So I'm sitting here wondering what I should blog about. Can't think of a single funny thing right now. (Of course, because I actually have time to write stuff down right now.) I moseyed over to MckMama's blog and randomly selected blogs from her Mr. Linky to read. I found one right here and thought to myself, "Self, I should post a small blurb and link to this blog just in case anyone out there in Internet-land can help." So, if you are a web designer who has some spare time to donate and/or a karmic debt to fill, please click on over and read this post.
My mother-in-law and my step-father-in-law are visiting. Can you believe I enjoy the company of my in-laws? How weird is that? They are staying in the luxurious accomodations of our travel trailer. With no water hook up. We are nothing if not high-class around here.
Today, my in-laws packed up my two older kids and took off for the day. I had a whole unscheduled day of just me and Little Dude. What did I do with my day, you ask? Did I have a ridiculously long bath? Or spend a few (hours) minutes waxing and/or plucking facial hair? Or maybe did I remove the old, chipped polish off my toenails and put pretty, new polish on? Nope. I.. (cue suspenseful music) cleaned my fridge. (Cue fanfare). Ugh. Gross. If there ever was a show called, "Disgusting, Filthy Fridges of the Middle-Middle Class" I would be featured. The world would tsk-tsk my obvious lack of cleaning ability. Why is it that salad dressing never gets thrown out, even after it expires? Is salad dressing that good at disguising itself; the colorful bottles somehow blend right in to the white background of the fridge door? For two years? For shame! I console myself with the idea that because the expiry date was 10 May 08 (or whatever month it was), I must have thought that the year was 2010. Yes, that must be it. I cannot possibly be that lazy or that blind. Thank goodness the baby started fussing when I was almost done; thus saving me from opening the freezer and watching frozen veggies hurling themselves to the floor like lemmings, in order to escape being eaten by the ever-expanding frost.
I have decided that the Pixies What Control Time are f*cking with me. Somehow, everyday, they speed up time between 3:00 and 4:30pm in order to truly mess up my schedule. Where does that hour and a half go? 3:00 rolls around and I'm in good shape, got most of my stuff done, house is clean (relatively... compared to the fridge, it's clean), lots of time before kids need to be picked up, or I need to make supper, or we have to go to soccer. Then, WHAM! it's 4:30, dinner isn't even started, kids are tearing up my nice clean house so that when Daddy gets home at 5, the house is a write-off and we're eating lame supper again because I ran out of time to make a good supper. Stupid Pixies.
Monday, June 1, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Creepy Crawlies
Ever have a conversation with someone about lice and your head starts to itch? Lice. Lice. Licelicelice. I bet your head is itchy now, isn't it?
I have a ridiculous and rampant phobia of spiders, bugs, fliers, and creepers of allsorts. To make a short story long: it all goes back to when I was a youngster of about 8 years old. My brother and I were playing tag and I ran into a spider web of newly hatched baby spiders. The last thing I remember was running through the web and feeling them crawl on my face and arms. I don't remember running in the house screaming hysterically or my mom throwing me in the tub. (Ugh. Barf. Hope my kids never do this because I am not carrying a spider-covered child through the house to the bathtub. I will turn the hose on them first.)
Slowly I am trying to get over this fear by not immediately throwing on a pair of my husband's biggest work boots and stomping the bug to sh*t while singing at the top of my lungs. Tends to frighten small children.
So tonight, I am getting ready to bathe my dirty rugrats and there is a spider in the tub. No sweat. I grab a my cleaning bucket, scoop out the spider, and fling it (just the spider, not the bucket and the spider) out the patio door. Well I am just feeling pretty darn good about myself. I didn't hardly want to throw up at all! Back to the bathroom: there is a monster bee flying around the bathroom. It might be the biggest bee in the world. When I saw it, I thought to myself, "Self, that looks like an African Killer Bee. Not that I've ever seen one, but that is exactly how I imagine they would look." Ok, it's cool, I'm cool. I can do this! Head over to the window, take out the screen, and crank it open all the way. The stupid bee won't fly out!! It keeps climbing up and down the curtain. Then it flies behind the dryer. Oh F*ck. Seriously. I need to get these kids bathed. So, I slap a smile on my face and pretend there is not a bee lurking behind the dryer waiting for me to fall asleep tonight so it can sting me to death. (Not melodramatic or crazy at all!!)
I have never bathed three small children so fast in my life. Ever. I am not even sure how clean they got. I am fairly certain that at least 70% of 2 out of 3 children got clean. Close enough is good enough.
The bee, as of thisminute, has not been seen again. DUM DUM DUM...
I, however, cannot stop scratching and slapping at imaginary bugs on myself. I am probably not crazy. Although if I am, I would like to be referred to as "mentally hilarious" and not "mentally insane."
I have a ridiculous and rampant phobia of spiders, bugs, fliers, and creepers of allsorts. To make a short story long: it all goes back to when I was a youngster of about 8 years old. My brother and I were playing tag and I ran into a spider web of newly hatched baby spiders. The last thing I remember was running through the web and feeling them crawl on my face and arms. I don't remember running in the house screaming hysterically or my mom throwing me in the tub. (Ugh. Barf. Hope my kids never do this because I am not carrying a spider-covered child through the house to the bathtub. I will turn the hose on them first.)
Slowly I am trying to get over this fear by not immediately throwing on a pair of my husband's biggest work boots and stomping the bug to sh*t while singing at the top of my lungs. Tends to frighten small children.
So tonight, I am getting ready to bathe my dirty rugrats and there is a spider in the tub. No sweat. I grab a my cleaning bucket, scoop out the spider, and fling it (just the spider, not the bucket and the spider) out the patio door. Well I am just feeling pretty darn good about myself. I didn't hardly want to throw up at all! Back to the bathroom: there is a monster bee flying around the bathroom. It might be the biggest bee in the world. When I saw it, I thought to myself, "Self, that looks like an African Killer Bee. Not that I've ever seen one, but that is exactly how I imagine they would look." Ok, it's cool, I'm cool. I can do this! Head over to the window, take out the screen, and crank it open all the way. The stupid bee won't fly out!! It keeps climbing up and down the curtain. Then it flies behind the dryer. Oh F*ck. Seriously. I need to get these kids bathed. So, I slap a smile on my face and pretend there is not a bee lurking behind the dryer waiting for me to fall asleep tonight so it can sting me to death. (Not melodramatic or crazy at all!!)
I have never bathed three small children so fast in my life. Ever. I am not even sure how clean they got. I am fairly certain that at least 70% of 2 out of 3 children got clean. Close enough is good enough.
The bee, as of thisminute, has not been seen again. DUM DUM DUM...
I, however, cannot stop scratching and slapping at imaginary bugs on myself. I am probably not crazy. Although if I am, I would like to be referred to as "mentally hilarious" and not "mentally insane."
Rough Night
I remember when I was young and stupid. Around the ages of 18 - 21..ish. A "rough night" involved lots of booze and several bars. Followed by either walking home through the worst neighborhood in Canada (because I had spent my bus fare on.. yes, one last pint), or crashing at a friend's house. There is nothing like waking up hung-over, stinking like booze, feeling like a small furry animal crawled in your mouth and died, on the smelly, crunchy couch of a friend who either stayed up later or woke up before you and has been taking pictures of your drunkass self.
Looking back now.. I did a lot of stupid things. What kind of moron would risk walking through Vancouver's Downtown Eastside in the wee hours of the morning? Me. Don't I know how DANGEROUS!!! that is, especially for a woman?? Yes. I cringe to think of my own daughter ever being that f*cking idiotic.
But I digress.
I had a "rough night" last night. Ten years later, my "rough nights" involve a sick baby who coughs himself awake when he is laying down. He woke up gassy and chesty a few hours after going to bed, and I couldn't get him to settle until after midnight. Wouldn't you know it, as I am shutting off my light, he starts coughing again. I ended up sleeping sitting up on a chaise with him on my chest because that is the only way he could sleep. He woke up every couple of hours coughing, poor little dude. He sounds like hell this morning, too.
Ten years ago, I would wake up dragging ass and laugh about the antics of the night before.
Today, I wake up dragging ass and dread sitting in the doctor's office or walk-in clinic so my little man can see a doctor.
Oh my, how things have changed!!
Looking back now.. I did a lot of stupid things. What kind of moron would risk walking through Vancouver's Downtown Eastside in the wee hours of the morning? Me. Don't I know how DANGEROUS!!! that is, especially for a woman?? Yes. I cringe to think of my own daughter ever being that f*cking idiotic.
But I digress.
I had a "rough night" last night. Ten years later, my "rough nights" involve a sick baby who coughs himself awake when he is laying down. He woke up gassy and chesty a few hours after going to bed, and I couldn't get him to settle until after midnight. Wouldn't you know it, as I am shutting off my light, he starts coughing again. I ended up sleeping sitting up on a chaise with him on my chest because that is the only way he could sleep. He woke up every couple of hours coughing, poor little dude. He sounds like hell this morning, too.
Ten years ago, I would wake up dragging ass and laugh about the antics of the night before.
Today, I wake up dragging ass and dread sitting in the doctor's office or walk-in clinic so my little man can see a doctor.
Oh my, how things have changed!!
Monday, May 25, 2009
My Precious Angels (Sort of like Hell's Angels only they don't have their colors/patches yet)
Here are some pictures of my little people:
Little Dude, age 6 months: the look he is sporting is, "Mom, I am so over this picture taking business. Are we done yet? Like, yawn."
The Princess, age 18 months (Wearing the Hurricane's boots.. and a blanket for a cape. She is a superhero and her power is the ability to make your ears bleed)
The Hurricane, age 4 years - not sure what kind of a smile that is. Perhaps it is the "My lower jaw is so much more massive than the rest of my face that I am forced to smile like a dork."
Precious, aren't they?!!
Little Dude, age 6 months: the look he is sporting is, "Mom, I am so over this picture taking business. Are we done yet? Like, yawn."
The Princess, age 18 months (Wearing the Hurricane's boots.. and a blanket for a cape. She is a superhero and her power is the ability to make your ears bleed)
The Hurricane, age 4 years - not sure what kind of a smile that is. Perhaps it is the "My lower jaw is so much more massive than the rest of my face that I am forced to smile like a dork."
Precious, aren't they?!!
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Seriously Dragging Ass.
A five year old. A four year old. A two-almost-three year old. A year-and-a-half year old. A 6-month old. What the hell was I thinking? My sister in law dropped her 2 kids off here today for a playdate with my 3. I love my niece and nephew. I never get to see them, and I miss those kids. I was pumped to have them over here to play for a whole day. What the hell was I thinking? Oh. My. Lanta. I am so tired from chasing 4 kids around and trying to look after the baby I am not sure if I am really writing this post or just dreaming that I am writing this post. The kids were all very well behaved, except for the odd punching/shoving/name-calling/sand thrown in the eyes (a la World Wrestling Federation) incident.
We had a lovely little picnic in the yard followed by much playing followed by Paranoid Mom/Auntie dragging all the kids in the house after lunch because of the high UV index. At which time we made crafts. I use the term "made crafts" loosely because while the 5 year old nephew actually has an attention span bigger than that of a goldfish and can sit and color the template for a toilet paper roll dinosaur, the 4 year old Hurricane and the 2 year old niece don't. The Hurricane is more interested in scribbling on his template reallyreallysuperfast in order to be done so he can continue tearing the house apart and jumping on my couches. The 2 year old was happy to cover her whole template page in glue. Nothing on top of the glue; no foamy shapes or fuzzy balls or macaroni.. just glue. Yes, it is as fun to cut out the shapes on gluey paper as it sounds. She is not one to be limited to the four sides of a page, either.. nooooo.. glue is also fun to paint on your arms. And your clothes. And my kitchen table. Fun times, people. Can't wait until her mommy sees that. Yet one more thing to tsk tsk my bad parenting with.
Fortunately (for me and all the anklebiters), The Greatest Sister In All The Whole Wide World (aka my sister), was here for part of the day to help out. It was pretty fun, to see all four of the bigger kids playing together. Got some really great pictures, too. Pictures that will maybe one day be downloaded off the camera; one day when I am not contemplating forgoing dental care or contact lens removal in favor of falling into a coma on the couch.
We had a lovely little picnic in the yard followed by much playing followed by Paranoid Mom/Auntie dragging all the kids in the house after lunch because of the high UV index. At which time we made crafts. I use the term "made crafts" loosely because while the 5 year old nephew actually has an attention span bigger than that of a goldfish and can sit and color the template for a toilet paper roll dinosaur, the 4 year old Hurricane and the 2 year old niece don't. The Hurricane is more interested in scribbling on his template reallyreallysuperfast in order to be done so he can continue tearing the house apart and jumping on my couches. The 2 year old was happy to cover her whole template page in glue. Nothing on top of the glue; no foamy shapes or fuzzy balls or macaroni.. just glue. Yes, it is as fun to cut out the shapes on gluey paper as it sounds. She is not one to be limited to the four sides of a page, either.. nooooo.. glue is also fun to paint on your arms. And your clothes. And my kitchen table. Fun times, people. Can't wait until her mommy sees that. Yet one more thing to tsk tsk my bad parenting with.
Fortunately (for me and all the anklebiters), The Greatest Sister In All The Whole Wide World (aka my sister), was here for part of the day to help out. It was pretty fun, to see all four of the bigger kids playing together. Got some really great pictures, too. Pictures that will maybe one day be downloaded off the camera; one day when I am not contemplating forgoing dental care or contact lens removal in favor of falling into a coma on the couch.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Disapproval, Judgement.. and the Art of Not Caring
Many moons ago (well, ok, like last year), my sister-in-law and I had it out on the phone. I won't make a short story long by getting into the whole schmozzle, but it ended badly. The last thing she said to me before she slammed down the phone was, "You're a bad, bad, bad mother doing a bad, bad, bad job!" My response: laughter and the certainty that I was being Punk'd. Her main issue with me was the way I raise my kids. She got supremely pissed when I said to her, "I. Don't. Care. What. You. Think. Your. Opinion. Doesn't. Mean. Shit. To. Me." And yes, I said it slowly and carefully to ensure she did not miss a word.
Every day people judge us and find we do not measure up to their unspoken ridiculous standard of what we should be. Or they disapprove of the way we do things, or the decisions we make. To which I say, "Who really gives a shit what other people think?" It really annoys people when you tell them you don't care about their opinion of you, which is kind of fun, actually. Of course, I do care that my husband thinks I'm a good wife, that my friends think I'm a good friend, that my kids (when they are older) think I did a good job raising them, that my patients (when I actually get to go back to work) think I am doing a good job. I'm talking more about the other people in our lives who are more.. peripheral, for lack of a better word.
There is a valid basis to not caring what other people think of you; other people are not working at your job, or married to your husband, or raising your hellions, or worried about a family member who might have a serious health problem, or struggling in the million other ways that each of us struggle. If they haven't walked in your shoes, why do they get a say in how you should run your life? Who died and made them the Disapproval Police?
My best friend D (names changed to protect the guilty) has a fantastic way of living her life and raising her kids: if it is not going to hurt my family morally, spiritually, emotionally, physically, or mentally.. laissez les bontemps roulez!! (Let the good times roll!! If you don't speak Le French.) She let her daughters dye their hair funky colors like pink and purple and blue before they were even ten years old!! Horrors!! She let her 12 year old get her nose pierced!! For shame!! But no, not really for shame. I admire D a lot; she has the courage to let her children be themselves, in spite of what people will think and say.
And yes, I do let my children run around outside without a coat on (or sometimes footwear) this early in spring.
Yes, I did give my son a faux-hawk today and wondered if 4 years old is too young for funky hair dye.
Yes, I make sarcastic remarks to my kids that they have no idea what I'm talking about but I think are funny.
Yes, Hot Stuff and I think making jokes about each other (Hot Stuff: "Fatass." Me: "Why hasn't someone shot and mounted you yet, Bald Eagle?") and divorce (Hot Stuff: "I'm leaving you." Me: "Just make sure the cheques clear each month") is hilarious.
Yes I laugh inappropriately and am blunt and tactless and sometimes standoffish.
So go ahead and judge. It won't bother me one bit. I'll still keep kicking along, and I'm pretty happy with who I am and the way I live. Who really gives a shit what other people think, anyway?
Every day people judge us and find we do not measure up to their unspoken ridiculous standard of what we should be. Or they disapprove of the way we do things, or the decisions we make. To which I say, "Who really gives a shit what other people think?" It really annoys people when you tell them you don't care about their opinion of you, which is kind of fun, actually. Of course, I do care that my husband thinks I'm a good wife, that my friends think I'm a good friend, that my kids (when they are older) think I did a good job raising them, that my patients (when I actually get to go back to work) think I am doing a good job. I'm talking more about the other people in our lives who are more.. peripheral, for lack of a better word.
There is a valid basis to not caring what other people think of you; other people are not working at your job, or married to your husband, or raising your hellions, or worried about a family member who might have a serious health problem, or struggling in the million other ways that each of us struggle. If they haven't walked in your shoes, why do they get a say in how you should run your life? Who died and made them the Disapproval Police?
My best friend D (names changed to protect the guilty) has a fantastic way of living her life and raising her kids: if it is not going to hurt my family morally, spiritually, emotionally, physically, or mentally.. laissez les bontemps roulez!! (Let the good times roll!! If you don't speak Le French.) She let her daughters dye their hair funky colors like pink and purple and blue before they were even ten years old!! Horrors!! She let her 12 year old get her nose pierced!! For shame!! But no, not really for shame. I admire D a lot; she has the courage to let her children be themselves, in spite of what people will think and say.
And yes, I do let my children run around outside without a coat on (or sometimes footwear) this early in spring.
Yes, I did give my son a faux-hawk today and wondered if 4 years old is too young for funky hair dye.
Yes, I make sarcastic remarks to my kids that they have no idea what I'm talking about but I think are funny.
Yes, Hot Stuff and I think making jokes about each other (Hot Stuff: "Fatass." Me: "Why hasn't someone shot and mounted you yet, Bald Eagle?") and divorce (Hot Stuff: "I'm leaving you." Me: "Just make sure the cheques clear each month") is hilarious.
Yes I laugh inappropriately and am blunt and tactless and sometimes standoffish.
So go ahead and judge. It won't bother me one bit. I'll still keep kicking along, and I'm pretty happy with who I am and the way I live. Who really gives a shit what other people think, anyway?
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
A Day of Disgusting Things
Disgusting thing #1: You always know the day is off to a great start when the first bottle of the day gets thrown up all over you. No (unfortunately) not my first bottle (of vodka) of the day. The 6 month old baby's first bottle of the day. I love to scrub baby barf out of pillows and couches and such, and also enjoy smelling of barfed up formula.
Disgusting thing #2: Whilst changing two baby bums on the couch (Oooh.. bad mommy!! You're supposed to change babies on the floor so they don't roll off the couch.. again), I happened to notice a "strange" smell. "Eau du crotch of homeless crazy lady" comes close to describing it. Of course, I have a mini internal freak-out, thinking that my poor Princess has some terrible, raging, flesh-eating vag infection, but no, because when I picked her up to smell her (yes, I really did that), the smell wasn't coming from her. It was coming from the couch. And also from the dog, our 7 year old female bullmastiff. It was so strong when I bent down to smell the dog (yes, I really did that), all of my nose hairs fell out. Why do I feel the need to get that close to her ass end? Turns out that when female dogs get old, their secretions change. Change from "no smell" to "disgusting rotten gnarly smell" apparently. I guess she slept on the couch last night and decided to give herself a crotch bath before settling in. UGH!! Maybe next time I'll give her a bath. With a fire hose and some Febreze. I did mention how much I love scrubbing couches, right? I *heart* Mr. Clean Disinfecting Wipes.
Disgusting thing #3: Today is clean the bathrooms day around here, one of my favorite jobs (heavy sarcasm). I noticed that the sink was draining verrryy slowly. Sure enough, my darling, precious angels have been spending quality time shoving diaper wipes down the sink drain. What about the plug for the sink, you say? Doesn't the plug stop things from going down the drain, you say? BROKEN. Yanked clean out of the drain and left on the floor. By my darling, precious angels.
Disgusting thing #3A: I am now certain that there are a few drunk hobos (with really bad aim) out there who are missing their asses, as it appears a few of them have exploded on my toilet. UGH!!
Who says the life of a stay at home mama ain't glamorous?
Disgusting thing #2: Whilst changing two baby bums on the couch (Oooh.. bad mommy!! You're supposed to change babies on the floor so they don't roll off the couch.. again), I happened to notice a "strange" smell. "Eau du crotch of homeless crazy lady" comes close to describing it. Of course, I have a mini internal freak-out, thinking that my poor Princess has some terrible, raging, flesh-eating vag infection, but no, because when I picked her up to smell her (yes, I really did that), the smell wasn't coming from her. It was coming from the couch. And also from the dog, our 7 year old female bullmastiff. It was so strong when I bent down to smell the dog (yes, I really did that), all of my nose hairs fell out. Why do I feel the need to get that close to her ass end? Turns out that when female dogs get old, their secretions change. Change from "no smell" to "disgusting rotten gnarly smell" apparently. I guess she slept on the couch last night and decided to give herself a crotch bath before settling in. UGH!! Maybe next time I'll give her a bath. With a fire hose and some Febreze. I did mention how much I love scrubbing couches, right? I *heart* Mr. Clean Disinfecting Wipes.
Disgusting thing #3: Today is clean the bathrooms day around here, one of my favorite jobs (heavy sarcasm). I noticed that the sink was draining verrryy slowly. Sure enough, my darling, precious angels have been spending quality time shoving diaper wipes down the sink drain. What about the plug for the sink, you say? Doesn't the plug stop things from going down the drain, you say? BROKEN. Yanked clean out of the drain and left on the floor. By my darling, precious angels.
Disgusting thing #3A: I am now certain that there are a few drunk hobos (with really bad aim) out there who are missing their asses, as it appears a few of them have exploded on my toilet. UGH!!
Who says the life of a stay at home mama ain't glamorous?
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