappropriate production that was all about you and not about the kid with the pinched fingers, and when I didn't cave into your emotional drama, you threw our perfectly fine shallow relationship under the bus. Sorry, I don't play that game.

Socially awkward

2009-10-08T01:05:00.000-06:00

When I was younger, in my late teen years (so, like.. 5 years ago? ahah-ahah) I got my first computer and my first internet connection. I was hooked. Not in the I'm Stone and I'm an Internet-aholic sense, more like wow, there really is more to the world than this small town.

Does anyone else remember the first Internet Relay Chat programs, where you could log onto a server and go in a chat room and talk to other people? I was fascinated with the idea of talking to strangers from anywhere and everywhere. And yes, I even met a couple of boys online. (My parents, oddly enough, were not over the moon about that.) My real life friends thought that made me some sort of weirdo. "This guy that you don't even know, who lives a thousand miles away, gave you his phone number? And you called it? Really?" The unspoken part was that there was something wrong with me that I could not meet a person in real life to be in teen-love with. I must be a real special kind of loser to have no other option but to hide my hideousness behind the computer and trick people into liking my personality. What no one ever seemed to notice is that I never did have anyone in real life to be in teen-love with. I did not have a single date all through high school. My prom date was my friend Lindsay. I don't know why I never got asked out; I'm pretty sure my hideousness was fairly low on the scale of All Things Grotesque - I never shattered any mirrors. Also, I was voted Class Clown. That definitely counted against my How Ghastly Are You? rating.

Meeting people on the internet is so common now. Talking to friends, whether or not you have actually met them in real life, is incredibly easy. Blogging is one of those things that has taken all of the hard work out of meeting fun and interesting people. You read a few posts and you don't like them? You click away. You like them? Well, heck, leave a comment! Tell them you think they are awesome. There are several tools to aid a person in being witty and smooth, such as: Delete, Backspace, and Cut from the drop-down menu. I love commenting and getting comments, and I try to visit a new blog at least once or twice a week. That is how I "meet" people on the internet.

Socially successful in real life? Not so much. I am shy, almost to the point of painful; exactly the way I was as a teenager. It is hard for me to strike up a conversation with someone I don't know. I am always so worried about saying the wrong thing or wondering if there is something on my face that it's hard to keep track of what the other person is talking about. And, of course, while I am busy worrying about what the other person is thinking, I actually do lose track of what he or she is saying. The next boxcar on this freight train of awkwardness is usually me saying something totally out of context or toes-definitely-over-the-line rude.

Despite this crippling disease, I am still trying to put myself out there. Truthfully, I have two best friends who live in the same area as me (albeit a 15 - 20 minute drive away), and a third bestie who lives 4 hours away. Add in my sister who lives about 5 hours away, and that is the extent of my real life social network. I want to meet a few more people who live in my small town, because sitting at home every night kind of sucks. It would be nice to have a girl friend to visit with or even just go for a walk.

I bet you're thinking that I should stop worrying so much about accidentally saying something obnoxious or inappropriate; the chance of that actually happening is slim. Ahh, if only that were the case..

Last week, I was walking up towards the pre-school door and met one of the other moms on her way into the school. In an attempt to start a conversation, I said, "Wow, jeez, sure glad I'm not the only one who comes flying out the door at five to nine." Ok, I know what it sounds like. It sounds like I'm saying, "You look like shit. Do you own a mirror?" What I meant was, "You're late, too? Yes, I have discovered that toting around three children makes me chronically late as well."

(What is it about pre-school drop off that makes me socially retarded?) Yet another mom said to me, "You look really familiar.. have we met before?" Really, I get this a lot. I have one of "those" faces. I am vaguely familiar to everyone I meet, so when this mom asked if we had met before, I should have said, "No, I don't think so, but my name is Stone." Instead, I froze and said, "Yes, you look really familiar, too," which led into a whole pointless conversation about where we could possibly have known each other from, when I knew all along that we have never known each other from anywhere. The conversation petered out with us both making the Yes, well, anyways noises and busying ourselves with our kids.

Another day, another pre-school drop off. I am walking by one of the other moms as she is getting into her truck. I had met this gal previously, and we had even had a pretty solid hour-long conversation once at the library. I said to her, "Are you Captain Crankypants today? Because you look pissy." My God, I am cringing as I write this. It's a wonder the Pre-School Society hasn't officially shunned me.

You see what I mean? Crippling. Oh, but rest assured, my friends, I will not give up. I will keep trying until I win these moms over and they stop seeing my socially inept Beast side and start seeing my witty, winsome inner Beauty side.

50 (or 12) Ways To Leave Your Lover... Wondering WTF?

2009-10-05T12:50:00.012-06:00

(I can never get divorced, because nobody will put up with my shit the way Hot Stuff does.)

1. Honey, I'm leaving you... $10 on the counter can you pick up some milk while you're out?

2. I don't love you anymore... I don't love you any less, either.

3. There's no spark left... in the furnace pilot light can you do something about that?

4. I love you, but I'm just not *in love* with you... r disgusting stinky feet.

5. I just need to find myself... a new winter coat.

6. I think we need a break... dance-off in our living room.

7. I love you like my brother... loves your sister*

8. We can still be friends... even when we're old together and your penis doesn't work anymore.

9. I'm just not that into you... Tube.

10. Listen, we really need to talk... about how awesome you are.

11. Right now, I have so much going on and I just don't have room in my life for anyone... but you.

12. I need space... for my new Bow Flex.

*Hot Stuff's sister is married to my brother. It's hardly creepy and/or Maury Povich-like.

Are you seriously serious?

2009-10-04T22:30:00.000-06:00

Are you seriously

cashing in all 15 of your lotto and scratch tickets at 5:30 on Friday afternoon? Do you see the 9 people in line behind you in this tiny grocery store that has only one till? You couldn't do this at the gas station which at least has two tills?

going to drive in the passing lane on the highway at exactly the same speed as the person in front of me the entire distance from the city to my house, thus preventing me from getting in front of you and breaking into the 90km/hr range?

not going to be able to fix my truck until Wednesday? I have obligations, not the least of which is that three small children are dependent on me. Sure hope that pesky loose connection doesn't cause my truck to stall on the highway. That would suck.

serious, you want me to hang out with 20 preschoolers for 2 and a half hours?

trying to make me insane, bathroom scale? Why can't you lie? Why do you keep going up and not down? I don't want your excuses, bathroom scale. I want results. (I'll settle for lies.)

going to charge $1,999, IronMan Fitness Equipment, for this new-fangled Vibration Trainer:

which is exactly the same as this, currently on eBay for $19.99? Weren't we all just laughing at the hilarity and silly notion of this?

A Letter to My Brother

2009-10-02T00:00:00.006-06:00

Letters of Intent, by Julie @ Foursons. Click over and read some other fantastically written letters (clean up the pencil shavings and eraser bits while you're at it).

An upcoming Thanksgiving dinner (and several levels of awkward) at my brother's house has me thinking of him. Attendance to aforementioned dinner is mandatory; my brother's wife and Hot Stuff are also brother and sister (think of it like this: a brother and a sister married a brother and a sister), and their mother will be there.

Dear Bobcat,

For the first 20 or so years of our life, we were best friends. I remember summer nights of playing in the baseball field until way after dark, or game after game of backgammon. We always had each other, and it was kind of like we were twins born 2 years apart. Even when we were living together in that crappy apartment (one of many) with the mice and the Chinese landlady who ate Pink Elephant Popcorn and didn't speak English, life was still fun. We made it fun, and we kept each other laughing. I will never forget the time you found that TV next to a dumpster and carried it while you roller-bladed home. Fuck, that TV was heavy. I don't know how you made it all the way home.

I wish you were still that guy. You've changed, or allowed yourself to be changed, drastically over the last 10 years. You're not fun anymore. You're a stuck up, uptight, bible thumping, morally superior stick in the mud. You are way too serious. I wish you had a set of balls and stood up to your wife instead of letting her browbeat you and take your emotions hostage. Do you know how frustrating it is to watch someone you love be turned into a Stepford Husband? Because that's what you've become.

I am not angry at anything you have done or said to me. I am not hurt about your judgment and perceived superiority towards me. I'm not really... anything, I guess. I really wish I could have my brother back; specifically, the guy who would do or say anything for a laugh. The guy who was mellow and laid back, and thought it was cool to hang out with his sister. Now you're okay with your wife dictating with whom you are allowed to spend time. Which doesn't include me. Or your other sister. Or anyone else from our side of the family.

I am ashamed of how you have treated our family over the last ten years. Many times, you and I have had the discussion where I try to convince you to let us be who we are; love us even with our flaws, and you try to convince me our parents were the worst parents ever. Yes, our parents could have made better lifestyle choices. This doesn't mean they didn't love us the best way they knew how. We had a pretty good childhood, whether or not you believe it. We wanted for material things, for sure, but we were given lots of love. I hope that your children are much more forgiving of your faults than you are of Mom and Dad. I am deeply hurt by the way you treated Mom before she died. I could never say these words out loud to you: our mother died thinking that you did not love her. Your (lack of) actions spoke louder than your halfhearted sentiments. After she died, Dad needed a son; again, it seemed like you couldn't be bothered to step up and give him support. Like it really wasn't very important to you. Like it was someone else's mother who had just passed away; someone you were an acquaintance of, but didn't know that well.

I am sad when I see what is missing: there is a big hole in our family where you used to be. It is unlikely that the hole will ever be filled. There is just too much that has happened, and you have just changed too radically. It really sucks that the relationship between you and me has tanked, but I cannot allow myself to be treated the way you treated me and pretend it never happened. For the sake of all the children, I will keep you in my life at arms length. If there ever comes a time where you get tired of always being so perfect, or living under your wife's thumb, I will still be here. Waiting for an apology and amends.

Love, your sister.

I have another letter for my brother's wife; I wondered for about .6 sec if I should publish them. I'm going to, because this is my blog, my journal, and I want to. Everybody has family troubles - sometimes it's nice to know your family isn't the only eff'd-up one on the block.

Misery loves company, so get in here, bitches.

2009-09-29T07:17:00.010-06:00

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?

A Totally Unoriginal Post

2009-09-28T06:30:00.000-06:00

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?

Bedbugs, Bath, & Beyond

2009-09-26T15:50:00.004-06:00

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?

Letters of Intent, Friday Sep 24/09

2009-09-25T11:05:00.001-06:00

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.

Insincerely,

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.

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

2009-09-24T21:05:00.000-06:00

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?

How the Princess Got Borned.

2009-09-23T21:28:00.005-06:00

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.

First time's free, then you gotta pay.

2009-09-22T20:04:00.004-06:00

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

2009-09-22T14:40:00.000-06:00

"Mom, what are those?"

"Bison."

"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?"

"No."

"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?"

Thrift Store Junkie

2009-09-21T19:45:00.000-06:00

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.

Some things and some stuff

2009-09-20T23:04:00.006-06:00

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:

OH HEEEELLLLLL NO.

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.

This is just a test

2009-09-19T20:32:00.000-06:00

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

Letters of Intent: Friday Sep 18, 2009

2009-09-18T10:35:00.002-06:00

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.

Sincerely,

Stone Fox

Today

2009-09-17T22:32:00.011-06:00

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?

OH AND I CAN'T BELIEVE I FORGOT THE MOST IMPORTANT THING:

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.

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

2009-09-16T20:19:00.009-06:00

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.

10 Quirky Things About My Husband

2009-09-14T21:05:00.000-06:00

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?

Stone Fox

2009-09-13T14:05:00.003-06:00

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.

The Flop Sweat

2009-09-10T19:44:00.002-06:00

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.

The Hurricane

2009-09-08T19:25:00.002-06:00

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.

Presidential Speech

2009-09-07T19:34:00.002-06:00

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?

Life In The Fast Lane

Sigh.

Not Another Angsty New Year's Eve Post

One-legged man in ass kicking contest.

A Short Post

Friend and money are like... two things that are very poorly matched.

Just hanging out.

Roller Wonderland

Winning Friends, Influencing People.

Memory

Happiness

Courage

Well, sure, it's funny NOW.

Grateful (but not Dead) (almost, though.)

Kids

Marriage, Part IV

Marriage, Part III

Marriage, Part II

Marriage, Part I

I'm pretty sure I just about DIED today.

Joining the 21st century

It's nights like these.

Princess-isms and Brownies Plus!!

OUTED!!

*chirrup*

I Blame The Kids..

How ARE you?! I have missed you SO MUCH!

Happy Valentine's Day

Conversations with a 4 year old

Letters of Intent, Jan 22/10

In with the In Crowd

I am no longer a shiftless, jobless, energy sucking drag on society. For this week anyway.

Changes

Letters of Intent, Jan 8/10

Childhood friends

Yo.

Conversations with a 4 year old

Smiling When Your Friends Are Watching

The meaning of Christmas

Letters of Intent, Dec 18/09

Letters of Intent, Dec 11/09

10 Reasons I don't babysit for a living

Technically, I only "misplaced" the baby & Why sleepovers are awesome*

Letters of Intent, Dec 4/09

Dear Dr. Google: I have this weird rash..

Milestones

I found even more stuff wrong with me.

Resentment

Let them eat cake. Dinosaur cake and Rainbow cake.

Everyone Is Somebody

Letters of Intent, Nov 20/09

I'm Feeling Old Today

Me, circa 1990

Letters of Intent, Nov 13/09

In Remembrance..

Thank you guys so much..

Conversations with a 4 Year Old

Letters of Intent, Nov 6/09

I'll even let you kick my ass.

This soapbox has my name on it

Letters of Intent, Oct 30/09

Conversations with a 4 Year Old

4 Dozen and 1 Reasons You Should Be My Friend

Baking with Stone

Attics aren't the only things that need venting

Letters of Intent, Oct 22/09

Too much free time

Late Slip

Happy Birthday to my Princess

The Stomach Flu: Not Just for Yakking on Yourself Anymore

A Letter to My Brother's Wife, Part 2

A Post That is Not About Puppies, Beavers, or Drunks.

Let's See Your OCD

A Letter to My Brother's Wife, Part 1

Socially awkward

50 (or 12) Ways To Leave Your Lover... Wondering WTF?

Are you seriously serious?

A Letter to My Brother

Misery loves company, so get in here, bitches.

A Totally Unoriginal Post

chirrup