Redneck Mommy

I've Got a New Zip Code

2007-04-04T11:28:00.001-06:00

What are you still doing here??

I've moved.

Come see my new digs.

theredneckmommy.com

You'll like them, I promise.

ANNOUNCEMENT

2007-04-02T07:43:00.000-06:00

I have an announcement to make.

This will be my last post on blogger.

Not bloggING, but on BLOGGER.

I've moved.

Why? Because the voices in my head told me too.

And my kick ass web designer busted his ass to make it possible.

So hurry up and come on over.

The first person to leave a comment wins a million dollars. (In Monopoly money of course.) Or I'll send you naked pictures.

Not of me, perverts. Some chick's photos I'll have scammed off the net.

theredneckmommy.com

Hurry up!!!

theredneckmommy.com

Pass The Puns, Please

2007-04-01T11:23:00.000-06:00

It took me thirty minutes to get connected to Blogger this morning. Either my antiquated dial-up connection is overloaded, or my brain is still fuzzed by the large amount of tequila consumed Friday night in a rebellious I-am-more-than-a-mom-I-am-woman-hear-me-roar moment.

Oh, I roared. And now I whimper. Still. 36 hours later.

Was it worth it? Hell yes. I was able to see a whole different side of my closest cousin, and she is some wicked fun. Heavy emphasis on wicked.

To celebrate my first EVER tequila shooter (sad, it only took me 31 years to discover that particular pleasure), I proudly offer you this gourmet fromage.

Enjoy it with a dash of salt and be sure to suck on a lemon after. It will help to choke it down...

An enterprising journalist decided to get the scoop of the day by photographing the fearsome phantom that lived in the spooky old mansion house at the edge of town.

When he entered the house, armed with only his camera, the ghost descended upon him, moaning and wailing and clanking chains.

"I mean no harm; I just want your photograph," the journalist said bravely.

Pleased at this chance to make headlines, the ghost posed for a number of shots, and the happy journalist rushed back to his darkroom and began developing the photos.

Unfortunately, they turned out to be so underexposed that nothing could be seen in them.

He was distraught, and went to a local pub to drown his sorrows. Meeting his friends there, they asked what was wrong. Not wanting to tell the whole story, he simply explained with a single sentence: ......

"The spirit was willing, but the flash was weak."

The Awful Truth

2007-03-29T07:53:00.000-06:00

Watching my children navigate the hallways of school has brought me back to my own days of algebra and bra snapping. (Or in my case, lack of bra snapping.) I love watching them suffer through the math tests and science quizzes. Er, I mean, nothing pleases me more as a mother than watching my children adeptly handle all that their teachers require of them. Yes, that's better. He he. There is one major difference between my children and me as a school-aged child. They are decidedly cool, where I was the definition of geek. I was a runt; small and slow to hit puberty, and when I did, I was stuck in the ugly duckling phase while everyone else had already morphed into beautiful swans. I was always out of sync with my peers. I marched to the rhythm of my own invisible drum. Sadly, my drum banged at a different beat than all the others.

My kids, however, rock. And I proudly proclaim this. I have no shame. I beam with pride. Somehow, I managed to give birth to two of the cool kids. They're smart, beautiful and hip. They've escaped (for now) the geek gene that runs unfettered in their blood line.

And when the day comes, (as I fear it may) when they falter and transform into the nerds their parents were, I will be there to prop them up and cheer them on. But until that day (or rather if that day) comes along, I will just marvel at how swan-like they are. And wonder why I never could manage it while stuck in the pit of hell known as public school.

How I longed to be able to stand up to my classmates and tell them they had it wrong, I wasn't a geek, that I was really a rocking gal stuck in some lame pimpled, flat chested body. Just because I didn't have hooters or the skill to rim my eyes with the coolest shades of teal green did not mean that I didn't have a cool streak.

Alas, my voice went unheard. For fear of being shoved into the nearest open locker. But now, as a grown up, the only zits I have are on my back which nobody sees. And I can fake boobs with the best of them, thanks in part to chicken cutletty things and Victoria Secret. Now I will be heard. Even if it's only by my dog. I no longer fear being shoved into a locker.

When Mama Tulip and Mrs. Chicky asked for volunteers to be interviewed, I waved my hand, bounced up and down and cried "Pick me! Pick me!" Cuz dammit, you all need to know the coolness that is me.

Feel free to click away at any time.

Would you ever leave Alberta for another province, or are you gonna live there forever n' ever?

Mama Tulip, two years ago I would have answered that I was free to roll where ever the wind blows me. But now with my Bug planted in the ground I feel connected to my Alberta soil more than ever. I just couldn't bear to leave my boy behind permanently. So I would leave the land of prosperity for a short time, but my chains would always yank me back.

If you could live anywhere else in the world - excluding that God
forsaken place you're living in now - where would that be and why?

Well, Mrs. Chicky, presuming I could exhume my poor Bug (and that thought creeps me out to no end) to take him with us, I'd pick Costa Rica. I have a thing for toucans. And warm temperatures.

Name a song that takes you back to your childhood.

That, Tulip, is easy. My folks were country folks and always had the radio on the farm station. I hear Dolly sing this and I think of my childhood kitchen and the sound of my mom's sewing machine rumbling with the radio on in the background.

I'm sorry, from now on you can only eat one food item for the rest of your life. But you get to pick what type of food that will be. What will you pick?

Mrs. Chicky, that's a tough one. But I'd have to say pizza. I love my cheesy goodness. Oh, how I love my cheesy goodness. (And being stuck out in the middle of no where means I never get to eat my cheesy goodness until it's a congealed and rubbery mess....Shudder.)

Name a staple in your wardrobe.

Well, Mama T, I would love to say underwear, but alas, I'm not wearing any. (Was that an over share?) I'm going to go with my love of sweaters. I love a soft, pretty sweater that fits just right and keeps me warm. Because I really hate being cold. Especially black sweaters. V-neck, turtle neck, angora and cashmere. I love them all.

As a kid what did you want to be when you grew up?

Easy. In fifth grade I loudly proclaimed my wish to be a long haul truck driver like my Grandfather. When the fits of laughter subsided and my teacher finished chastising me about the importance of setting loftier goals and not wasting the gift of my brain, I awkwardly changed my mind and told them I was just joking, I really wanted to be a brain surgeon. My teacher nodded and patted me on the head and told me what a smarter choice that was.

I still think being a truck driver would be cool. And I still think that teacher is an ass.

Which piercing was more painful -- your nipples or your nose?

Tulip, I gotta tell you...hands down the nose. But the nipples bruised a beautiful shade of blue. That look rocked. Blue nips with silver hoops. I should have taken pics.

***Please note above graphic is not in any way, shape or form the opinion of author of this blog. Nor is it a personal preference in the boudoir or at least one that I am choosing to comment on. If my husband sees this post and decides to get some funny ideas, may I direct you to the nearest Hot Asian Chick.***

Finish this sentence - "Girls with tattoos ____________."

...have rocks for brains. That's what my father kept telling me, anyways, Mrs. Chicky. Personally, I think girls with tats get more action. We're a tad wilder in the bedroom. Everybody knows that....

What's your middle name? Is there a story behind that name?

Now, Tulip, that is foul play. I don't tell anyone my middle name. (Except Sillychick whom I have threatened with death to keep it on the downlow.) I will share that it is a family name,and it starts with E and ends with E.

(And Boo, if you ever want to get me naked again, you will keep your mouth shut and your fingers away from that keyboard.)

Having read that, aren't you all just a little surprised I was ever stuffed in a locker? I mean, seriously, am I cool or what?

If anyone is brave (or dumb) enough to want to be interviewed by me, just ask nicely in the comments. Make sure I have your email. This way my husband can't say I never used that degree in journalism. You'd be doing me a favour.

Wink, wink.

Danger

2007-03-27T09:37:00.000-06:00

***Updated Below***

Generally, when my darling hubs is out of town, our only communication tends to be the brief phone calls that occur when I wake up in the morning and when he wakes up in the late afternoon. Our conversations tend to consist of "How did you sleep?", "The kids are driving me batshit crazy!!!", "Did you see that hot Asian chick again today?", "How much did you spend on supper? You think we're made of money????" and my personal favorite, "Do you miss me?"

(Of course I miss you, darling. What between cleaning up dog shit, chasing after your kids and the tracks they like to make when ever they come through the door, trying to decide what to feed those children so they don't wilt away and ruin our chances at adopting a new one, keeping your family informed about your whereabouts, and generally just living the life of a single mother, I have nothing but time on my hands to jones for you, your smelly feet and the untold amounts of laundry that seem to follow you whenever you land on my door step.)

Yes, our phone calls are nothing, if not romantic. But the current job the hubs is busting his arse on, has a perk. (Besides the hot Asian chick he gets to ogle every day.)

He has Internet access.

While I like to tease him to stay off the porn sites, I know that he is much too tired to engage in that type of debauchery. Instead, before he crawls into bed to dream of ~~the hot Asian chick~~ his beautiful wife, he checks his email and reads my blog.

Understand, this is a big deal. My husband is not a reader. When he is home he likes to sit on the sofa next to the computer and have me narrate my posts when I've finished them. I read them aloud and wait for the typical eye-rolling that accompanies once I've finished.

(See what you taught your daughter Boo? She got that lovely trick from YOU.)

He has even taking to posting responses to some of my posts. So if you see a Boo in the comments, (you'll know it's him by his grammatical and spelling errors), say hello. He's watching you.

The other morning, just after I stumbled out of bed and pried my children out of their warm soft beds with a jarring "GOOD MORNING!!!" (uttered in a loud, annoying sing song voice) while flicking on their overhead lights, but before my morning cup of java, my husband called.

"I just read your post, love."

Yawn and stretch. "Good morning to you too, Boo. Which post would that be?"

"The one where you speak so eloquently about your vagina."

"You mean the one where I mention how it was torn and tattered by your lovely children -" Hurry up you two! You're gonna miss the bus, and if you think I'm driving you, you've got noodles for brains! "- That one? The one where I mention my monstrous hemorrhoid?"

"Ya, that one."

"You liked that, did you? I was particularly pleased with it myself."

"Um, no," he said dryly. "It was a little descriptive."

"Which part? The part about my vagina or the part about my hemorrhoid?" Now I'm confused and somewhat irritated and desperately needing my caffeine fix. Meanwhile, the children are arguing over how many scoops of sugar to dump over their cornflakes and my right eye has developed a sudden twitch.

"Both. It was a little graphic, don't you think?"

"Are you kidding me? Don't you remember what my vagina and ass-end looked like after I squeezed those suckers out? I thought I understated the truth!"

"You do realize my aunt and uncle read this blog!?"

"No, I didn't. Are you asking me to censor myself so you'll feel more comfortable when you read my work?" Un-freaking-believable! Of all the mornings for my damn coffee maker to take it's sweet ass time percolating my fix.

"Well, I don't want you to censor yourself, just maybe, not write so graphically. Or descriptively. Or mention your vagina, your boobs, or any part of your body that needs to be covered while out in public."

"Wait a second, are we talking about the uncle who asks if you need a pussy poultice whenever you get a boo boo?"

The kids are now arguing over who gets the last raspberry yogurt tube, Nixon the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. keeps jumping up on my leg, begging for attention and my fu*%king coffee still isn't ready.

"Yeah. Him."

"I'm going to pretend we didn't just have this conversation and you aren't going to mention censorship around me, ever again, before 8 am. Deal?" My tone is more than a little annoyed, and my children were almost blinded by the DANGER!!! sign flashing above my head.

My husband must have seen the light, so he quickly changed the subject.

"So do ya miss me?"

***My darling husband is mortified and flattered all at once that you all have taken the time to drop him a line in the comments. Try not to be too nice to him though. His head will swell up like some helium balloon and his ego is already monstrous.

Oh, and hello to his aunt and uncle if they're reading this. I love you!***

End of an Era

2007-03-26T07:18:00.000-06:00

Boo, the kids and myself tend to be somewhat of a low-tech family. Sure, we have digital gadgets. I couldn't live without my iMac and all of the toys that go with it, and I was finally brow-beaten into trading my old camera for a spanky new digital model. But on the whole, we are decidedly low tech. And we revel in our archaic ways. In fact, we thrive marching to the beat of our batteries-aren't-required drum.

We like board games. Nothing beats sitting around a table with a chess game between you and the cold, steely eyes of your competitor. Memories of hours spent with friends and siblings playing games like Connect Four and Life, echo in our minds, reminding of us of the warm and fuzzies of our lost youth. The marathon sessions of Monopoly, while snacking on orange juice and pistachios (and volunteering to be the banker so as to pilfer an extra $500 bill when no one was watching), provided us with endless hours of quality bonding time with one another.

Those were good times. It's not to say we didn't spend time in front of the television, hooked up to the newly purchased Atari system and trying to outwit the clever Donkey Kong. But board games always wooed us back with promises of laughter, camaraderie and merriment.

Boo and I never out grew our love of old fashioned entertainment. Board games have held their sway over us and carried into adult hood. Just add liquor and presto! Instant adult entertainment. Ever try playing Twister while tossing back vodka shooters? It's the one game where you can "accidentally" latch on to a lady's boob or a man's posterior and get away with it. In fact, the more schnockered you are, the funner it gets. Try getting away with a boob graze or a butt clutch while playing video games and see what awaits you. You will have the authorities called in a heart beat.

As parents clinging to their past, we have tried to pass along our love of good wholesome family ~~cheating~~ values and invested a sizeable chunk of change in a variety of games. We started out with Candyland and Perfection, then Snakes and Ladders and then eventually moved up to more serious pursuits of Risk.

It's not to say we keep our kids in a cave and deprive them of all high-tech wonders. When my brother, Stretch, discovered we as parents had shied away from a video entertainment system, he stepped in to become the benefactor of my children's game system. He didn't want his niece and nephew to grow up with out knowing the pleasures of staring endlessly at a television screen while rapidly and repeatedly pressing buttons with their thumbs.

But the seeds had already been planted in my childrens minds, our indoctrination was successful. (That's not to say they haven't lost hours of their lives while toiling away to conquer the latest Zelda game.) Our kids love board games too.

So last night, after dinner, we broke out the ole Scrabble board. And as the eldest, and thus the most responsible, I kept the letter bag close at hand, to ensure no cheating occurred. Fric and Frac are extremely competitive and will go to great lengths to try and beat the pants off the other.

I sat there and marvelled at how these bright and beautiful children of mine can sit and intelligently play a game with me. It was only yesterday it seemed, that they were teething and learning how to totter about. I realized how swiftly time passes and how blessed I was to have these sweet souls call me mom. It won't be long before they totter off into the real world, leaving me with memories of their youth and a dusty game board.

I also realized my time for cheating unnoticed is swiftly coming to an end. Like sands through an hour glass, my absolute reign as board game Queen is coming to an end. Unless I better my slight of hand tricks, I may actually have to start playing by the rules.

Those kids are smart and have eyes like a hawk.

They take after their father. Dammit. I can't cheat with him either.

Pass the Puns, Please

2007-03-25T08:05:00.000-06:00

Part of parenting involves giving of one's time, energy and knowledge. I don't generally have a problem with this except for when it comes to math homework. Then I scurry off into a dark corner (usually my pantry, where I keep my booze) and wait until they figure it out for themselves. I don't want my children to discover how incredibly useless I am when it comes to basic math skills. They'll figure it out for themselves soon enough. Why rush it?

Today's lesson in parenting will not involve any math. It will, however, involve chocolate chips, sugar and cracking some eggs. My kids want to learn to bake cookies and who am I to stand in the way of their dreams? I plan on sitting at the counter, supervising in a very serious manner and licking out the bowl. Because cookie dough is very serious business.

Somebody could get hurt if they tried to get between me and that raw sugary goodness.

Of course, while my children toil away to serve me with warm, fresh, gooey cookies, I will be letting my inner freak out, to groove to the beats that soothe my soul. Go ahead, laugh at me. I'll be stuffing my face with heavenly confection and jerking about like a chicken having epileptic fits. But I will be enjoying myself while doing it.

I'll leave you this cheesy goodness as my gift to you. Since I ~~can't~~ won't share my cookie batter with you, I will at least offer you this stinky fromage. I'm thoughtful like that. Enjoy!

In my neck of the woods there are many businesses that are home to cats. One particular bar in our neighbourhood has a very well groomed resident cat who is quite friendly. In fact, the owner has a rule that no customer may order a drink without having the kitty sit in his lap and groom herself for a while.

He wants to be sure that all his customers can hold their licker.

Hee hee.

Releasing My Inner Freak

2007-03-24T08:49:00.000-06:00

I love Saturdays. Today is the day I can kick back, crack the whip, and watch my little ~~servants~~ children clean my house. Of course, they don't do a very good job, but when your vision is blurred by the mommy juice, everything just sparkles so purdy-like.

While my little slaves, and please note, I didn't strike the word 'slave'. Why bother denying it? After all, I figure they owe me. I gestated those lil' buggers for ten months (cuz they refused to leave the womb like normal babies), got stretch marks and a permanent hemorrhoid for my effort. When they decided to vacate the premises to explore the world awaiting them, they burst forth with such gusto that they left my poor vagina torn and tattered. And let's not get into the horrible things they did to my nipples. I have since endured the indignities of having to clean up all manner of body fluids and solids, have been repeatedly infected with plague-like germs, have been called to the principal's office more times than a little boy with ADD and have had to eat more ketchup-covered foods than a human should be made to.

So yes, my slaves. While my slaves scrub (half-assed, admittedly) and polish, and generally try to make our home presentable, I like to kick back with my coffee and Bailey's, grab a book, and relax. Occasionally, I will look up, and point out where they missed a spot. Because I'm thoughtful like that.

If they are really nice to me (re: don't whine too loudly) I will let them play music whilst they toil. Because I am a big music lover. Nothing soothes the soul of this beast like melodic harmonies blaring from my antiqued stereo system. So, when the lovely Southern Mom of 2 tagged me for this musical meme, I was delighted. And fearful.

Because now you will all know my lack of taste doesn't just extend itself to cheap wine and smelly puns. It is awful across the board. The rules of this particular meme, if you are unaware, are that I am to list seven songs I am presently enjoying and then pass the pain along to seven more.

Well, dear internet, I am nothing if not a sentimental fool. My music tastes run the gamut but I have this ~~annoying~~ charming quirk of having to play the same songs over and over again, every damn day, even if I am listening to a new artist or c.d. If my stereo is on, these songs must pass the speakers and into my ears. I'm kinda obsessive about this. To the point that my husband and small children would like to hurt me when they hear these songs.

So, this musical meme is perfect to me. I can share their pain with you. And share I will. Buckle your seat belts and be prepared to be shocked and amazed at my inner musical geekiness.

I'm so embarrassed.

1. TO WHERE YOU ARE, Josh Groban. I figure this is pretty self-explanatory, but for some clarification, after my son passed away, I was struggling with facing our first Christmas only weeks after his passing. When I went through our mail, I found a parcel from his lovely Lyle. His pediatrician knew how I suffered and mailed me this c.d with a sticky on it to listen to this track. Fric, Frac and myself mourned that night; raw with our wounds, while listening to the voice of an angel. Now we listen to this song and smile and it brings us closer to our Bug.

2. RESPECT, Aretha Franklin. Words that I live by. Generally with a hairbrush in my hand while dancing around with Fric and Frac, trying to capture my inner Aretha.

3. ANIMALS, Nickelback. Gotta love any song that reminds you of the time you and your husband were 18 and parked out in the middle of nowhere, engrossed in a good match of tonsil hockey, when out of no where, a police officer appears, raps on the window and wants to know if everything is alright. And wants to hear it from the lady. The lady who is shirtless and trying to cover herself up while dying of embarrassment. Yeah, gotta love that song.

4. WHAT A GOOD BOY, Barenaked Ladies. My inner musical geek shines through here. But every time this song comes on, my hubs starts to sing and rock out and I get to giggle at him. True love at it's finest.

5. TINY DANCER, Elton John. I discovered Elton at the tender age of thirteen. I have loved him ever since. I can rock out to any of his music and whenever I feel particularly stressed, his is the first voice I long to hear to chill out to.

6. THE TRUCK GOT STUCK, Corb Lund. Let me explain, before you stone me and hiss. First off, you can't live in Alberta, go to live shows and avoid Corb. He is an institution. And he is so very, very nice. Really. I've met him. More than once. Secondly, you can't be an Albertan farmer and not understand this song. And thirdly, my kids know every word and we like to screech it from the top of our lungs. And I live close to a Hutterite colony and it is sooo true.

7. I'LL BE THERE, Shane Young. Another lesser known Canadian gem. He also happens to be my Piano man, and provider of free booze. How could I not love him? On Valentines day he crooned all my favorite songs to me and my hubs so as to ensure Boo would get lucky that night. That's friendship at it's finest. Plus, he's teaching me to cook. So my husband won't leave my sorry ass. What's not to love?

There you go, my inner freak revealed. I'm not going to tag anyone, cuz I'm a rule-breaking rebel that way. Now I'm going to slink off into the darkness of the interweb, plug in my earbuds and pray I don't die of embarrassment. But not before I get the kids to scrub the floors.

A Burning Sensation

2007-03-22T15:27:00.000-06:00

Last night, as I was scraping the burnt remains of my annual attempt at cooking into the garbage, I overheard my children whispering heatedly in the next room. I heard only pieces of their conversation and wasn't really paying any real attention to their squabble as I was still fighting the queasy feeling from trying to digest my overly charred supper. As I was eyeing the blackened remains of our supper and pondering if I should offer them to my dog or not, Frac raced through the kitchen, into his room and then zipped back through the kitchen holding a dictionary.

My heart warmed at the site of this. (Well that, and the heartburn that was currently attacking my insides.) Nothing pleases a writer mom more than watching her offspring navigate a dictionary.

More than a little curious now, I tiptoed to the edge of the living room and tried to become stealth-like. I wondered what word they were arguing over, and I pictured them debating the spelling and definition of a variety of large words. I had visions dance through my head of attending their graduation ceremonies, both of them the valedictorians, and then, maybe one day, watching them win Pulitzer and Nobel prizes for their great works of literature.

I like to dream big.

As my stomach tossed and turned the evenings offerings around in my belly, I cupped my ear and listened.

"No Frac, you are wrong. That is not what it means," said my daughter in her huffy, know-it-all-big-sister voice.

"Yes, Fric it does too. You're wrong," came my son's biting retort.

My daughter then grabbed the dictionary and tossed it aside. "This is a baby dictionary. We need to get the big one from Mom's room."

"No we don't. I'm right. And you're a booger-eater." So clever that boy of mine.

"No, a playboy bunny is just a rabbit a boy plays with at Easter, Frac. That is what it means. You're stupid," my witty girl retorted.

What the fu*%??? I thought.

"No," countered my son, " a playboy bunny is a rich boy's pet. That's what a playboy is. That's what my teacher says. It's a grown man with lots of money and time to waste. So a playboy bunny is his pet. YOU ARE STILL A BOOGER EATER. And I'm smarter than you," he said in a smirking sing song tone.

Suddenly, visions of my darling children's literary accomplishments vanished in a puff of smoke. I quickly backed away and turned on my stereo in the kitchen. There is no way in hell I am going to define what a playboy bunny is.

I wouldn't want to give either one of them ideas.

I had disturbing visions of my son wearing a smoking jacket while my daughter wore significantly less while lounging about in a grotto.

I have resolved to no longer eavesdrop. I don't want to know when they start trying to figure out words like blowjob and sex kitten.

I'm hiding the dictionaries.

Visions of Grace

2007-03-21T07:43:00.000-06:00

I was never one of those mothers who wished for a moment of peace and quiet. Well, maybe I was, but that was long before the birth of Shalebug. When he arrived everything shifted. The absence of normal that came with his disabilities had me longing for the mundane. I longed to hear a baby cry. To see him scrunch his face up in anger and to see that same face smooth out with a big baby grin. I longed for spit up and messy diapers. As he grew I longed for squabbles over dinky cars and watching episodes of Thomas the Train over and over again until I thought I would lose my mind.

I longed for a regular kid. I felt jipped that I was missing out on all the experiences that culminate in parenthood. His brother and sister were such fabulous little pains in the ass, I was heartbroken that I wasn't going to experience that type of childhood all over again. I felt robbed. And more so, I felt that Bug was cheated in the cruelest fashion.

Those feelings lasted for a while, clinging like a sock to a towel after being pulled from the dryer. I don't know when exactly my perception shifted, but suddenly I was no longer grieving his (and my) losses, I was celebrating his gains. When Fric and Frac learned to sit, stand, speak, and most of all, potty in the big person's toilet, I celebrated. Boo celebrated. We felt the parental high that comes with watching your child grow and overcome the milestones before them.

With Bug, there were very few milestones. I was given a calendar to mark his first year. First smile, first grab of rattle, first step, first word, first shots. I didn't even get to use his first tooth sticker. His tongue was stitched to his bottom lip, pulled over his lower gum, so that he wouldn't swallow it or choke on it. It was surgically released when he was 13 months old. When I saw him for the first time after that surgery I was amazed to see two white little teeth staring back at me. Hidden this whole time, under his tongue. I never even knew.

Instead of the traditional milestones we ended up making our own. The first time he didn't have cardiac arrest during surgery. The first time he went through the night with out his oxygen saturation monitor going off and scaring the shit out of Boo and me. The first time he'd let me suction his drool without him biting down on the hose. Sounds scary and foreign, I know, but it really wasn't. It was just different.

Instead of looking forward to his first step, we looked forward to him holding his head up. (18 months.) Instead of toilet training we celebrated him being able to sit on the floor with pillows around him. (25 months.) Instead of words we celebrated a tentative high five. (37 months.) And when I say celebrate, I mean break out the balloons, phone the in laws, pour the wine and raise the rafters celebrate. No one thought we were silly or overdoing it. Because for this small, wee man named Bug, it was a milestone. Overcome with a grace and perseverance that I have rarely seen in a human being. It overshadowed his siblings accomplishments with quiet dignity. A little boy who struggled to breath, to eat, to move, but never gave up.

It was, and is an amazing testament to the human spirit. It became addictive. Not just for Boo and myself, but for Fric and Frac as well, who revelled in watching their brother take tiny steps towards independence. For Boo and me, we marvelled at how lucky we were, to be given an opportunity to witness these small little children morph into people. We were blessed. Not only did we get the experience of watching Fric and Frac conquer the world of toddler hood, but we got to enjoy the journey that Bug took, a journey most people never witness or understand.

It was very addictive. And our family is suffering the symptoms of withdrawal. For a boy who never spoke, he made so much noise. He filled up the spaces in our lives. His absence is deafening. Fric and Frac miss him, in a way I will never understand. Boo says he feels as if there is a hole in him that will gap open forever, a wound that will never heal. For me, it is all of this and more. When Bug died, he took my heart with him. I have had to relearn how to live, love and breathe again. And every morning, I have to start all over again.

When Boo was home this past weekend, we ~~dumped the kids on the in laws~~ got a babysitter, and went for some mommy-daddy quality time together. That's right, we went shopping. The true romance of being married almost a decade. Nothing says love like being able to walk hand in hand in a crowded mall and oogle the younger generation and their perky boobs.

As we sat and licked a frozen yogurt cone and discussed the merits of diamond wedding bands versus bigger diamond wedding bands, a young man and his aide wandered through our line of vision. His gait was halted, he stuttered and his hair was slightly greasy with a rooster tail sticking up in the back. His aide was a middle aged woman who refused eye contact with the shoppers around her. She looked tired and haggard. The young man was enthused by the life buzzing around him. He and I made brief eyecontact for just a second, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. He smiled widely before his aide hurried him past us.

My husband was watching me and him thoughtfully, and when the man passed Boo noticed a tear welling up in my eye. He grabbed my hand and squeezed. I licked my yogurt, trying to quell the rush of emotion that threatened to break past the dyke. After a moment, he commented that when he sees a handicapped person he wonders what Shalebug would have been like at that age. Would he have worked as a greeter at Walmart? Would he have been able to cobble steps together or be pushed around in chair. He just wonders.

I digested this for a moment. When I see a disabled person, I too, wonder about Bug and the life he was shorted. But mostly, when I see a disabled person, I find myself blessed to be able to see them. For before my boy, I wouldn't have made eye contact. I would have felt pity for them and more so for their aide; I would have felt slight disdain and a sense of relief that I didn't have to shoulder such a burden.

As I watched that man and woman slowly shuffle down the mall, I felt awe. Awe for the obstacles that man overcame, and awe for the obstacles he still faced. I envied that man, and his life and wondered briefly why he made it to adult hood and not Shalebug. But mostly, what I saw was a little boy with long wavy blonde locks wobble his way around his mom with obvious delight. I remembered letting him roam in the mall and him losing his balance and faltering against an attractive woman. Him steadying himself with his small chubby hand on her ass. Her look of surprise and my embarrassed laughter as I scooped him up and apologized for my little ladies man.

When I see a disabled person, I see all the joy my boy gave me and my family. All the hope he inspired and still inspires. All the love he blessed us with. I see the possibility for greatness, even if it's a quiet greatness, one not readily acknowledged by the masses.

I squeezed my husband's hand and shook myself out of my reverie, and told him, "I see grace."

And I do.

Thank you Bug.

Magic Moments

2007-03-19T07:58:00.000-06:00

As most of you know, the hubs works out of town in the oil industry, sleeping in man camps (paid prison I like to call them) or hygienically-challenged motels. There are very few women where he works, and the few ladies that he does encounter tend to be more masculine and sport heavier facial hair than the average male. Suffice it to say, by the time the hubs rolls in, home is looking pretty good. There are no fat, foul men hanging about, belching and smelling up the joint. The bed is soft and the sheets are clean. If he's really lucky, I may even serve him macaroni and cheese a la wieners with freshly shaved legs.

I really know how to go all out and treat a man. We haven't stayed together this long just by sheer luck, you understand.

When Boo first arrives home, it is akin to chaos. Every one is happy to have him back. Even Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. doesn't seem to mind being punted to the end of the bed. After the excitement wears off and you can peel the kids off dad like little burrs, things start to settle into a pattern. A nice groove. The honey-do list gets brought out and we earnestly start negotiating which chores will get done in exchange for which reward. Garbage disposal for a back rub, chimney sweeping for a hummer, returning the month overdue videos for fresh baked cookies.

Turns out, we both have our limits. My chimney still needs sweeping and my hubs refused to do the walk of shame to return the movies and face the fines. But what is marriage if not a little give and take?

These were the first four consecutive days the hubs and I have spent together since Christmas time. Sure, we've seen each other in passing, but to actually BE together for 96 straight hours has been a luxury. Slightly marred by a small vomit-fest, sure, but still a luxury. He showed he loved me by feeding me soda crackers and ginger ale, all the while promising me I could make it up to him when I felt better.

Funny, I'm still queasy...

It wasn't all roses and raindrops while he was home. The man reminded me on more than one occasion that he was absolutely blessed that he was married and not sentenced to die single and alone. Take for instance, when I got out of the shower and the hubs walked into the bathroom. With an admiring glint in his eye, he looked at me and winked. I, of course, having just showered off particles of vomit, was in no mood for anything."What???" I snarled. The ~~dumbass~~ hubs looks at me and innocently comments on how 'that's what he likes to see. A naked woman with a little extra meat on her bones.'

WTF??? That's me, naked, shivering and apparently, fat as a hog. Just what I needed to hear at that particular moment.

I'd have taken more offense to that particular comment, however, I was in the throws of Puke-Fest 07 and had more urgent matters to consider. And it's not like my husband has maintained his boyish figure if you know what I mean. At least I've popped out three kids. Asshat.

I do believe the piece de resistance (translation:the DUMBASS Moment of the Year Award) was when Fric and Frac were doing their chores as Boo and I cuddled on the couch. Boo was growing increasingly more frustrated with their shoddy efforts at housekeeping and suddenly decides to take it upon himself to teach the kids the proper way to clean.

"You know, if I were home more, maybe they wouldn't be this way," Boo comments, as he commandeers the dust rag.

"And just WHICH way would that be?" I ask. Poor fool. He was like a deer in the headlights, too stupid to see the train coming before it flattens him.

"Well, lazy and inept. If I were home, they wouldn't be this ridiculously incompetent. They'd have me to set an example for them."

"As opposed to the example of me, sitting on my increasingly large backside, while doing nothing but watching telly and eating chips, right?" Did I mention my hubs may not be the brightest bulb in the bunch, but he is VERY pretty.

"That's not what I meant. I just meant I could do it better. I could show them the proper way to clean a house."

As opposed to the improper way I have been teaching them. Foolish me.

"Are you saying I haven't been teaching them properly?" You'd think he'd have noticed the bright DANGER!! signs flashing over my head at this moment. Not my hubs. Cute and oblivious.

"No, I know you DO your BEST. But -"

Interrupting him I say, "But my BEST is not as good as your BETTER, right?"

Let's just say it was right about then that he kissed any chance for a hummer good bye. It flew out my dirty, incompetently cleaned window right about then.

"Exactly! I knew you'd get it."

Oh, I get it. I get that while I was sitting on the couch eating ice cream, my husband and my kids were cleaning my house. As I sat and watched. And did nothing. Seems to me, my best is far better than even he realizes. After all, my house was cleaned, my children were re-educated, and my husband's ego stroked all while I sat on the couch and ate my mint-chocolate chip ice cream.

And I never even had to give a hummer to get my floors washed. Seems to me, my best is pretty damned good.

Sucka.

Pass the Puns, Please

2007-03-18T09:08:00.000-06:00

I learned a few things yesterday. First off, flu germs can survive a good scrubbing by Mr.Clean, Lysol and a variety of other cleaning chemicals. Secondly, woofing my cookies while my throat is still sore from the ravages of the strep bug is decidedly unfun. And thirdly, taking four gravol pills to help ease the nauseous feeling is the equivalent to hitting oneself up side the head with a baseball bat. I was completely knocked out.

The upside to that is I defintely caught up on my beauty rest. And it's hard to puke while unconscious.

It feels good to be upright and not green around the gills. But hey, at least I was resembling the right colour for yesterday. A little St.Paddy's green.

Yuk.

So, to celebrate my non-stooped-over-the-toilet-bowl position, I have dug up the best cheese I could find. The best, odourless cheese a girl could find.

Strong smells may induce me back to tossing the cookies, and that's a chance I'm not prepared to take. Enjoy!

One day, a man from the Czech Republic came to visit his friend in New York.

When asked what he wanted to see, the visitor replied, "I would like to see one of the zoos in America."

To his delight, the New Yorker took him to the Bronx Zoo. They were touring the zoo, and standing in front of the gorilla cage, when one of the gorillas busted out of the cage and swallowed the Czech whole.

Shocked, his friend from New York quickly called over the zoo keeper. He quickly explained the situation and the zoo keeper immediately took steps to save the man's friend. The zoo keeper got an axe and asked the man, "OK, which gorilla did it? Was it the male or the female?" The New Yorker pointed out the female as the culprit. Quickly, the zoo keeper split the female gorilla open and found nothing of the Czech.

He looked at the man from New York, who shrugged and said, "Guess the Czech is in the male."

Welcome To Hell...

2007-03-15T10:00:00.000-06:00

Something scary is happening to my daughter, Fric. At ten years old, she is rapidly becoming as cuddly as a porcupine. When her brother sees her, he now turns on one foot and high tails it in the opposite direction. Just the other day I found him hiding in my closet. I asked him what he was doing there as I secretly worried he was eyeing my shoes and fingering my dresses. Thankfully, he wasn't. No, instead he was hiding from his sister and her mood.

The puberty induced mood. It has to be it. I can't think of anything else that would take my sweet beautiful Fric and turn her into the green-pea spewing, head swivelling demon she has become. I'm slightly afraid of her. And I think she knows it.

I was young when I discovered I was pregnant with her. 20 years old, and living with my best friend. Her father and I, had discovered the joys of sex. With each other. (As opposed to the solo variety he liked to participate in frequently.) She wasn't planned but she wasn't unwanted. Well, that's not true. For about an hour after I found out I was pregnant, you could find me out in my apartment's very brightly lit white corridor, sitting on the floor, smoking a pack of ciggies (and I don't smoke people) ~~freaking out~~ wondering if I was grown up enough to be a mother.

Then her father came, held me in his arms, took away my freshly purchased cigarettes and told me I would rock this parenting gig. Fool that I was, I believed him. Boo and I didn't rush into anything, we just continued as normal as I swelled with gestational love. He stayed out on the farm and I stayed in my city apartment. We bought baby paraphernalia and went on dates. We argued over baby names on the telephone. I insisted she was a girl, he insisted she had a penis.

Side note: He has since learned not to argue with me. I am ALWAYS right.

And when she finally arrived, he ran over a porcupine in his haste to see his daughter safely enter this world. Ah, the sacrifice a father will make for his child. When we held her in our arms for the first time, we knew we'd be fine. We were a family, the three of us. She was a gift to her daddy and I, and we make sure to often tell her this.

Sure she wasn't easy. She refused my boobs. She had colic. And she could power shit like no other. She refused to grow hair, she wouldn't speak until almost three and she had a love of coloring on walls that I still haven't managed to cure her of. But she has a smile that lights up the room and a capacity for love that makes me feel extraordinary. Like most new moms, I was completely, utterly mesmerized by her and my powerful love for her.

Now, as she snarls at her brother, and rolls her eyeballs at me, it is all I can do from sneaking into the pantry and breaking open the mommy juice. Where the hell did my sweet ray of sunshine get off to? I am completely unprepared for the demon who is my daughter these days.

Is this the first step of puberty? What's next? The sproutage of boobage and body hair? A love of black eyeliner and a fondness for black clothing? Will she take down her doll collection and replace it with pictures of boys? Will she finally stop listening to Shania and Britney and start listening to the Clash or the Cure? I would pay her large sums of money to speed up that process. Will she suddenly insist on privacy in the bathroom as she wraps toilet paper around her hand 45 times to stop up the toilet?

How long does this stage last? When will it end? Will she ever stop rolling her damn eyeballs at me? I'm getting sick of seeing the whites of her eyes. I'm completely unprepared for this stage of parenting. I don't know how to be the cool mom to a pubescent tween. I'm stuck in the past, I suppose. I'm still rocking the soccer mom thing, and being the rock star at the Christmas concerts. I can't morph into the terribly uncool, unknowing mom who doesn't get tweeny-boppers.

I refuse to become that mom who tries so hard to fit in with her kids that she makes a complete ass of herself and has all the other moms pointing and laughing behind her back, while her daughter proclaims how much she hates her geeky mother to all of her pot-smoking, soon-to-be-knocked-up teeny bopper friends.

This was so much easier when you could just shove a plug in their mouth and bounce them into sleep.

I suppose I should come out of my pantry and start trying to morph into a puberty-understanding mother. Let go of the past and embrace the future. Perhaps if I buy her matching mother-daughter outfits and sync up our iPods, she'll stop spinning her head around and welcome me back into her world?

What do you think?

I wish I was on a Deserted Island

2007-03-14T10:23:00.000-06:00

If you are looking for deep thoughts or comedy coming from this corner of the blogosphere, you may want to keep looking. I freely admit to blogging today for the purposes of garnering sympathy and perhaps a kind comment or two. I'm sick. Again. Apparently, keeping my tonsils may prove to be a bit of a challenge at my age. Unless I like waking up every two weeks or so with swollen glands and general feelings of crap. And I can't even tell you how sexy I sound when I talk. It sounds as if my mouth is full of marbles. Hot!

Last night, after a day of filled with self-pity and endless rounds of throat lozenges, I went to bed early in hopes of waking up with a bright and cheery disposition and a fever-less day.

Fool.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I woke up to "Mom, mom!" being quietly whispered beside me. In my sleep-like fog, I was confused and thought it was my dead son trying to reach out and touch me. I woke up screaming, scaring not only myself, Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. but my very much alive son, Frac.

After realizing that he wasn't his brother's ghost and when everyone's heart rates resumed to the normal range, I asked what brought him to my bedroom on his tippy toes.

Turns out the little duffer wasn't feeling well. My mommy instincts kicked into high gear and I pried my arse out of my warm cozy bed and went to get him some medicine. The stomach flu is going around in his school and he was the newest victim.

After I told him I loved him (from a distance of course, I don't want his nasty bugs playing tag with the critters torturing me) I handed over a bucket with instructions to hurl in it if he feels he can't make it to the bathroom in time. And then I crawled into my bed, thanking the heavens above that I just have strep throat and not the flu.

A half an hour later, I was again awakened by urgent whisperings of "MOM!!" Turns out, he vomited, (he made it to the bathroom) and he just wanted to share the news with me. He's thoughtful that way. I congratulated him, gave him a glass of water and sent him back to bed. Meanwhile, I'm feeling like a Mack truck just ran me down.

This cycle continued twice more last night, and each time he hurled, he shared the news like the proud nine year old boy he was. I tried to restrain my annoyance and pretended to be a good mother each time.

And then, I woke up to "MOM!" again whispered beside me.

"For Pete's sake, Frac, I'm sick too. Get your own damn glass of water this time," I snarled sleepily at my sickly son.

"No, mom, I puked but I didn't make it to the bathroom this time."

"Well, that's why I gave you a bucket. Did you use it?"

"No," he replied, sorrowfully.

"Why not? Did you lose it?" I asked, annoyed by the prospect of having to change his sheets.

"No, I just didn't want to DIRTY it."

Imagine the teeth marks on my tongue as I bit down so that I didn't hurl a stream of invective at him.

"Where exactly did you toss your cookies then, Frac?" I asked, picturing goo mixed in with a down comforter.

"Oh, I didn't want to make more work for you so I just leaned over from the top bunk and puked over the rail."

That's right, dear internet. He didn't want to make more work for his sick and fevered mother by dirtying the pail that sat beside him.

So instead, he leaned over the rail on his bed, five feet up in the air, and spewed forth like a geyser.

I've got splattered puke everywhere. Walls, underside of the bed, his book case across the freaking room, the bottom bunk's bedding, his dresser etc...If I wasn't so damn sick and disgusted, I may have been impressed with the spectacular size of splatter.

Turns out though, I'm FREAKING sick, and scrubbing vomit off every damn surface in my boy's room, as he is happily munching on toast and watching cartoons, just kind of kills any scientific fascination I may have harboured.

But it's all worth it, right? Because one day, when I'm old and feeble and he has to take care of me, I'm gonna shit my pants big time. And as he's plugging his nose and grimacing and wishing I'd just hurry up and kick it, I'm gonna look at him and smile and say "Remember the time...."

We mother's never forget.

Key To Success

2007-03-12T07:58:00.000-06:00

Growing up, I used to wish that my body would hurry up and hit puberty. All I wanted, more than anything in the world, was a pair of boobs. I just wanted to grow a set. Every night, I talked to God and tried to barter for a pair of nice round melons. I was one of the last kids in my junior high to hit puberty. You know that girl. The one where the boys would snicker and yell out that about me her being a carpenter's dream when I she walked by. Flat as a board, never been nailed. The girls weren't much better as they would adjust their bra straps and stare at my flat expanse with a knowing sneer.

Bitches. Eventually, I grew boobs. Sure they were little, hardly more than bee stings, but they were proudly protruding. I kept thinking they would get bigger. I was a fairly tall girl, and I'm from a family with some fairly impressive bazongas. My grandma's boobs were so big and heavy, her bra cut into her shoulders and left permanent scars. My mom's hooters are a fair size and my sister had a bigger rack than I did by the time she was 13. And I am three years older than she is. I have several cousins who's one boob is bigger than my head. To my line of reasoning, I figured one day I would sprout a Dolly-like rack, like the rest of the women-folk in my family. So I waited, rather impatiently, for my body to catch up with my imagination. It never occurred to me that I would be the willowy, thin athletic girl. Nope, surrounded by mammoth mammaries, I wanted to be part of the crowd. I wanted to be able to tell a boy 'hey, my eyes are up here.' How marvellous it would be to have a boy stare at my chest and wonder what was under there.

One day, I went to my girlfriend's house and we were talking boobs. Well, we were talking about boobs, but I'm sure we were boobs as well. After all, we were 15 and we thought we knew it all. Her mom, a very nice woman with an impressive endowment herself, overheard our conversation. She informed us that we couldn't consider ourselves as having cleavage until we could stand in front of the mirror and make the girls jiggle and bounce.

My girlfriend had no issue with this, as she was already sporting a C-cup. But me and my nipples took umbrage with that statement. For years I stood in front of a mirror, with my shirt off, and tried to shake them bigger. Anything to get the girls to bounce.

I don't recall when it was exactly that I grew my set. Suddenly, they were there. My husband (then boyfriend) liked to say they were perky. And that anything more than a handful was a waste. Problem is, my husband has freakishly large mitts. But the good man he is (read: Smart man who wanted to get laid on a regular basis) never made me feel like I was a walking plank.

While I don't remember when I finally hit puberty, I vividly remember the day I woke up with milk-engorged boobs. Holy Mother of GAWD! My husband and I marvelled at my new found lushness. It was a miracle. Suddenly, I was tall, thin and I had BOOBS! For those few months, it didn't matter that I sprayed milk like a geyser just by thinking about my baby, I finally had my girls. Ignorantly, I believed my titties would remain inflated. Imagine my shock and horror when they suddenly started to deflate. Not only did they get smaller, but they got softer and doughier. Freaking lovely.

Now I was saddled with itty-bitty titties that sagged and stretched out, like my own little beaver tails. Where's the fun in that? I have since lived with my sad little guns, ~~rolled~~ shoved into a padded bra, and I try to tell myself no one notices. Boys are attracted to my sparkling personality and quick wit. Girls only see a woman's hair and shoes, so I should be safe if I keep those bases covered. RIGHT???

Who cares that when I lay down in bed the girls disappear into my pits, leaving me looking like a prepubescent twelve year old boy? (Minus the hairy beaver of course.) The hubs still loves me. The upside to my after-child rack is they now jiggle. Boy, do they jiggle. And bounce. And flap around. Good thing they are little, because if they were any bigger, I may lose an eye while performing certain, ahem, activities. If you know what I mean. Wink, wink.

Recently, I have noticed my bosom is a little larger. I'm not sure if I've gained some weight, or if I'm having an allergic reaction to my dust bunnies. Either way, the gap in my A-cups has gotten smaller. I've actually had to take some padding out! My hubs thinks it's because I sit on my ass and blog all day, while stuffing my face with bonbons.

I have another theory. I finally figured out how to grow the girls. After several months of exercising the chest region, my melons have finally responded.

I'm thinking of starting a marketing campaign. Taking out a patent on my idea. It's aimed at small chested women. A Safe And Easy Way to Grow Your Guns!* Just follow my instructions and soon your breasts will be one size larger.

The secret to my success, the trick to enhanced cleavage:

How much do you think I should charge for this fountain of knowledge?

*Disclaimer: Not for the faint of heart or the queasy. Call your doctor if bleeding occurs.

Edit: I apologize to my daughter Fric, in advance. Years down the road, when you are a young woman and you read this post (or when you are in high school and learn to hack into the ole computer) I want you to know that I pierced my nipples in moment of insanity and grief. There was no actual benefit to their size (except when I hiked them up with string and tied the string around my neck.) Nor was the piercing of any sexual value. In fact, the jewellery is a pain in the well, tit. Literally. I also apologize if you happen to inherit my hooter dna instead of one of your large breasted aunts or grandmothers. But remember: Kleenex is a poor bra filler. The silicon chicken cutletty things work much better. Learn from your mama. I speak the truth...

Pass the Puns, Please

2007-03-11T09:20:00.000-06:00

In a moment of insanity last night, (and extreme parental laziness) I decided to take my kidlets out for supper. (The reality is I couldn't decide what to make for dinner, and I didn't feel like slaving over a stove only to have my kids poke at their plates, shrivel their noses and ask "What IS this?" with that special look of disgust that only they can manage.) So, off to the city we went.

I decided to take them to the restaurant I used to take their brother to almost daily, while he was in preschool. We went there so often that the waitstaff came to his funeral when he passed. His fondness for spoons and drooling over an orange peel were sadly missed when he left. I thought it might be nice to give the kids a little piece of their brother.

Turns out, they were bowled over by how classy the joint was. I really have to stop feeding my kids in the back seat of my car. They couldn't believe there was a salad bar. I know, I know. Really, I couldn't have set the bar any higher if I tried! They behaved themselves, and asked a million questions about their brother, which I answered while trying to blow bubbles in my milkshake glass. (Cuz I'm classy like that.)

Eventually, the conversation shifted from their brother to more current topics. Like boyfriends and girlfriends. My daughter Fric, has apparently met her soul mate; some scruffy, short boy, who resembles an elf. And not a cute elf. But hey, who am I to judge? Let's give the boy a chance. He hasn't hit puberty yet. There still may be hope. And it's not like I was a prize when I was ten. I should be thrilled that she isn't so vain that she picks her boyfriends based on looks, right? Except I have visions of troll babies as my future grandchildren....

My son, however, is like his dad. A real connoisseur of the ladies. He wants to sample them all before he chooses just one. I can't tell you who choked louder when he explained that he liked to kiss them first to see if they were any good before he asked them out, me or the couple sitting at the table next to us, listening to our conversation.

They really do put those tables close together.

After the couple and I caught our breaths, and I determinedly did not make eye contact with them, my daughter informed me what a ~~dog~~ ladies man my boy is. Before any patrons decided to call social services on my parenting or lack of it, I hustled the little buggers out of the restaurant.

But not before I loudly proclaimed to my kids that it was always good to sample the goods before making the final sale. As I left I could hear that poor man hacking up his lung. Next time I decide I'm too lazy to cook, I must remember to choose a less crowded restaurant.

Digest your cheese while I hit the book stores to find a book to learn how to parent the next generation's Romeo, so that I may avoid future mobs of angry parents and broken-hearted girls.

Enjoy your cheese!!

As migration approached, two elderly vultures doubted they could make the trip south, so they decided to go by airplane.
When they checked their baggage, the attendant noticed that they were carrying two dead raccoons.

"Do you wish to check the raccoons through as luggage?" she asked.

"No, thanks," replied the vultures. "They're carrion."

***************************************************************************

I would like to thank Mama Tulip for awarding me a ROFL award for my post on the pitfalls of personal hygiene.

It's good to know that my suffering and the mutilation of my pink parts brought joy to someone's life. I couldn't sit for a week, but damn, it's good to be funny.

Thanks Tulip, I heart you. And if you haven't read this woman's blog yet, she can and does give me a run for my money on a daily basis. She's got a dirty mind and husband who believes flatulence is the truest sign of love. What's not to love about that?

You can also check out the other winners over here and here. There's some damn good giggles out there.

Lost and Found

2007-03-08T08:04:00.000-07:00

I never expected to be shackled to my child more tightly in death than in his arduous brief life. I spent hours, days, weeks, and months staring at his tiny face, wishing him well, praying for his survival, willing him on. I devoted my very essence to his needs, while still trying to find a balance of parenting him, parenting Fric and Frac and of course, performing my wifely duties. (Snicker. By wifely duties I'm referring to folding his socks. Just so you know.)

I got lost along the way. I know this now. I recognized this immediately upon his death. Before I was even out of the hospital, while his body still lay on a gurney in the emergency room, I understood that I was screwed. The very identity I had created around this little boy had vanished in a puff of smoke, like a bad magician's trick. There has been no silence in my head since his death. No peace. His name and his memory bounces around inside my head, inside my soul, so loud that sometimes I fear there is no room for anything else.

I was aimless and lost. It was hard to feel anything for anyone. And that included my children. I knew that I loved them, but it was locked away, put in a box on a shelf so high up, that even on my tippy toes I couldn't reach it. I feared I would never be able to feel love for them again. So I overcompensated,and showered them with hugs, kisses and I love you's, even though I was vacant inside.

I shifted gears. My priority became seeing my kids through this nightmare, getting them past this crisis intact. I have no problem with spending inordinate amounts of money so my children could whine to a therapist how I was too sarcastic with them, how I never cooked anything but processed foods or canned goods, or how I accidentally walked out of the bathroom naked and gave them an eye full of pierced breasts and a tattooed ass. But dammit, there was no way those kids where going to whine about how their mother shut down and stopped functioning when their brother died.

I didn't want to become one of those mothers whose lives revolve around their dead kids. Who set up shrines to a memory while ignoring the living.

So I set aside my lack of emotion and just faked it till I made it. I yanked Fric and Frac through their emotional hell so fast their heads snapped back. And they survived. Kids are resilient. It wasn't long before they were talking about Shalebug and laughing more than crying, and generally just getting on my very last nerve.

That's not to say they don't miss their brother. Or ache for him. Or that their lives haven't been completely turned upside down because of the absence of his presence. Like me, like their father, they morphed into new little people, changed so completely through no fault of their own.

They are both more sombre. They are both more fatalistic. When they hear someone, especially a child, is sick or in the hospital, they no longer assume they will leave that hospital. In fact, we have had to work very hard to get them to stop presuming just because someone is ill, someone will die.

Every night they say goodnight to their Bug, and I can sometimes hear soft murmurs coming from their rooms. Behind their doors, in the dark of night, they spill their souls and tell their brother their darkest secrets. I asked them once why they did this, and they just shrugged. Worried, I asked if he ever talked back. I had sudden mental images of visiting my crazies in the nut house. Thankfully, they don't hear any ghosts, or voice of God talking back to them. But they both report feeling a closeness to him that they haven't felt since the day of his death, and that comforts them.

Like me, they fear the unknown. They want to know where he is, is he healed, will he remember us. I offer platitudes and warm thoughts while wondering the same things myself. They struggled with their faith and looked at their father and I for guidance.

It saddens me to know that who they were is lost forever. They carry a sadness with them that will always mark them. They have been through more tragedy, more hardship than most young children. They spent five years trying to understand why their brother suffered so, and they will spend the rest of their lives trying to understand why he died. That changes a person, especially a young child.

We spent these past 504 days mourning and coping and morphing into the people we have all become. I often wonder where our 'old' selves made off to, if they found new bodies to inhabit. I like the vision of four happy, little, redneck zombies wandering the world, looking for kooks to inhabit.

I can't say I'm not sad still. Not just because my baby is gone. But because my older babies lost their innocence when Bug's life was snuffed out with the quietest whisper of death. But I look at who they have turned into, and how they have handled themselves through it all; how they managed to help their momma stay sane, and I am so very proud of my kids. I just want to share them with the world. Shout their names from the highest mountain, and make the world aware of how remarkable these little people really are.

Despite me and my inept parenting.

It truly is a marvel.

I decided to share with you my babes. After all, I have posted pics of Bug, my Boo, even my backside, I figured it was only fair that I share the products of my womb, the fruits of my labour. (Pun absolutely intended!)

Think of it as an offering of proof that I am, indeed, a natural blonde.

Love, Arctic Style

2007-03-07T07:54:00.000-07:00

I love my husband. I love his laugh, his smile and his beautiful curly locks of hair that my son, Bug, inherited from him. I love my husband's height, and having to stretch up on my tippy toes to wrap my arms around his neck to kiss him. I love his sensitive ways with the children and how he plays with them, when my own dad never played with us. Nothing warms my heart more than to hear my children's shrieks of terror as their father chases them around pretending to be the boogey monster.

There is very little I don't love about my husband. After almost ten years of marriage and fourteen years of romance, he can still make my freakishly long monkey-toes curl like no other.

If I'm giving you the mistaken impression that this post is a loving tribute to my husband, I apologize. Because right now, I want to kick his very cute, muscular ass. Which, by the way, I haven't seen in three weeks but that is a post in it's own....

I had a rough sleep last night. Nope, I wasn't dreaming of dead children, or lusting after sexy movie stars. In fact, I don't recall dreaming at all. Dreaming would imply sleeping, which I did very little of. Because my darling dog (please note the fact I am not referring to him as the World's Greatest Dog, Ever, in this post) kept nosing me off my pillow in an effort to share my body heat.

Normally, I don't mind this. I miss my husband's fondness for dutch ovens, his smelly arm pits and that gaping dip in the mattress, so I use my dog as a poor substitute to curl up with in the dark hours of the night. I can't tell you how many times I have woken up to elbow my husband, and tell him to stop snoring, only to realize it is the damn dog.

(Oddly enough, there is comfort in a hairy, snoring body beside me in bed. Apparently, it doesn't matter who, or what species it is, along as it emanates body odour, I'm a happy girl.)

I digress. I didn't get a lot of sleep last night, due to my dog trying to steal my heat. I should have realized something was up when I woke up thinking I was in some cheesy motel bed, the type you plunk in 25 cents and it vibrates for three minutes. Poor Nixon, couldn't stop shivering. But I didn't notice anything particularly off, as I was cuddled under the comforter.

But when I bellowed at my children (because I'm classy like that) to ~~get their asses out of bed~~ rise and shine, my daughter wandered into my bedroom wearing her freaking snow suit. Apparently, Nixon wasn't the only one who spent the night shivering.

Turns out, we ran out of fuel to heat our home over the course of the night. When I checked the temperature inside my house it was a balmy six degrees. That's 42 degrees to you Yanks. It ~~was~~ is a tad chilly to say the least. (A f*%king under statement as I sit here and shiver. Do you have any idea how hard it is to type when your fingers are slowly turning blue? And how am I going to get all the snot that is dripping from my very red nose out of my keyboard?)

I did what any good mother would do. I told them to suck it up, shut up and put on some mittens. And to get me the damn phone, I had to call their father.

This would be the part of the post where my love for my husband shines through. As his wife and doting children sit in our igloo, huddling together trying to keep warm, my husband was sitting in a cozy little hotel restaurant being served by an 18 year old lady who is apparently all that and then some if you know what I mean. He was eating his breakfast/supper after coming off his twelve hour night shift while making googly eyes at the pretty waitress. Trying to charm her with his good looks and witty remarks into getting free raisin toast. As I sit here freezing my arse off.

Apparently, I interrupted his mojo. Interfered with getting his free toast. Excuuuse me. Let me just turn blue, so you can get sweet talk your way into free bread.

After explaining the situation to my husband, his response?

"What do you want me to do about it?"

Hmmm, let me think.

HOW BOUT GET OFF YOUR DUFF, DRIVE HOME AND FIX IT!!!

Seems fairly self explanatory to me. The way I figure it, this is not my fault. Sure, my husband has only been home for a handful of days during the past few months. And yes, he's busting his ass so that I may live the life of an Arctic princess, doing nothing but eat bonbons and blog all day. I understand that he is doing the best he can within the limitations he faces.

But to my reckoning, if he can come home every few weeks for a booty call, why can't he check the fuel levels while he's home, to make sure his precious ~~vagina~~ wife stays warm? Not to mention, providing a simple necessity for his children, like, say, HEAT.

I can't be responsible for every damn thing around here. I have to draw the line in the snow somewhere.

I'm trying to see the bright side to this. He's still cute, attentive and tall. He IS on his way home to remedy the problem. (Although, his idea of keeping warm primarily involves rubbing his stick against me.) And in the seven years we have lived out here, this has never happened before. Because he was HOME. It's not like I'm married to Mr. Chicky, who makes it a habit of freezing his wife and baby chick out of their abode.

Things could be worse. It could be blizzarding out and well below freezing. Nope, the sun is shining and we are expecting above average temperatures today. In a few hours, it will be warmer outside my house than inside it.

My husband could be at that hotel restaurant with the 18 year old bimbo, who could decide she wants a sugar daddy, and instead of giving him free raisin toast, could offer up some free sugar if you know what I mean. Instead, he is probably speeding like a madman, on his way home, to once more save the day and enshrine himself in the glory that is being a good husband.

And the brightest side to all of this: My boobs are awfully perky right now.

Maybe I will let the husband use his stick to keep me warm. It's the only time I'm going to resemble a perky 18 year old. Might as well take advantage of it.

Shit Happens

2007-03-05T07:38:00.001-07:00

I suppose I should warn you, this post is not pretty. It's dirty, messy and has a distinct odour. I'm talking about shit. Actual shit. Poop, feces, crap, scat. What ever you call it, I'm talking about it. (Think of the Google pervs coming my way, today. Careful who you bump into around here. Make sure you wash your hands when you leave...) Why am I talking about poop? Think of me as your Northern, white, skinny, poorer version of Oprah. If she can talk shit, then so can I.

Except I'm not here to discuss with you the size, shape and colour of my crap. Let's just say I'm very pleased with my poop. Yep, I'm proud of my shit.

No, today's post is about my past with shit. (Not my past shit, just my history with it.) We have all had our own experiences with the brown smelly turds that fertilize this world. I think it's time we stop ignoring this fecal matter and shine some light on it.

Obviously, as a young child, I had more than one close encounter with the brown kind. I am sure I crapped up, down and all around my folks. After all, if my children are any example, the apples never fall far from the tree right? But I'm not talking about diaper horrors, or potty training poops.

I'm remembering going to the farm and visiting my very favorite uncle. And for some reason running around bare foot like the little redneck I was bound to become. The memory of stepping into my very first (and last) pile of steaming cow shit, is still a memory I can feel right now. I was horrified when I felt the oozing warm stuff squishing between my toes and I realized just exactly what I had stepped into.

My uncle, however, laughed so hard, I'm sure he almost peed himself. And considering he was almost 70, that was a possibility in itself. I remember pulling my foot out of that patty, and feeling the suction power of the poop gripping my foot, unwilling to let go. And I remember the cold, wet spray of the water from the well as my uncle pumped and laughed and told me to wear shoes next time as he washed my foot clean of cow dung.

And the city kid got her first glimpse into farm life.

Fast forward through the years, and I was a young mother with her first babe. I remember changing those first few diapers, and wondering what all the fuss was about. Baby poop was nothing! Oh, to be young and stupid again. Until, one day at a family function, in the middle of nowhere, my daughter mocked my mommy attitude and let loose. Down to her toes and up into her hair. I ran out of wet wipes. Suddenly, the power of an infant's bowels was to be respected. Because you never knew when they were gonna loose their shit.

But then she grew and so did her brother. And diaper duty was fast fading into a blurred memory, to be replaced with fresher memories of toddler hood. Memories of sweet, innocent children learning to navigate their way through the wondrous new world that lay before them.

I loved being a mom back then. I was young, and swept away by the passion inspired by two small children exploring the world with such curiosity and enthusiasm. Every day they learned something new and through them, so did I. We grew up together. I couldn't imagine a better gig than being a mom. Nothing they did baffled or stumped me. I got them, these children of mine.

At least until the moment I walked into their bedroom only to catch my three year old daughter squatting over her brother's pillow. Dumping a load, so to speak. Horrified, I asked her what she was doing. After all, she had a fondness with the toilet, they had a nice partnership going. What the hell? My daughter's response? "Frac is a poo-head." So she thought to make it literal. I was unequipped for such logic. I was not even 25 years old and suddenly I was exhausted. Parenting and poop had sucked the life out of me. I didn't even know what an appropriate parental reaction to this crap-tacular action should be. And thus began the long, winding road of my children flummoxing me at every given twist of the road.

Thankfully, Fric has since learned to refrain from emptying her bowels where her brother lay his head. I keep a spare pillow in the linen closet ever since, in case anyone should regress. After that accident, I was ready for what ever shit flew my way. After all, as a mom, I had to wipe asses, snotty noses, occasional vomit and whatever other bodily fluid they tossed at me on a regular basis.

Poop is part of life. Yet we often don't speak of it. We teach our daughters the proper way to wipe (downwards, away from the vagina) and show our children how to wash their hands after taking a dump. We peer into the pot before flushing, to see what came out, if it was an Oprah poop or if we need to increase our bran intake.

We shit, and we get shit upon. Literally and figuratively.

So why is it, when you wake up in the morning and you step into a cold brown turd the dog left for you as a treat beside your bed, is it such a surprise?

That's right, dear Internet. I. Stepped. In. Dog. Shit. First. Thing. This. Morning.

The only thing that should be somewhat surprising about this is the fact that Nixon still lives. And that I haven't revoked his title of the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. Although, I am seriously reconsidering it.

I suppose the lesson here is: Shit happens.

And maybe, look before you leap. Invest in slippers. Don't let the dog eat peanuts.

Either way, I'm still scraping crap off my foot and wondering what the hell became of my life. And why is it I seem to attract so much of this shit.

Whether I step in it, make it, or have it land on me.

I think I hear flies buzzing....

Shit.

Pass the Puns, Please

2007-03-04T09:01:00.000-07:00

I don't have toddlers anymore. I did my time, paid my dues. I have even signed up for that adventure again. I should be able to sleep till at least nine in the morning by now. Aren't older children suppose to want to sleep in? So why must my darling children wake me up at the crack of dawn to the lyrical goodness that is Shania Twain and the tinkling sounds of the two of them cackling like little hyenas? Shouldn't they be quiet and thoughtful, appreciating the fact their mother is trying to get her beauty sleep after a long night of watching corny romances on the tube?

Shania Freaking Twain at seven thirty in the morning. God must really be annoyed with me.

And then there is my dog. My lovely Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. Who has decided that come the first ray of light in the morning sky, I should get up and play with him. He refuses to leave my side. Even if I boot him off the bed, he just jumps back on. He is so loyal. Bugger. If I take too long to rouse my sorry ass, he just attacks my feet or my hands, or my face, in that playful, stinky dog breath way of his.

He'd make a nice rug.

Before I serve this week's cheese, and be warned, it is fairly malodorous, (which, as you know tends to be the best kind) I would like to shout out a special thanks to a couple of very punny people. I had to do it. It was too easy.

Thank you, dear brother in law, a.k.a The Great White Hunter, for the five minute long message you left me on my voice mail, reading me once stinker after another. I love cheese, even the kind left on my answering machine.

And a big cheesy hug for my bloggy buddy Gette who shared a sample of her family's personal recipes for stinky fromage. I thank you from the bottom of my cheese-loving heart.

My inbox is always open to a good pun. You won't hear me complaining about having a pun in the oven...O.k, that was awful. I'll admit it. If you can do better, or have some puns you would like to smear across the net, email me. I'm easy that way. (And in other ways too, my hubs will tell you...)

On to this week's serving. It's a hum-dinger. So plug your nose and enjoy!

A debt collector knocked on the door of a country family, that made their living weaving cloth.
"Is Jack home?" he asked the woman who answered the door.
"Im sorry," the woman replied. "Jack's gone for cotton."

A few weeks later the collector tried again. "Is Jack here today?"
Once again the answer was "No, sir, I'm afraid he has gone for cotton."

When he returned for the third time and Jack was still nowhere to be seen, he complained, "I suppose Jack is gone for cotton again?"
"No," the woman answered solemnly, "Jack died yesterday."

Suspicious that he was being avoided, the collector decided to wait a week and investigate the cemetery himself. But sure enough, there was poor Jack's tombstone, with this inscription: ...

"Gone, But Not for Cotton."

Shiny Buttons And Linky Love

2007-03-02T07:44:00.000-07:00

As a young child I never had to struggle hard to be an original. I was always the odd girl out. It seemed as though I was defined early on by my differences, separated and culled from the herd simply because of who I was, not who I wanted to be. It started as early as my first breath, just after being squeezed from my mother's loins, when it was noted that I was a fair haired babe. Odd, certainly, but not earth shattering. Growing up though, enduring the countless family functions where I was always described as the 'Milkman's daughter', or being easy to spot in a crowd as the only toe-head in a sea of brunettes, grew tiring.

Then there was the fact that I had the odd ability to cry at the drop of a hat. But never on command. (Significant difference of ability. One is fairly embarrassing, the other could lead to top billing on a marquee and a possible golden statue.) I was known as the Crybaby, renown for my tender feelings and irritable tear ducts.

I longed to fit in growing up. It never occurred to me that I was an original. I wasn't that bright. What I should have done, instead of trying to find cover and hide myself in the crowd, was embrace my ~~oddball~~ unique traits and endorsed them. Life would have started being fun a whole lot sooner. Sigh. But I was always a late bloomer. My boobs can attest to that.

But that's a whole other post.

Now, as a mature (shaddup Boo!) woman, I embrace my avant-garde personality. I am more than a mommy, less than a wife, and a whole slew of other unidentifiable qualities that make me who I am. Love me or leave me, here I am. Boob rings and back fat. I'm shaking it all. (Admittedly, some parts jiggle more than others, but I'm not telling which.)

As I have mentioned time and time again, I started blogging to get through a difficult time of my life.

Snort! Understatement of the Year alert!!

But what I haven't mentioned is how daunting entering the blogosphere really was. I was putting myself out there, for everybody to see. But how do I make you all see me? In the vast, endless sea of blogs out there, how do I get a person to visit me? How do I stand out from the crowd? How do I become the blonde once more in a sea of very cute brunettes?

(All right, that really sucked as a metaphor but stay with me...)

Having a kickass template helps, of course. And ~~stealing~~ borrowing clever cartoons doesn't hurt either. But as I anxiously watched my site meter stay stuck at the seven, I realized this wasn't enough. I was going to have to go out there and impress the big guns. The cool bloggers, and hope that if they would come, others would follow.

Because we humans are really nothing but overgrown lemmings, right? Lemmings with opposable thumbs.

In my search for readers, I discovered some wonderful blogs. Some were big time bloggers, who managed to have gasp!! more than a few hundred page hits a day, while others were small and lesser known; content with their knowledge that while they may not have advertisers knocking at their door, they were adding something to the lives of those who read them. I was intimidated and impressed by all of ~~them~~ you, who managed to make me sit up and take stock, and strive to be a better writer, woman and human.

(Bowing in gratitude, as her bathrobe gapes wide open. Damn, I'm classy.)

It seems as though I have finally impressed somebody myself. A truly witty, little (as in short in stature, get your minds out of the gutter people!) daddy blogger has bestowed upon me a Thinking Blogger award. Apparently, this post grabbed him. Probably by the shoulders and shook him really hard. Thank you, Bennie. I am humbled to know something I wrote inspired you, when your daily life continues to awe and inspire me and countless others. If you haven't discovered this artist daddy yet, hop on over and take a peek. You will walk away with a different perspective on life.

This shiny little blog button has made me take stock and think about all the other bloggers who make me stop and think on a daily basis. As a rule, I am to nominate five more bloggers for posts who have made me think. But really, my life is too short for nonsense, and my time is too precious to waste on poorly written blogs. All the blogs in my bloglines make me sit up and take note. It seems absurd to have to weed through the masses to find a few flowers.

You are all my flowers. Gush.

But rules are rules and who am I to balk at an arbitrarily imposed rule? So, I am just going to randomly bestow Thinking Blog Awards to five people off my bloglines. Kind of like winning a lottery. If you're name isn't chosen, buck up. It doesn't mean I don't love you, it just means my finger didn't land on your name when I closed my eyes, spun my chair around and pointed blindly at the screen. You all are good Thinkers to me.

I promise.

Mama Tulip, Average Joe, ECR, Emma, Mrs. Chicken; all of you, please revel in your newly bestowed bloggy button.

To the rest of you, well, I guess you are shit out of luck. But I still love you. Cross my heart.

Would I lie to you?

******* ******* ********

P.S. I know I was supposed to nominate specific posts, but I just couldn't do it. You all generate too much greatness. Just know that at one time, or another, or perhaps more than once, you have inspired me. Which is why I keep coming back. Well, that and I have no life and no real friends. But let's just stick with the inspiration thing, okay?

Make A Wish....

2007-02-28T08:49:00.000-07:00

It's my birthday today. Well sort of. It's my first ever blogiversary. I feel so old. So distinguished. So respected. Snort. Well, not really, but I am marvelling that I have been plugging away at this little blog for so long. As most of you know, I started this blog as a means of therapy. A way to get through the day, and shine some light through that terrible blanket of depression and grief which had wrapped it's self around me and threatened never to let go. I didn't give much thought to what blogging would mean to me, other than it's purpose of keeping me busy, distracting me from my pain.

I didn't realize the community my blog would foster, or the embrace I would receive from the blogosphere. Who knew how powerful a virtual hug could be, how far a few kind words from a stranger could carry you in day. I didn't honestly think I would be blogging for this long. I simply thought I would power out, run out of stories, stop caring about my invisible friends, fade slowly into the cyberspace of the internet until I was nothing more than an old stale URL that nobody visited.

Perhaps that is my fate still, but for now, my blog, my blogging community are very much an important part of my day. I enjoy getting up, pushing my kids out of the house and cuddling up to the computer. I enjoy reading the antics of the daddy bloggers, and marvelling at the mommy bloggers who actually parent. It inspires me to stop ignoring my own children and to actually feed them non-processed foods.

(Well, up to a point - after all, who am I kidding? My love for Kraft dinner runs deep.)

I like tiptoeing through my bloglines, and leaving bits of myself through the interweb. Discovering a new blog is like finding a pair of jeans that don't give me muffin top or camel toe. It makes me want to shout from the roof tops with joy. Or run naked through a meadow of wild flowers, but I live in the arctic. The roof top idea is much easier.

I thought perhaps once my blog was made public that I would loose my zest for sharing. I would clam up and start censoring my thoughts, in a desperate bid to avoid embarrassment. But then I started thinking about all the ways I embarrass myself in my real life. How I talk too loud, bray like a donkey when told a good joke, play with my nose ring constantly, and suffer from that dreaded foot-in-mouth disease, and blogging hasn't much changed that. I have just given my friends, family and neighbours another opportunity to be embarrassed for me. Really, I like to think I'm providing a public service for those I love. I'm giving them someone to pity, make fun of and poke at, so they can avoid the misery of their own lives.

Because I am thoughtful like that.

On a serious note, blogging here on RM has helped fill the vacancy left in my soul when my youngest died. I honestly didn't know how I would survive his death, find my way through that loss. I felt nothing but pain. I knew I was still blessed with two other beautiful children, but I couldn't feel anything except a soul-wrenching hurt. There was no room for love, or humour or happiness. And that was unacceptable to me. I couldn't live like that and I didn't want my children to have a mom who was an empty shell of the person she used to be.

So I started remembering my Bug, and his beauty, and it helped to share him with the world. I made a point of picking out one point of the day, something little and finding the humour in it. To remind myself there was more to life than this fog of grief that had wrapped itself around my heart.

At first it was hard. But with each post, each day, it gets a little easier. I can't say I'm back yet, because I never will be. But I can comfortably tell you that in this past year I have grown into a new person, one who can look at her daughter and see the beauty shining through. I can feel my love for her once more, not just simply remember that I love her. I can see past my son's increasingly long hair and see through his resemblance to a dandelion puff and find humour in his desire to grow his hair long like his little brother's. I can feel something other than pain. And it feels good.

Don't get me wrong, dear internet. There is still not a moment that goes by that I don't wish I had a g-tube to plug in, or a string of saliva to wipe away. I miss those hesitant high fives, and that sweet spot on the soft curve of his neck. I still ache for him, probably always will. But as my daughter Fric, summed it up: It's hard to wish him back when he's in a better place. So I don't. I just merely send him kisses on the wings of the angels and ask him not to forget us.

And then I sit at my computer and tell you about the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. I write about Bug's siblings and his daddy, Boo. And I read about your lives to remember that I too, have a life. One that doesn't revolve around one little boy and his cement marker.

So thank you for that. There really are no words adequate enough to express my gratitude, or my love for all of you. Thanks for propping me up this past year and helping a girl out while she was down. A special thanks to Liz for being my first commenter ever. I have stalked you regularly since, and will continue to do so. (And not just cuz you were nice to me, but because you freaking ROCK!!!)

I am going to spend today, my bloggy birthday, doing what I love. Ignoring the dust bunnies (and my still-present mouse), sit on my ever-increasingly large bottom and reach out to touch someone.

Because I like it when you all touch me. I'm dirty that way.

Cat on Hot Tin Roof

2007-02-26T07:41:00.000-07:00

Everyone is born with talent. Generally, more than one talent. Obvious talents and hidden talents, like being able to twist the stem of a maraschino cherry into a knot (yep, I can), the ability to touch their tongues to their nose (nope, can't do that), or being able to belch out the ABC's, twice, in one burp. (Nope, can't do that either. But respect all who can...right, Tulip?) Some people search their whole lives to find their hidden talents, others discover it immediately. I knew when I was 15 that I have an ear for learning foreign languages. I didn't find out until I was 26 that I am a natural born killer on a paint ball field. Men fear me. I am the surprise warrior, the one every boy figures will be an easy target, right until the moment I shoot them between the eyes. They never see it coming. I am also exceptionally talented at picking off tin cans on a fence with live ammo. Much to Boo's disgust.

I can also draw stick figures well, and paint like Picasso. And I am exceptionally talented at spurting milk through my nose. Ask my kids. They have been sprayed. As I grow older, I discover new hidden talents, whenever I try new things. I also discover what I suck at. Which, as it turns out, is quite a few things. But no one is perfect, right?

As a small child, I harboured secret fantasies of becoming a famous rock star and marrying Michael Jackson and going on tour with him and our children. I used to listen to his music on my radio, and sing into my hairbrush while envisioning our future together. Of course, that future didn't include him feeding his Jesus juice to young boys, or forcing his children to wear table clothes over their heads, but hey, I was eight.

That dream was quickly squashed the moment my dad burst into my room with a panicked look on his face. As I was singing my heart out to Billie Jean, my daddy thought I was torturing our family cat. Apparently my singing sounds much the same as when a cat's tail is caught in the door.

That wasn't the last time my budding singing career was over before it began. I was once asked to sing softer in the school choir so the more gifted voices could be heard over my caterwauling, and my husband threatened to leave me if I persisted to screech If I had a Million Dollars while I showered.

I have made peace with my inability to carry a tune or even recognize the note. I know I am horrible sounding, I accept it. That doesn't mean that I am going to stop singing though. I just do it quieter, and generally, when I'm alone. Or trapped in the car with my kids. Because nothing is more punishing than listening to your mother belt out Respect while you silently cringe and hope none of your friends are in the car next to yours. Right?

Of course, there are millions of people who don't accept their vocal limitations. Thus, American Idol was born. The viewing public (i.e. me) loves to sit at home and toss popcorn at the telly whenever those bozos ~~screech~~ sing to the judges. And it thrills me when those dopes have a tantrum when they are told they aren't fit for human consumption. I want to ask them if they have working ears. Because really, how can you mistake that horrible squealing sound for music?

Last night, I was invited out. Tricked really. A friend called up and asked if I needed to get out of the house, have a drink, discuss grown up issues. What he failed to mention was the fact that we were going to a karaoke bar. Imagine, my horror (and secret delight) to realize I would be stuck in musical hell. And no one would laugh at me. I could finally be free with my vocal abilities, embrace my natural, God-given er, talent and let it all hang out.

Picture Cameron Diaz in My Best Friend's Wedding. That could be me.

Of course, it wasn't. I'm too ~~uptight~~ classy for that. Plus, the owner of the pub is my friend, and I wouldn't want to be singly responsible for driving away his paying customers. Which I was not. (I wouldn't want my access to free booze dry up.)

No, instead, I sat back and watched the crowd take turns at the foolishness. I quickly discovered there are three types of karaoke singers. The Good, the Bad, and the very, very Ugly. Every one loves watching the Good ones sing, as it inspires us, makes us sit up and take notice of that particular person and wish we sounded that good while belting out a tune. The Bad singers aren't so bad, they just sound awful. But they are having fun doing it, and hey, that's what counts, right?

But the Ugly ones, those are the ones to watch. These are the people who take this public singing phenomenon very seriously. They dress up for the part, totter about in their leopard print stilettos and their tight green skirt with hot pink belt, with their shoulders back and boobs out; while looking you in the eye and daring you to laugh at them.

Which, of course, I do. But only when they aren't looking, because I am a bit of a pansy that way. These are the ones who truly believe they sound good, and they are just waiting for their big break. These are the ones it hurts to watch. Unless you are intoxicated, in which case, it is just plain fun. Especially to heckle them.

Which I would never do. At least not drunkenly. If I'm to heckle, I'll do it sober.

I never did work up the courage to step up to the microphone. The voices of my past kept ringing in my ears. That, and the sound of a cat screeching. I decided my life was too short for that sort of public humiliation.

I would much rather humiliate myself in other ways. Like talking loudly about my vagina in a public place or walking around with toilet paper stuck to my shoe.

But you can bet your ass that last night inspired me. When I step into the shower today, I'm gonna belt out a tune. And maybe with enough practice, I can convince myself that the world is wrong. I don't stink.

At least, I won't when I get out of the shower.

Pass the Puns, Please

2007-02-25T09:46:00.000-07:00

I have nothing interesting to blog today. I've hit the blogging brick wall. Perhaps it is because I slept in the same position all night long with out moving and now feel like I've been run over by a big truck driven by a jilted wife. Or perhaps it is because my darling children decided today was a good day to sneak into my bed, slide under the covers and put their icy little toes against my warm body at six-thirty this morning. If it were legal to drown them, I would have seriously considered it this morning.

As I sit here, waiting for my beloved java to wake me up and jolt me back to the land of the living, I offer you this piece of cheese. It is old, smelly and definitely not of the finest quality. Kind of like me. Which makes me love it even more. Enjoy!!

The world expert on European wasps and the sounds that they make is taking a stroll through his local town. As he passes by the music store, a sign catches his eye: "Just Released - New LP - Wasps of the World and the sounds that they make - available now."

Unable to resist the temptation, the man goes into the shop.

"I am the world expert on European wasps and the sounds that they make. I'd very much like to listen to the new LP you have advertised in the window."

"Certainly, Sir," says the young man behind the counter. "If you'd like to step into the booth and put on the headphones, I'll put the LP on for you."

The expert goes into the booth and puts on the earphones. Three minutes later, he comes out of the booth and announces, "I am the world expert on European wasps and the sounds that they make and yet I recognised none of those."

"I'm very sorry, Sir", says the young assistant. "If you'd care to step into the booth again, I can play you have another track."

The expert steps back into the booth and replaces the headphones.

Three minutes later, he comes out of the booth shaking his head. "I don't understand it", he says, "I am the world expert on European wasps and the sounds that they make, and yet I still can't recognise any of those!"

"I'm terribly sorry, Sir" says the young man, "perhaps if you'd like to step into the booth again, you could hear another track."

Sighing, the expert steps back into the booth. Five minutes later, he comes out again, clearly agitated.

"I am the world expert on European wasps and the sounds that they make and yet I have recognised none of the wasps on this LP."

"I really am terribly sorry", says the young assistant,

"I've just realised I was playing you the bee side."

Look Me In The Eye....

2007-02-23T10:41:00.000-07:00

Unlike many of you stay at home mothers, I have a lot of time on my hands. My children are school aged monsters, so I merrily shove them onto the little yellow bus ~~of freedom~~ and then scratch my head and wonder how I am to fill my day. Sure I could clean my house, or bake cookies, or even go get a daytime job, but none of that really appeals to me. Instead, I write, I blog and I go to restaurants with my pregnant buddy and bitch about our husbands.

(Don't worry, Boo, I only complain about your absence. I would never complain about the fact you can't pick up your own socks, wouldn't know what to do with an empty milk jug if your life depended on it or how you think that when you are home the world should stop and revolve around you. I just whine about how much I miss you. Promise.)

During my free hours of the day, while I wait for the phone to ring and the nice adoption people to tell me they have found the perfect disabled baby to give me, I read a lot of interesting items on the internet. Because everyone knows everything you read on the ole interweb is true, right?

I stumbled upon this ditty the other day. An interesting little article based on a study which claims the average person tells two lies every ten minutes. That, my dear internet friends, is a staggering 288 lies per person, per day.

Holy Pinocchio! Could it be true? Could we really be a bunch of serial perjurers? How do we trust anything anyone says? Are we really this dishonest? But then when you start to think about all the nontruths, white lies, omissions, exagerrations and my personal favorite, sarcasm, I suppose it starts to add up.

Because I am a bored housewife, I took it upon myself to prove this theory wrong. No matter what, I was going to tell the truth. I was filled with resolve. I was going to be completely honest if it killed me. At first it was easy. Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. inspires honesty. And he doesn't ask a lot of questions. That helps. But then, the first challenge of the day arose. The hubs asked if I got his text message. Phew, that was an easy one. I told him I did. But then he wanted to know why I didn't text him back. Ummmm...shit!!! But remembering my resolve, I told him the truth. I told him the text annoyed me and I didn't want to hurt his feelings.

Which of course I did, by telling him the text annoyed me. I'm off to a great start. He couldn't understand how him texting me a ridiculously mushy message in which he pours out his feelings of love could possibly annoy me.

Um, hello! I'm heartless. You think he'd know this already.

After some fancy footwork, I extricated myself out of a possible argument. But I had to employ avoidance, nontruths and a variety of other tools of deception. I'm a fibber at heart.

That messy phone call had me wondering all the other times I have lied to protect my ass. I tell the kids on a regular basis that I love their singing, when the reality is they sound like they are either in pain or in heat. I tell them I love the pictures they draw for me, but while I love the fact they adore me and wish to please me (why isn't the rest of the world not similarly devoted to my every need?) I don't really think they are the next great artists of the future. Even if I encourage them to believe they may be. Then I had a horrifying thought. What about all the times I have been lied to? What if I'm not really as clever as I think? Does my husband really think that I'm the sexiest thing in the world? What if my friends don't think I'm the funny one? What if my nose ring isn't half as cute as I think it is?

But then I realised I was just being silly. People wouldn't lie to me about these things to protect my feelings? Right?

Right????

On the whole, I like to pride myself on my honesty. Even when it hurts. Or is painful to hear. I'm not always the favorite person at family gatherings because I tend not to ignore the elephant in the room. And I know a few people who disagree with my decision to always tell my kids the truth. Because honesty is the cornerstone of morality.

I'll admit, I have told a fib or two to avoid confrontation, or to avoid deflating an already fragile ego. When the cashier asks how I'm doing at the grocery store, I certainly don't launch into a diatribe how I seem to be stuck in a rut of grief, that I'm retaining water weight and my parents aren't speaking to me. I simply say I'm well and then change the subject. "How bout those produce prices?"

But I have also told a fib or two for my own amusement. Like the time I let my husband walk around all day with his fly open. People laughed and snickered at him all day long until he noticed. (All right, I was the one laughing and snickering...)

Or the time I told my sister that shirt looked good on her. But damn it, I'm still ticked that she had a bigger rack on her when she was 13 than I did at 16.

Or the time that my best friend asked if she had any spinach in her teeth, and I said no. Which was really hard to do with a straight face when that nasty green piece stuck in front kept winking at me.

Being honest 100 percent of the time is not always easy or fun.

And that's the truth. Would I lie to you?

A Deceptive Proposal

2007-02-22T10:50:00.000-07:00

I have a secret. I have carried this secret, no, this heavy burden with me for ten years. Exactly ten years. It hasn't been easy, but it has always been fun. Because, what is more fun than holding a secret above someone's head, and dangling it like a carrot? Watching someone twist and turn, and wonder whether I would spill the beans or keep my word. Today, all of that promise keeping has flown out the window. I'm going public with my secret knowledge.

It all happened on a dark and stormy night, February 22, 1997. It was snowing hard, and I was alone with my five month old darling Fric. I was living out in the country at Boo's family home. An old, dilapidated farm house that creaked more than my knees do first thing in the morning. I was a city girl, transplanted out to the sticks. I jumped at every sound, feared every howl carried on the wind.

Suddenly, there were two pinpricks of light coming up our very long and twisty driveway. I grew nauseous, and it wasn't because I was almost two months pregnant with Frac. (Yep, we got busy quick after the birth of Fric.) I kept walking over to check on my beautiful baby, sleeping soundly in her heirloom cradle, while keeping my eye on the headlights in the driveway.

It seemed as though the headlights weren't getting any closer to the house. My anxiety level shot through the roof. I paced back and forth, willing this invisible car to disappear into the blackness of night and out of my driveway. Slowly the lights grew closer, as this black car crept forward, hampered by all the snow that had drifted into the lane by the fierce winds of the winter storm. I couldn't make out the occupants, but I knew who they were and why they were here.

After what seemed like an eternity, mainly because they kept having to stop the car and shovel out, the car of doom pulled up beside the ramshackle farm house and I held my breath, waiting, waiting, and waiting.

Nothing. I was ignored. I grew more antsy with every minute that ticked past on the old brass clock. Where were they? I wondered. Where did they go? It was freezing outside, dark and cold; surely the winter storm would chase them into the house soon.

Abruptly the porch door flew open, slamming against the wall. Fric startled at the loud sound, awakened from her reverie of sugar plums and fairy dances. As I hurried over to scoop her up, I could hear the hushed voices in the next room, the stamping of feet in an attempt to loosen the snow that clung to their shoes.

Cooing to Fric and smelling the sweet scent of sleep that clung to her smooth baby skin, I looked up and tried to smile through my fear. It was the Great White Hunter and his girlfriend, Martha Freakin Stewart. I looked at the Hunter and questioned him with my eyes. He nodded and smiled.

I looked at Martha and asked how she was. I don't remember her response, but I remember the glint from the new diamond she was sporting on her left hand. The Great White Hunter came home to ask his love to be his wife. During a snow storm, inside the sagging roof of the rundown barn.

How romantic. (Said as I roll my eyes heaven ward.)

(To be fair, he certainly did better than his brother who just weeks before popped the question to me on his knee after I came out of the bathroom. From having my insides fall out. Sigh. Such a wonderful memory.)

The only problem with The Great White Hunter's romantic proposal, which I knew was coming because he thoughtfully fore warned me earlier in the day, was there was a large, dead and decomposing animal in the barn.

Boo's prize milk cow, Beauty, whom we used to ride like a pony, up and kicked the bucket shortly before Christmas of 96. Boo was devastated over this loss, as I do believe Beauty was his first real love. (Not that kind of love people. Sheesh!) Boo was overcome with grief and exhausted from lack of sleep from having a new infant daughter in the house, and he just kept putting off the call to the rendering company. I like to think he was sad to see her go, the reality is, ten years of marriage and I know my darling hubs was just too damn lazy to get off his ass to make the call.

I'm not bitter or anything.

I spent most of the afternoon and the evening wringing my hands with worry. What would Martha Freakin Stewart do when she saw a dead bovine, rotting on barn floor? What would The Great White Hunter say? What pretty words of romance could cover up the stench of death?

Turns out, winter was on my side. Beauty was partially frozen and only smelled when the temperature reached above zero. Which was not an issue on that snowy night. As for the flowery words that convinced Martha to tie her wagon to that particular ox, I couldn't tell you. I never asked. I could only assumed she got sucked in by the beauty of his genetics, much the same way I did with his little brother.

Somehow, The Great White Hunter managed not only to convince this clever and beautiful woman to be his wife, but he did it while manoeuvring her so that our deceased farm pet was not visible from her vantage point. I never had to worry about her reaction or the fact that my darling Boo's dead cow killed his brother's romance.

The Hunter managed to extract a promise to me to keep my mouth shut, and I agreed. But I told him my lips were buttoned for a finite amount of time. And the expiration date to this secret is now up. I'm shouting from the roof tops and letting the world know about the dumb asses I'm attached to. One I married, the other I tease and try to ignore on a fairly regular basis.

How's that for some romance? Rotting carcasses, snowstorms, frigid temperatures and dilapidated barns. They say every family has it's secrets. Not ours, not anymore.

I feel so liberated.

But damn, what can I torture him about for the next ten years now?

And for those who wonder, the rendering truck was called the very next day so that I never had to worry about someone else stumbling upon the skeleton in our barn.

Of Mice And Men

2007-02-21T07:25:00.000-07:00

My house is in panic mode, currently under lockdown. Why? Because there is a mouse in my house. (Hee hee, that sounds so dirty when I say it.) And there is only room enough under this roof for one type of rodent. One of us has to go. And seeing as how I'm bigger, it's time for Stuart Little to pack up and find new digs. I am not adopting a mouse. I spent most of Monday and all of yesterday with one mission in mind: Mouse murder. But I am not exactly schooled in the black arts of pest control, so I had some learning to do.

Warning: be careful of the Google when typing in mouse, mice, trap, or mouse control. You would think I'd have landed on some reputable rodent killing sites or perhaps the odd computer geek site, but no, surprisingly not. Apparently, when someone asks if you've clicked your mouse lately, they are referring to you er, lady parts.

I was educated. But not in rodent control.

Finally, with some luck and some perseverance, I found what I needed to know. Now it was for supplies. After walking into one of the big box hardware stores, I was stunned. I stared at row after row of pest control. Who knew there were so many ways to off a furry little mammal. I wasn't sure if I was up to this.

Poison was out, because with my luck my nephew, the Worm, or Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. would find it and eat it, thereby poisoning themselves, leaving me with untold amounts of guilt, a dead loved one and still a mouse in my house. (Still sounds dirty when I type it, hee hee.)

Those damn sticky tabs where the mouse walks on them and is stuck, starving to death just freak me out. Back in the days of my youth, when I managed a movie theatre to pay for school, we had an exterminator come in once a month for pest control. Those sticky tabs were his weapon of choice. At the time I thought they were cool, until I came upon one, with a mouse attached. Poor thing had ripped off his face in his attempt to free himself. It was an image I could live with out and have no need of experiencing again.

As I sat there, baffled and bewildered by all the choices before me, I was beginning to feel overwhelmed. I shook myself out of my moment of self-pity and reminded myself that there were vermin living in my NEW home; vermin carrying all types of disease and filth. I may call myself a redneck, but I am a clean freak redneck. No mouse is going to tarnish that image.

I had visions of getting out the hubs gun and going Rambo on his furry little ass. But then I remembered reading this article and decided to leave the guns locked up in the gun safe. With my luck, I'd do worse than that dumb ass Donald did. If only I were blessed with my sister's aptitude for rodent execution. She has a gift for being able to off the furry little creatures with out even trying.

It all started when she was eight years old and trying to clean her gerbil cage. She put both her precious pets in a bucket while she cleaned the cage. The little buggers managed to climb out of the bucket and scurry away in a mad dash for freedom. She yelled for me to come help, and me being the darling 11 year old I was, moseyed along, not terribly concerned by the panic in her voice. I happened upon her just in time to see her trip on her socks (which weren't pulled up properly) and land on her knees. With one gerbil under each knee. Twitching. She was horrified and I couldn't stop laughing. I still smile when I remember that image...hee hee.

Alas, that wasn't a gift I inherited. I was going to have to do this the old fashioned way. But I knew that with a regular mouse trap, there would be problems. I'd live in fear of hearing that dreaded 'Snap!' as it crushed the neck of some unsuspecting mouse. There would be no way I could bring myself to dispose of the carcass, and I don't think I'd be able to bribe my chitlens to do it for me.

That left me with only one option. The mouse house. (I can see my husband rolling his eyeballs now.) The little critter can mosey on in, and voila! Problem solved. It will be like a science project for Fric and Frac. They will have an up close opportunity to study some wild life, before I drop him off at the ~~neighbour's yard~~, I mean outside.

Forty smackers later, and I was the proud owner of my first mouse trap. Now the battle begins. It is on, little mouse. Our own little version of Patriot Games.

Bring it little rat, let's see who wins.

BWHAHAHAHAHA

Ghostly Encounter

2007-02-19T08:27:00.000-07:00

Ever since my darling baby Bug ~~kicked it~~ I mean passed away, I have suffered from sleep disturbances. It seems as though I am unable to find my zzzz's, and when I do manage to slip into slumber, I am awakened by dreams. Dreams of different varieties. My favorites are when the little dude comes to see me in my dream wearing his denim overalls and we pick up where we left off: with him in my arms, drooling all over me. These dreams are so real I can smell his scent, feel the soft prickle of his freshly buzzed head, feel the heat from his body. Inevitably I wake up and spend the rest of the damn day moping. But I wouldn't trade these dreams for anything, because they are a tangible reminder of who he is, a type of reminder I am unable to summon up during my waking hours.

The other variety tend to be the scarier type. No matter what, I can't save him; I have to relive the shame of telling my mother my boy died. In these dreams, my brain isn't content to relive the reality of his passing. Oh no, my darling imagination has to kick into over drive. My most favorite (said with just an ounce of sarcasm) is when I go to my deep freezer to pull out a roast and instead find my lovely son floating face up with his eyes wide open.

Between that dream and the Monday Morning Massacre, I have begun giving that freezer a wide berth. Now when ever I need something, I just send in one of the troops. Gotta love having kids.

This past week has been of the hellish variety. Besides all the bendy sex the hubs and I enjoyed (and let's all thank my Yoga instructor for my ability to get OUT of some of those positions), my subconscious has decided to kick my ass. Not so subliminally. I have been waking up in a cold sweat, or panic, yelling out Bug's name or attacking my husband in the wee hours of the morn.

Normally he wouldn't mind being attacked in bed by a woman, but this type of attack has left him spooked.

We started talking about heaven, and angels and ghosts. I am a Christian, so I like to believe my boy flew heaven-bound and sits around all day eating bonbons while watching Oprah and laughing at me and his siblings. My husband's version of heaven is slightly different (read:boring). He believes our Bug is up there and that is enough for him. He doesn't have time to imagine the goings on of Heaven. He has to work for a living. To support me.

(Note the slightly passive aggressive way in which he delivers said line. Generally accompanied with a loud and long sigh.)

Still, as a mother who has a type A personality and control issues, it is hard to just leave things be and to trust he is where he is supposed to be. After all, he wasn't a typical almost five year old. The boy had no speech, could barely toddle about and was developmentally delayed. He may have looked five, but he was really only about 18 months old. What if he didn't go towards the light? What if he was directionally challenged and didn't know his ups from his downs?

What if, what if, what if? It's those damn what if's that will get a grieving mother every time. What if he's lost and scared? What if he's floating about with unfinished business and refusing to go to the other side? I'd like to thank CBS and the writers of Ghost Whisperer for fueling my obsession. I'll just forward my therapy bills to your accounting department.

Then there are the mediums and the psychics who claim to be able to talk with the dead. They appear on national television programs, reaching out and contacting lost love ones. I wonder if they are frauds or if they are the real deal. Could they find my Bug? Could they just put my mind at ease and let me know he's not banished to the pits of hell because he was a little confused when it came time for the big crossover?

I can just see Bug rolling his eyes (and not in a seizure-induced manner) and telling John Edwards that I hounded him in life with all my demands for kisses, now he can't escape me in death either...

Perhaps I should just go downtown and trust my fortune and my money to one of the ladies with a cardboard sign in the window advertising fortunes read for $5.00. I can just imaging walking into the back of a dark shop, shouldering myself past the beaded curtain and sitting at a table, anxious and hopeful that my boy will appear and not some other lost soul looking for a mommy figure in his death like he was in his life.

But lately, with my inescapable dreams and Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. barking and growling into the calm air of the night, I have to wonder, is my boy lurking when he should be upstairs with the heavenly? Why else would my dog's ears stand on end and he suddenly go alert and beserk for no reason? Don't animals and small children see what we adults overlook?

Last night was one of those nights. The dreams haunted me and Nixon took to his growling out in the wee hours of the morn. The house was still and I was tired of being held hostage by these what if's. So I did what any brave and independent woman would do. I turned on a lamp and tip toed out into the darkness.

I was going to tell my darling little angel boy to get his ass back to heaven and leave me the hell alone. I'm tired of these bags under my eyes. Nixon kept growling and snorting, but he followed behind me, visibly upset.

I looked about and saw nothing. Felt nothing but the cool breeze of the ceiling fan against my skin. I took a deep breath and told my son I loved him but to quit haunting my dog and I. And then I waited for a response.

Nothing. So I flicked on the kitchen light, half relieved, half disappointed.

And saw a fucking mouse run between my feet and into the laundry room.

Unless my son has been reincarnated as a rodent, I do believe my ghost mystery has been solved.

After Nixon and I got down from the kitchen table (cause there is a mouse in my house!!!) I sighed with relief.

It looks as though I won't have to call for an exorcism. Just a damn exterminator.

Pass the Puns, Please

2007-02-18T09:56:00.000-07:00

It happened again. The hubs has left me for more lucrative prospects. Apparently, the lure of big money and the prospect of sharing a hotel room with a sweaty, smelly, overweight balding man was just more tempting than having lots of ~~bendy sex~~ quality time with me and bonding with his children.

I'm cool with it though. Let's get real. After a month of having the bed to myself, not tripping on his dirty socks or sitting in the damn toilet bowl because he thoughtfully left the seat up to make peeing easier for himself next time nature called, I was ready to see him off.

Sure I'll miss the back rubs, the words of whispered romance and the ability to have an evening to myself since the kids crawled over him like ants on a syrup bottle, but there is such a thing as too much.

And he'll be back soon. In ten days or so. Just enough time for me to start missing him again. As long as he gives me plenty of notice of his arrival, all will be well.

I wouldn't want him to know the truth about how we live while he's off busting his bottom. It takes time to pick up the empty pop bottles, chip bags and candy wrappers scattered everywhere. The layer of filth that accumulates in his absence doesn't miraculously clean itself you know.

A special thanks to my brother-in-law and his wife, a.k.a the Great White Hunter and Martha Freakin' Stewart, for opening their home to me and my small brood last night so we wouldn't wallow in our collective misery about Boo's departure. Thanks for the Chinese food Frac whined about eating (it was very good, but for some reason I was hungry an hour later), the hockey game (it was a treat to be able to see the Oil lose; generally I just listen on the radio), and for sharing your chitlens, One through Five. Even if One, Two and Three think it's cute to lick me, I still love them.

Now I'm off to hunt down some chocolate and spend some quality time with my children, whom I have ignored for the better part of a week. Enjoy le fromage while I dust off my parenting skills!

Paints were a very precious commodity in the good old days, and British merchants could make a small fortune supplying paints to the colonies.

One company sent a clipper ship full of red paint across the ocean. It had the very bad luck to collide with another ship full of blue paint.

As a result of this disaster, both crews were... marooned.

Hee hee.

Cheap and Easy: A Husband's Delight

2007-02-16T07:51:00.000-07:00

I haven't done much blogging since Wednesday morning. Truth be told, it is hard to read, write or even sit up right when your blood has been thinned the night before with some wonderfully yummy red wine. To say I have enjoyed my mommy juice these past evenings would be a small understatement. A more accurate description would be that I seemed to have fallen into a vat of grape juice and am slowly drinking my way out. With a straw. I enjoy my wine. But to be honest, (and in case the adoption people are reading) I don't like drinking when Boo is not home. I'm a fairly easy drunk. Wait, that came out wrong. Actually, it's fairly accurate. But I meant to say I have a low tolerance for alcohol and I can't handle my booze. I'm a cheap drunk.

Cheap and easy. No wonder Boo loves me so much. Hee hee.

Without a responsible adult in the house, I don't feel right about imbibing in one of my favorite pleasures. Instead, I pour cranberry juice into a goblet and imagine I'm drinking a fine merlot. The risk of having something happen to one of my kids and not being able to drive them to the hospital is not a risk I'm willing to take. And we all know that I have had to make that scary trip, alone and in the middle of the night, once before. Although, with that particular outcome, perhaps the mommy juice would have helped. Sigh.

So I have been taking advantage of my husband's layover. (Wow, so many innuendos in one little sentence.) The moment my darling Fric and Frac touch their pretty little blonde heads to the pillow, the cork has been popping around here. I am fairly certain if I were to line the empty bottles up in a row I would be very embarrassed. And the adoption people would send me a therapist instead of a child. Ahem.

But I feel justified in my love of the juice. I work hard at raising these children into ~~sassy, obstinate, lazy~~, smart, curious and industrious little people. With little help from the outside world. And it isn't often that I get a chance to relax, unwind and depend on someone else for a little backup.

And let's be honest, the kidlets are so damn happy to see their dad, they have abandoned me to my kool-aid and have clung to their father like a burr on a dog. Hee hee. Not that I'm enjoying that or anything. Not at all. Who knew how easy this parenting gig could be when there are two parents under one roof? I can paint my toenails and balance a plate on my nose at the same time, because Fric and Frac have zero interest in me.

Poor Boo. Hee hee.

I know the reality is those children are thrilled their dad is home because it means they will finally get a home cooked meal, not one out of a can or a box, but I am willing to take what respite is offered. And if it is offered in the way of a nice bottle of red, who am I to turn it down? After all, everyone benefits. Mommy's happy, Daddy's happy, and the kids, well, to be honest, in my alcoholic haze I sort of forget that I have them, but I'm sure they are happy too.

Only one problem with Boo being home.

He will leave again. And the wine run will inevitably end. I'll have to put the corkscrew away, and lock the liquor cabinet. Because it's hard to operate a can opener and a microwave when buzzed.

And with my fine parenting skills, those are two tools of modern day convenience I can't live without.

Otherwise, we'd all starve around here.

It's the Thought That Counts

2007-02-14T07:27:00.000-07:00

To some, Valentines day is a day of romance, love and chocolate. A day to cuddle with their lover and be thankful that someone is willing to look past their freaky monkey toes, hairy mole and odd habit of grinding their teeth while sleeping. To others, Valentines day is nothing but a commercial holiday forced upon us by a consumer driven society and the money-loving large corporations that drive our economy. They shun the little cupids and cute hearts and avoid the flower shops like there is a plague amongst all the pretty petals. They proselytize to all who'll listen about how every day should be Valentines day and then go home, shut the blinds and have wild animal sex with their partners while begging forgiveness for not bringing home a mushy card filled with sappy sentiment.

I'm just imagining...I wouldn't have any experience on either of side of this coin. Ahem.

So, what does Valentines day mean to me? Well, since this is my pulpit, I'll tell you. The ole V-day to me is a reminder of how NOT to behave. Yep, something about Cupid, his arrows and those damn little cardboard cards that bring out the worst in me. Always have, always will.

As far back as I can remember, I have always acted like a petulant child regarding this day of forced romance. When I was in grade three, and required to take part in the class exchange, I pouted because I didn't want to give everyone a card. I didn't like everyone. Why should I have to lie and give those cooty carrying freaks a card that says "Be mine." I didn't want them to be mine. And when I received the obligatory valentine from them, I carried it between two fingers and disposed of it as if it were covered with dog poo once I got home.

Wasn't I a charming child?

Fast forward to my teeny bopper days. Grade 7, and twelve years old. A very cute little boy named Jeff wanted to be my valentine. I liked Jeff. He was the smartest kid in the school and he wasn't a geek. When he brought a big heart shaped box of chocolates to school with the intention of asking me to be his girlfriend, all my friends gushed and sighed and told me how lucky I was. What did I do? I yelled at him for embarrassing me in front of my friends and then hid in the girls bathroom until he gave up and trudged home. From what I heard, he ended up giving the chocolates to his mom.

Jeff Litchfield, wherever you are, I'm really sorry.

Fourteen years old, and I had matured. I was ready to embrace any boy who wanted to be my man. Which is exactly what I did at the after school dance. I locked lips with a boy with braces during a slow song, while others stood around and timed us. We made it to just over two minutes. Him cutting my lips and shoving his tongue into my mouth. Me, spitting all over him.

Classy.

Then there was the time Boo gave me roses for valentines day. How nice, right? Poor kid paid a fortune for them and drove all the way into the city to give them to me, on a school night. Would have been really wonderful, except for the fact that I had called him on Feb. 10 to break up with him. For the simple reason that I didn't want to have to buy him a present. When he showed up on my doorstep I literally beat him with the roses until petals were flying and he had to seek refuge in his vehicle.

Crazy bitch.

Since we've married, we have managed to avoid any of the minefields that seem to trigger my psychotic tendencies. He buys me flowers occasionally, plies me with liquor and passes on a mushy assed card, which I normally snigger over and then whine about it not being a funny card. One I can appreciate it.

This year, I was bound and determined to right the wrongs of the past and embrace St. Valentine. I went off in search of the perfect valentine present, not only for him, but for the kids too.

When I came home and unloaded my goodies, I noticed something. I had bought a shitload of crap for me, some groceries and spent more money than I care to share on Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. He's gonna have the best Valentines day ever! But as I rummaged through the now empty bags, I realized something.

I hadn't bought a single thing for my kids or my hubs.

Wow, sometimes I even amaze myself with my thoughtfulness.

Now I am forced to return to the city to buy some sort of candy bribe for my chitlens, and beg for them to overlook my lack of parental grace, and try to find the perfect gift for Boo. Something to show how much I really love him.

Ah, screw it. Who am I kidding. I'm going to go to the damn gas station, buy a bag of skittles, tell the kids to share and to quit their damn whining. They're lucky I got them anything at all. As for Boo, well, we all know the best gift I can give him will be tonight, in the quiet hours of the night when I show him just how bendy I can be.

After all, what says "I love you" more than a flexible wife? Right?

Spread the Delusion...I mean Love

2007-02-13T11:09:00.000-07:00

Ever wake up and instinctively know that the day is going to be filled with sunshine and roses? Welcome to my world. Of course, it helped that I woke up with my nose buried in my husband's smelly armpits for the first time in weeks and my dog snuggled firmly at my back side.

Life is good.

So in lieu of a real post, I am just offering up my simple thanks for all of you who stumbled upon me, offered your support, your friendship and your advice. And let's not forget those of you who sink to my level and leave me dirty comments. You are folks after my own heart.

Anything to get some color into the ole mother-in-law's cheeks. She can be awful pale sometimes. And I am all about public service.

Snicker, snicker.

Because I am a shameless hussy (at least that's what my darling Boo kept telling me in the wee small hours of the night), I'd like to remind all of you that today is the last day to vote for the nominees in the Share the Love Blog Awards, for which we all know I am up for the Most Inspirational blog award.

Still giggling over that.

So if you find yourself at odds around the bloggy sphere and feel like checking out some great blogs (some greater than others...hello...inspirational...heehee), go on over and give it a click.

You won't regret it. I promise.

And a big bloggy hug to all of you who somewhat delusionally voted for me. I love ya. Even if you are quackers.

New Definition of a Hot Dog

2007-02-12T07:28:00.000-07:00

The stress of this past week has started to take it's toll on me. I've lost my appetite, I haven't slept well and I seem to have lost my drive to clean my house. (Alright, so I never had a drive to clean my house, but this is my post so shush!) After dealing with the fact that I've been banished from the family home, I decided to stop moping and just relax. Roll with the punches. So to speak.

Hee hee.

So I cracked open a bottle of red, grabbed a soft blanket and turned on the Grammy's. Can anyone please explain to me the phenomenon that is Justin Timberlake? He looks like a boy and he sounds like a girl. Don't get it.

I digress. After watching the assortment of hollywood's finest strut their stuff, and growing more ~~tipsy~~ relaxed with every sip of wine I took, I toddled off to bed.

Where I had the most incredibly erotic dreams. I dreamt of my husband coming home, taking me into his arms and well, let's just leave it at that. I'm supposed to be a mommy blog, not a soft core porn blog. And trust me, dear internet, the dream I had last night would make Jenna Jameson blush.

Just as my hubs, who magically looked like Clive Owen, but was still my darling Boo, was kissing my neck ever so softly and sensually, I woke up.

To find my damn dog spitting all over me.

Great, not only did I wake up to the crushing realization that I was still alone and not going to get any, especially not any from my husband who looked like Clive, but now I was covered in dog spit. While sleeping in sheets covered with dog hair.

Aren't I sexy.

So I did what any woman who has been alone for a month and hasn't seen a ~~penis~~, I mean a man in a long time.

I closed my eyes and told Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. to keep licking. A little to the left.

Pass the Puns, Please

2007-02-11T08:36:00.000-07:00

It's about time things got back to normal around here, and to celebrate the new, very public status of my blog, I had to dig hard for some good cheese. After all, now all my relatives know about my proclivity for le fromage.

It's not like I can just stumble to the computer naked, without makeup or hair combed and just blog anything while I sip on my morning coffee. Oh wait, yes it does. It just means they are going to hang their heads in shame a little bit longer when they think of me than they normally would have otherwise.

And yes, occasionally I sit here naked as the day I was born. Nothing like a little nudity to get the creative juices flowing. Plus, it really turns on the hubs.

Good morning my darling mother in law. Say hello to Nana for us. Heehee.

On that note, I'm off to go get dressed. Wouldn't want the kids to find their momma sitting here, stroking the keyboard while cackling to herself. I do like to pride myself on my parenting skills after all. Without any further ado, enjoy!

I needed underwear. What a pain in the ass. They were stocked in the rear. I argued with the cashier over the price - I didn't crack. I called her a name, she turned the other cheek. I didn't mean to make her the butt of my anger. The yelling was brief. Lucky for her I'm not a boxer. If it wasn't for needing the underwear, I would have socked her. In my triumph, I sang a happy thong on the way out.

A Pyrrhic Victory and Pickle Soup

2007-02-09T09:54:00.000-07:00

***UPDATED AT BOTTOM OF POST***

The danger of blogging anonymously is that one day it will not be so anonymous. That day has arrived for me. I've been outed officially. My mother knows about my blog. So, fool that I am, with a in-or-a-penny-in-for-a-pound attitude, I told my mother-in-law too. Aren't I brave? To be fair, the MIL took it with good humor. She was more concerned that the world knows her son as Boo and that I frequently refer to his special man sausage as Mr. Pickle. That definitely fell under the whole too much information category.

My parents however, do not think I'm charming. Or funny. Or accurate. In fact, my father threatened to call the police and press charges for the post I wrote about my mother. I told him I would dial the number for him.

I've been dooced. I was in fact, fired from my family. Told that if I didn't issue a retraction for bad mouthing my mother all over the internet, I was no longer welcome in their home, no longer considered a member of their family.

After an argument, I held firm and refuse to apologize for this post. I stand by every word I wrote.

Don't get me wrong, I feel bad that my mother's feelings are hurt. That was never my intention or I would have used her name and forwarded a copy to her, her co-workers, her friends and every damn relative we have. But the point of that entry was for me to find peace and hope within my own past with my mother and strive for a better relationship with my daughter.

I will not apologize for that.

Nor will I pretend that our relationship has been easy. Just as I won't pretend that when I refused to apologize and tongue-in-cheek offered to call the police on their behalf, that I wasn't beat up. It is not okay to hit another person. Especially when that person is your daughter.

Publishing this will surely mean more drama, more hurt feelings, more anguish for my parents.

But then I'm the one nursing a sore jaw from being punched in the face and a bruised windpipe from having it crushed in an effort to silence my glib responses. Not to mention the lovely, very chic bruises of blue and purple I'm sporting on my arm from being manhandled.

Good times, dear internet. Good times.

After fleeing from my parents home, I cried. I rushed to the computer to delete every post in which I mentioned my parents. But as I sat looking at my redheaded alter-ego, I just couldn't do it. I won't pretend that my past wasn't filled with emotional abuse and sometimes, like yesterday, physical abuse. I won't edit my life to make my parents comfortable.

I write here, because laughter really is the best medicine. And I never want to forget that. Life is good. Even with that hairy little angel clinging to my back, plucking my heartstrings when ever he feels his mommy isn't paying enough attention to his memory.

My life is what it is. I have never got along with my mom. I will never stop trying to get a long with my mom. Even if she chooses not to speak to me. Nor will I ever forget the times I went to school with black eyes and had to pretend they were from my brother. They weren't. (Although he informed me that he did often clock me in the face, I am just to addled to remember.)

I grew up in a home with both physical and emotional abuse. I can't change that, but I can speak out against it, in an effort to help end that cycle, break that invisible chain. Am I willing to sacrifice my relationship with my parents to continue blogging? No.

Am I willing to sacrifice my relationship with my parents to ensure my relationship with my children follows a different path? Abso-fucking-lutely. And I feel no remorse or guilt for it.

The purpose of this post is not to shame my parents; I love them very much. I know that they did the best they could for me within the parameters of their situation and upbringing. They loved us and sacrificed for us. And I thank them for that. But they also made tremendous mistakes, ones I find myself desperately trying to avoid.

Ultimately, my priorities, are and always will be, my children. I am who I am because of the path I walked, the choices I made, the experiences I have. The good, the bad and even the ugly. I accept my choices and I can live with myself when I press publish today.

I can even handle the ass-whooping that was dished out. Because I know it will never happen to my children. Not on my watch. Never. I'll take a thousand angry blows to the jaw to protect them and their right to know their past, their history. My parents made me into the person I am today. They might not approve or even like me right now, but I'm fine with that. Because I like myself.

And I like blogging about what makes me the person I am. I want my children to read these posts one day and marvel at their mother's stupidity with hair removing wax, her affinity for duct tape, and her general humanity. I want them to know that I miss their brother so damn much that the pain freezes in my chest with every breath I inhale, but by kissing their small, snotty nosed faces, that pain eases just a bit.

I want them to know they mean everything to me, the way their brother did and always will. Even when they drive me batshit crazy. I want Fric and Frac and our future child to know who I am. And how I became the person I am. Life is not all sunshine and roses.

This week had a very dark day. I don't know what the future holds, how my parents will react to today's post, if they are even going to read it. If you're reading this Mom and Dad, hey! I love you, no matter what happened or will happened. Thanks for being my folks. Raising the likes of me couldn't have been a bucket of love all the time.

But I'm not going to pretend our past isn't what it was. Because then I would be pretending I'm someone I'm not. Which would defeat the healing aspect of this blog, and prevent my kids from knowing the human being trapped inside the body they call Mom. (Generally said as they roll their eyes heaven wards. Cheeky buggers.)

This is why I haven't blogged much this week. This is the dirty, embarrassing secret of my past. A past I embrace in order to change the future. A past most wouldn't find all that inspiring.

But I do. Because it made me the person I am today, and brought me to my husband, my children and dill pickle soup. Life is good. And that, my dear internet friends, is what I find inspiring.

***UPDATE: For those of you who have inquired, sympathized and offered well wishes, thank you. I am fine. Nothing a good steak (on the face) and a big glass of mommy juice can't fix. I am surrounded by support, both of the e-love variety, and the war cries of those in my flesh and blood life. Darling Boo offered to come home and rip someone from limb to limb, but I fended him off. No sense adding fuel to the fire. His righteous indignation is more than enough. He can kiss my booboos better when he gets home. My big ass brother, Stretch, has held my hand and propped me up. (Well, more like put me in a head lock and made me smell his smelly pits, but still, I could feel the love.) As of tomorrow, I will be back, stinking up the blogosphere with my prediction for cheese.***

******************************************************************

Now, go here and vote for me. Find me inspiring. I know my husband does! And thank you to all you lovely people who voted for me in the first place. Not that I have a chance at winning at the competition...have you seen those blogs? They're good. And there is no talk of family violence, young kids dying or potty language amongst them. But hey, if that floats your boat, click me. I'm a shameless whore and don't mind begging.

No, that doesn't apply to you, Boo.

The Cost of Womanhood

2007-02-06T07:28:00.000-07:00

I wish I were a man. A large, hairy, unshaven, smelly-breathed, foul odoured man. A man who can burp and fart (at the same time!) and have nobody think less of him. Especially if there is a football game on and a beer in one hand and a bowl of chili in the other. As a woman, and as a rule, burping and farting aren't particularly cute. Unless you are MamaTulip then it is sexy as hell.

But I'm not Ms.Tulip, and if I tried that party trick of hers, I'd have people tossing rotten tomatoes and over-ripe eggs at my head. Not to mention, I can barely muster up a pathetic burp after ingesting a big ole soda with lots of air to spare. Not only can men make odd body sounds and get away with it, they find it funny. Talk about self-amusement!

Nope, as a woman, I'm not supposed to sweat, have bodily functions or find potty humor funny. I make a lousy woman, seeing as I do all of those things. And I'm not going to whine, I mean, mention the ~~horrors~~ joys of pregnancy, childbirth and menstruation.

I love being a woman. Not.

I have a slightly used uterus for sale, any bidders? No? Damn, I don't want it either.

Where is all this coming from, you ask? Alright, I'll tell you. Save poor Roxylynn from having to hear about it when I call her later today. (Who am I kidding, we all know I'm gonna whine about this as often as I can, at every given opportunity.)

Last night, my darling Boo told me he would be home by Monday of next week. Whoo hoo! The dry spell has an end in sight. I can stop buying batteries for my favorite pet ,the Rabbit and focus on meeting up with Mr. Pickle once more.

Yes, I'm a dirty girl...I like having sex with my husband. Which is why I married him. Oh yeah, that and I love him. Can't forget that.

Of course, once Boo gets home, he has other chores to perform, not all of them inside the bedroom. The kids have missed him, so there will be hours of quality video gaming time to be had, wood to be cut (hello! We live in Canada, and it's cold during the winter!), and garbage to be taken to the dump. (I don't take garbage to the dump. It smells up my car.)

But, let's face it, those bedroom chores are very important. Especially after being gone for a month.

In anticipation of our reunion (giggle), I decided it was time to deforest my legs and spend some time down south, trimming the wildlands known as the bush. (Classy, aren't I?) Since he's been gone for ever, there hasn't been much personal grooming needed, other than an occasional shower. I've been growing my hair out in all regions. Legs, pits, and well, you catch my drift.

Since I'm fairly certain my husband doesn't want to be greeted by a Sasquatch, it was time for some serious hair removal. I hunted everywhere for razors, but damn it, my son must have taken my last one. He keeps thinking if he shaves his peach fuzz he will start growing stubble. Won't that be cool, a fully bearded nine year old. I have explained that his father has yet to reach puberty and hardly needs to shave, but somehow it is not getting through the wax in that boy's ears.

I didn't have razors, I was out of chemicals to kill the little hairs, but way back in the corner of the bathroom cabinet was a lone, dusty box of waxing strips. Forgot about those little buggers. Well, I have a week to heal if I rip off my skin, I thought to myself as I blew the dust off the box.

Won't Boo be ~~horny~~ happy when he sees me, I thought.

Now, I have never waxed my legs before, as I have long legs and that just seems like an endless endurance test of torture. But I've had my brows ripped regularly, even my upper lip (not that I needed it...just thought I'd try it, thank you very much!) and none of it hurt all that badly. Besides, I've squeezed out three babies and buried one of them. What could hurt more?

Bravely, I walked to the door, made sure the kids were in bed, and then stripped. I looked at my little patch of paradise and took a deep breath and applied the wax strip. No going back now, right?

After reading the directions, I pulled the skin tight and took a big breath and let 'er rip. HOLY MOTHER OF GOD!!! I looked down expecting to find my skin attached to that little piece of plastic and wax with blood oozing everywhere, but instead, there were only hairs. A lot of freaking hairs. But still many more hairs to go. How many times was I supposed to do this to myself, I thought.

Never one to be a quitter, I had to try again. I applied the next strip to an already raw piece of skin and tugged again. GEEPERS F%9*KIN* HOLY MOTHER MARY!!! This hurt even worse. Now there was pin pricks of blood appearing and my skin was quickly starting to bruise.

Great, now I had a lopsided, still hairy, bruised and bloody crotch. Won't I be sexy for my husband. But if you think I stopped there, you underestimate my tolerance for self-mutilation and my level of persistence. There is no way I'm walking around with a crooked crotch.

After ripping through all the wax strips in that box I finally managed to even things out. Painfully, might I add. And when I woke up this morning I discovered my bikini area covered in little red scabs and was a pretty shade of blue and green. Aren't I a foxy momma?

Several lessons were learned here. Lessons I feel obliged to share. One should never wax one's nether regions if they haven't a clue what they are doing. People pay money to go to school to learn how to rip and remove. I wasn't one of them, but I now hold these people in the highest esteem. One should always be wary of that dusty box they can't remember purchasing in the dark corners of any cabinet. It can be a tool of the Devil, just waiting to lull you into a false sense of security and then WHAM! Presto, pain!!!

One should always hide their razors from their hairless children (or any child if the adoption folk are reading this) so that this situation should never arise again. One shouldn't be so lazy and let herself grow until she resembles a furry little monkey.

And finally, unless one speaks the language and knows the culture, one should stay the hell out of Brazil and just stick to the North country. It's hairier, sure, but a whole lot warmer and less painful.

I hate being a woman.

Pass the Puns, Please

2007-02-04T08:50:00.000-07:00

I'm having sleep issues. As in I'm not getting enough. Not because I stay up late to download music, or because my children rise at the crack of dawn to start jumping on one another and wrestle; not even because I have a newborn to feed in the quiet hours of the night. Although, I really wouldn't mind that last one, if you are reading this dear adoption people.

No, my problem is Nixon, The World's Greatest Dog, Ever. He has bonded with me. And apparently he has bonded with my pillow. Which means I spend the majority of the night elbowing the damn dog who snores worse than my absent husband, to move the hell over while trying to wrestle a corner of my pillow back from the little hog.

But how do you get mad at a pooch who wants to cuddle right up under your chin every night to keep you warm?

Instead of kicking him out and closing the door, no, I'll just keep elbowing him and whining about what a selfish little pig he is. Much like I would if it were Boo in bed with me, instead of my dog.

However, lack of sleep means you shouldn't have high expectations with today's serving of cheese.

It made me smile and groan, but it is a pungent one folks. Fair warned. You might have heard this one before, but consider it a quality encore production. Even the stinky cheese needs to be aired out now again to be appreciated.

Enjoy!

A Chihuahua, a Doberman and a Bulldog are in a bar having a drink when a great-looking female Collie comes up to them and says, "Whoever can say liver and cheese in a sentence can have me."

So the Doberman says, "I love liver and cheese." The Collie replies, "That's not good enough."

The Bulldog says, "I hate liver and cheese." She says, "That's not creative enough."

Finally, the Chihuahua says, "Liver alone . . . cheese mine."

I Feel So Honored...

2007-02-03T14:15:00.000-07:00

Last month, Binky nominated me for best Canadian blog in some blog contest. She meant well, but apparently nobody other than the handful of people who stumble across me daily know I even exist.

Suffice it to say, I didn't make it past the nominations round.

But that's okay, because for the first time in what seems like ever I glowed with pride and was humbled that somebody other than my husband thought I was cool.

I now follow Binky around and pester her every damn day. She's acquired her very own ~~stalker~~ fan.

Thanks Binky. I love ya. In a non-sexual, completely anonymous, bloggy type of way.

Then Catherine, that's right, queen of the Bad Mother's, informed me that she nominated me in another blog contest, Share The Love Blog Awards.

Get this, for the Most Inspirational blog.

Quit laughing.

While I would have liked to be known for my awesome ramblings, my sense of style or my witty comments, Catherine thinks I'm inspiring.

(Take that Mom! How do you like them apples?) Yes, I do know that my mom doesn't read my blog, but it still feels good to say that.

I'm not going to ask for your vote, but I am going to ask that if you have some time to spare to go visit this page. Peruse some of the wonderful candidates. There are some mighty fine woman writers out there. And I'm pleased as punch to be included in such a group of talented ladies.

And if you happen to find my posts about duct taping kids to a wall, talk of nipple rings and tattoos, sex education and the odd post about how it feels to drag your ass out of bed every damn day with an angel on your back (very similar to a monkey, only heavier, with more feathers), then feel free to toss me a vote.

I don't know if I would, but I'm sure glad somebody out there finds me inspiring.

An Embarrassing Confession

2007-02-02T13:33:00.000-07:00

I have a confession. I did not get my driver's license until I was almost twenty years old. I didn't even bother to learn until I was well past nineteen. I used to have horrible nightmares about getting into accidents and I just couldn't justify learning how to drive when the city had a public transportation system and an abundance of taxi cabs. Heck, who was I not to support the cabbies? It was my civic duty NOT to learn how to drive; to continue using cabs and supporting our economy.

That was, until I wanted to get laid on a frequent basis. Boo lived out in the sticks (not far from where we live now), and I couldn't expect him to always make the trip to the city, especially when he worked out of town. So I sucked up my fear, and with white knuckles and knocking knees, I learned how to drive.

That in itself is a post. Imagine a nineteen year old in a group of fourteen and fifteen year olds who were taking their driver's training so they could use their learner's permit. I didn't even have a learner's permit. Good times people, good times.

But Boo's Mr.Pickle was beckoning me, and I was in the throws of young love. I did what I had to do to fill my er, needs.

I have never claimed to be a good driver. I try hard not to speed, but sometimes my foot grows heavy. I try hard to always stop at the stop signs in the middle of nowhere, but sometimes I roll right on through and pray no one is looking. And there are times I have run a red light in my haste to make a quick trip to the Emergency room.

But the only accident I have ever been in is when my husband was driving and slammed into a cow. I was merely a passenger on that trip to hell. (Any one ever hear a cow scream in agony? Eerie.) So while I may not be the best driver, I am certainly not the worst.

However, that said, I have been known to confuse the gas for the brake pedal a time or two. Once, when I was a new driver, I almost crashed through a plate glass window while the office worker stared at me in horrified terror. Luckily for him and I, I quickly recovered and found the right pedal. No damage done, but I'm sure that office dude damn near shit his pants. I'm not positive. I refused to make eye contact and peeled out of there as quickly as I could. (Aren't I full of dignity and grace?)

Another time, when I was in a parking lot, my car tires were resting against a cement bumper stop. I was yelling at my darling husband and floored the gas and got my car stuck on the damn bumper. Had to have my brother and my husband lift my car off, while a crowd of teenagers laughed and snickered at the dumbass blonde driver.

Thank goodness this was before camera cell phones.

I have since mastered the art of avoiding plate glass windows and hanging my vehicle up on large objects in a fit of rage. What I haven't mastered is the art of avoiding a snowbank.

As my friend recently pointed out, I have a habit of finding myself stuck in a snowbank at least every two weeks. Thanks Piano man. (This is the same guy who clings to the "OH SHIT" handle in my car and pops beads of sweat when he rides with me.) However, he may have a small, slightly exaggerated point.

It doesn't matter if I'm coming or going. Snowbanks are like magnets to me and my car. If there is a large snowbank around, inevitably the ass end or nose of my car is going to be buried in it. It's a law of nature with me.

A few days ago, I went to see my beautiful, witty and very pregnant best friend, Roxylynn. She just lives down the road from me. After a lovely afternoon of eating her freshly baked banana muffins and poking fun at the size of her boobs (who knew they could grow so big?) it was time for me and my nephew, the Worm, to be off.

Roxylynn followed me out and waved goodbye and I put the car in reverse and started to back out. All I had to do was back straight down her drive which was freshly cleared of snow and wide enough for four cars to travel on, and I would be free and clear.

Did I mention there was a large snow bank nearby?

Like the eightball into the pocket for a scratch, that was me and the snowbank. Roxylynn watched from inside her warm and toasty home with wonder and amazement. How I managed to find the damn snowbank was all but a miracle. I was good and stuck.

So I did what any city slicker would do in this situation. I called Roxylynn on the cell phone and told her to come and waddle out to help get me unstuck.

Picture a very round, very heavy (albeit in a beautiful glowing way) woman digging the snow out from under the car, while the skinny chick with the pretty leather boots sat in the vehicle and told her to dig faster. (I have balls of steel to talk to a pregnant lady like this...)

When the digging didn't work, she did what any pregnant woman would do. She PUSHED me out like she's gonna push out that baby in a few weeks. She just buckled down, grunted and presto! I was free from my icy prison.

I asked if she was ok, and after assuring myself she didn't just push herself into early labour, I smiled and drove away, carefully looking for any more snow banks that might jump out and trap me. Me and my expensive leather boots were safe.

That's my confession, dear internet. Not only am I attracted to snowbanks, but I am willing to make a mule out of my best friend Roxylynn. I should feel shame about this fact, but somehow I don't.

I'm just glad my best friend is strong as an ox and ready to shovel when I need it.

An Open Letter

2007-01-31T08:19:00.001-07:00

To the People in charge of Redneck Mommy's Adoption,

As a member of Redneck Mommy's family, and let's face it, the glue that holds that woman together, I am taking it upon myself to see what I can do to speed up this adoption process.

I'm Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. I'm sure you've heard of me.

As you can see, my RM is slightly confused. In her desperation to adopt a child, she has transferred the love and affection she has for all of her children, new, used and invisible, and placed it on me. Do you have any idea the pressure this puts on a pooch such as myself? I'm getting a bald spot on the top of my head from all her kisses and let's not discuss how many times I've noticed large patches of my fur being removed with her incessant cuddling and stroking. She's wearing me out and that says a lot seeing as how I've got boundless energy.

Do you see what she did to me? Further proof that she has lost her mind. The next thing I know she's going to be putting her nephew's, The Worm, clothes on me and pushing me around in a buggy introducing me to all her friends as her newly adopted child. I know everybody is expecting a special child, but please, I'm too pretty to be confused for a HUMAN. Do you have any idea how hard it will be to get laid if the neighborhood bitches see me being paraded around in a bonnet?

So I urge you, please, speed up her adoption and give the woman a kid. Preferably one that doesn't walk or talk or make any sounds. That Worm of hers is more baby than I care for. But I love RM, (she knows all the right spots to scratch and she is susceptible to bribery) so I want her to get herself another little drooler. I'm not above begging here. My dignity depends on it. The other day I heard her muttering about finding a diaper to fit me! A fucking diaper!

Help dog out and save the sanity of all lives involved. I can vouch for her ability to love and parent. She keeps those rugrats of hers on a tight leash. (Hee,hee, while I can pretty much get away with murder...Not that I would, I'm a really gentle dog. These fangs are strictly for show.)

Sincerely,

Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever.

Showdown at the Local Costco

2007-01-29T07:32:00.000-07:00

Friday night found me alone with my son, Frac. Fric was over at a friend's house, painting her toenails, and gossiping about the boy crush known as Nathaniel. (This is an anonymous blog, right?) Since a little quality mother-son time was upon me, I did what any good mother would do. I took the boy shopping. Don't worry, dear internet, I avoided all clothing and underwear stores and stuck strictly to the grocery ones. It was nice having some one on one time with my boy; I learned all about the plot line of his favorite video game, the names of his favorite characters and the fact that his teacher, Mrs. Moustache, (no, she doesn't have one...I think) drinks way too much diet Pepsi in the morning.

After arguing over whether broccoli was really a necessity of life (I say yes, but he argued no) and debating whether apple turn-overs were a breakfast food or a dessert (he said dessert, I argued breakfast food), we decided to grab a hotdog and a pop for our supper.

I believe in a well-balanced healthy meal consisting of all parts of the cow and a variety of different chemicals I can't even pronounce.

Sitting there, with my wiener (two days in a row I managed to squeeze that word into a post!) slathered in mustard and sauerkraut, I looked at my son who was covered in ketchup, trying to fit an oversized hotdog into his mouth, and thought how proud I was to be part of his life; to simply know him. Even when he used the sleeve of his new cream sweater as an over-priced napkin to sop up the ketchup from his face.

I looked around and noticed the people around me. It was late already, and the table section was fairly empty. On one side of us was an elderly gentleman enjoying a slice of vegetarian pizza while reading a magazine, and on the other side of our table were two men my age, one with iPod buds in his ear and the other a scruffy man in desperate need of a shower. They kept looking over and smiling, I kept pretending I didn't see them.

Suddenly, Frac decided to become Chatty Kathy. He asked how I met Dad (I've told this story many, many times), how I knew I loved him, (I told him it all depended on the size of his dad's weekly paycheck), and why didn't I ever play video games. (Duh, I suck at them!)

All the while the men on either side of us, listened with half an ear, while pretending not to. To be fair to them, my Frac has a large, booming voice, much like his father. Even when he whispers, people in the next county can hear what he is saying. I used to think he had hearing problems, now I know that he's just a boomer.

Trying to be discreet and witty all at the same time, without discouraging this unusually inquisitive side of my son, I tried to answer any question he tossed at me. He just kept tossing the curveballs, and I just kept knocking them out of the ball park.

I knew I was in trouble when his eyes lit up. I could see the gears in his brain start to spin furiously. He suddenly became aware of the audience we had on either side of us. This no longer was a question and answer period, but a game of let's see what I can get away with.

I knew it, and thought bring it on, little man. I'm smarter than you. Damn it, I'm 31 and you're nine. Let the better man win.

While slurping loudly from his over-sized cup of pop, he asked me what a uterus was. The elderly gentleman next to us suddenly wished he had picked another table to sit at. I proceeded to explain to my son that it was a woman's sex organ where babies are conceived and live until they are born. Silently tapping myself on the back, I looked at the old man to see if I had answered appropriately and if he needed resuscitation.

Frac thought of this for a second and then asked where the uterus was. How the f#&k do I know? I thought as I calmly answered "in our mid-section, behind our bladders." I was speaking softer now, not wanting to reveal my ignorance of the feminine anatomy to the men on either side of me.

As Frac digested this and his cowparts sausage, an evil gleam glimmered in his eyes. Shit, I thought, but in for a penny, in for a pound.

"Well, where do the babies come out?" Frac asked loudly, and somewhat triumphantly. Little bugger knew he had me by my tailfeathers as he looked at the men at the one table and grinned widely.

Ignoring the smirking fools sitting next to me, I looked Frac square in the eye and thought, Two can play at this game, my little demon spawn, while answering loudly and proudly, "Why out of our VAGINAS, of course."

Frac paled a little at the va-jay-jay word and the elderly gentleman choked on his coffee. I studiously ignored the laughing from the men on the other side of me. But Frac is his mother's son, and he straightened up, looked ~~thoughtful~~ evil for a moment and then asked loudly "Does any part of the man's body go into the woman's when they have sex?" I could see the look of triumph on his face. Kid thought he had me beat.

I looked him straight in the eye and said "Of course. Haven't you ever heard of French kissing? The man puts his tongue into a woman's mouth, and if he's lucky she doesn't bite it off."

I knew I was walking a fine line here, knowing that if Boo was around he'd likely murder me for my answers. Let's not even go to what my social worker would think if she knew what I was teaching my kid. Visions of my husband fleeing with my children and my soon-to-be-adopted child being yanked out of my arms by an angry government employee skittered through my head. But this was war, dammit, and I hate losing.

By now, the elderly gentleman had enough of my sex education talk and took his pizza and moved to a table further away from me and my talk of uteri and vaginas. When he stood up he gave me a withering look and shook his head in pity for my son. I shot him a brilliant smile and was tempted to invite him to sit with us to enjoy his meal.

Secretly, I was sweating bullets and Frac knew it. I was looking for a way to end this conversation without conceding victory and he was looking for a way to go in for the kill. Meanwhile, the men next to us were enthralled, trying hard to contain their giggles and guffaws. Bastards were egging on my Frac, and Frac knew it.

My beautiful boy sat and thought about French kissing for a second and then looked me dead in the eye and grinned.

Shit.

"No, Mom, I mean, any parts DOWN there," as he pointed to his nether regions.

By now, the men next to us made no pretense of ignoring our conversation. They sat there, with their mouths agape, and waited breathlessly for my answer. I looked at them, for backup, pity, support, anything, but could see I wasn't going to get any from these twits.

I looked at Frac and saw his beaming face. The little shit knew he had me. I could either launch into a sermon of the birds and the bees and educate all the men around me (for God knows the trolls next to me obviously needed an education) about the intricacies of sex OR I could admit defeat.

I did what any good woman would do.

I changed the subject and asked Frac if he wanted to go pick out a new video game. Suddenly, the battle was forgotten and the gleam in his eye turned into one of electronic delight.

I shot the men next to me an evil smile and they looked devastated. Apparently, Frac and I were the evening's entertainment and I had just closed the show before the really good part began. As Frac hurried to the garbage bin to dispose of our remnants, I leaned over to the men and whispered, "Don't ever underestimate a woman, gentleman."

As Frac waved at me to hurry up, after all, I had just ~~bribed~~ promised him a new game, I smiled at the men and sauntered away.

Crisis averted, and battle won.

Pass the Puns, Please

2007-01-28T00:31:00.000-07:00

I started posting puns on Sunday as a lazy way of blogging. It didn't take any real effort and let's face it, that appealed to me. Much the same way I appreciate the Swiffer Wet Jet, the remote control and individually wrapped Rice Krispies squares. Anything to make my lazy-loving life a little easier is nothing to be shunned.

Why write when I can pun? So off I went, thinking up and searching for some real stinkers. Because anyone can pun cleverly, but it takes a real connoisseur to pull of a groaner. And so began my punny Sundays.

Of course, there are critics. Not everybody loves a stinker. Not everybody has acquired a taste for le fromage.

Too damn bad. It's my blog and I've got me a love of smelly cheese.

But for those of you who desire a sophisticated pun, I found one. No, I can't take credit for it, but I can whole heartedly appreciate it.

So without any further ado, enjoy!

In a recent news broadcast, it was announced that Lorena Bobbitt's sister Louella was arrested for an alleged attempt to perform the same act on her husband as her famous sister had done several years ago. Sources reveal the sister was not as accurate as Lorena.

She allegedly missed the target and stabbed her husband in the upper thigh causing severe muscle and tendon damage. The husband is reported to be in serious, but stable condition, and Louella has been charged with ......

A Misdewiener!

Alright, perhaps sophisticated isn't the most accurate word, but it was a real stinker, right?

A Daughter's Insight

2007-01-26T09:23:00.000-07:00

Late last night, while I was enjoying my cup of tea, waiting for my cold medication to kick in and deliver me some sweet relief from my aching bones, feverish mind and phlegmy cough, the phone rang. I croaked hello into it, hoping to instill great amounts of pity in whomever was calling me at so late an hour. (Oh, that poor sick woman, I had better be extra nice to her, as she is all alone and sick and taking care of three children, one of whom isn't even hers, and that woman really deserves a medal...I admit it, I worked my croak to instill sympathy and I'm not ashamed of it.)

My croaking efforts were wasted as it was my big brother Stretch. The only time he has ever had pity on me was when he saw me at my son's viewing. Any other time is fair game for good natured teasing. Walking like a duck because I was hugely pregnant and suffering with pelvic bones that liked to separate; well it was my own damn fault. Should have kept my knees together in the first place. Having a horseshoe imprinted on my 11 year old face and my nose swell up to the size of a hot air balloon, well duh! Who the heck told you to walk behind a horse? Silly girl. Have a straw painfully stuck into the roof of her mouth because said big brother gently tapped the bottom of her milkshake cup? Should have been quicker and moved that cup.

The joys of having an older brother. After he ribbed me mercilessly about my germy house and told me about the joys of handwashing and antibacterial soap, he offered me this pearl of wisdom: Get rid of your kids. They carry disease like little rats. Thanks, Stretch. I would never have thought of that pearl all by myself.

After his dutiful lecture about sanitation and the joys of a kid-free life, he developed the brass nuts to ask me a favour. A favour that would require me talking to my mother. Wow, insensitivity and guilt all in one phone call. How did I get so lucky?

I don't often blog about my mother. Quite frankly, the subject is too painful and I prefer not to dwell on the embarrassing fact that my mother hates me. After all, most families have drama. What makes mine any different? Some how, it seems like my biggest failure; a daughter who wasn't loveable enough to win over her own mother.

Of course, years of therapy, time and some distance has taught me the flaw in that particular thought. My mother is simply flawed. I have made peace with that fact, but it hasn't always been easy, especially with her living down the road. It isn't easy reading other women's odes to their mothers, whether alive or not, and knowing that I have no such words to offer of my own. Mother's Day is brutal, for there is no card that says "I'm sorry I make you so angry and I'm really sorry we can't get along."

Yes, I love my mom. I wish every damn day that our relationship was different. I have tried so hard and made so many attempts my husband threatens divorce if I try again. Because inevitably, I get hurt. My mother simply can't understand who I am or respect who I became.

After years of growing up with her verbal abuse and believing her that it was all my fault, that I was lazy or stupid or ugly or fat, I realized no amount of change would suit her. And giving birth to my own children, especially my daughter, made me question why I should have to. It didn't matter to me what my daughter looked like, says, does or thinks. I don't care if she wants to be a ballerina or a dump truck driver. To me, she is the most precious gift I have. A mini reflection of myself, an extension of the love I share with her father. So why am I not the same thing to my mother?

My older brother and younger sister do not have these problems to the same extent as I do. My brother distances himself both physically and emotionally from her abusive personality. It is enough to see her on holidays and exchange pleasantries with her when he calls to talk to our father. My sister actually lives with her and has somehow managed to find a way not to bring out the inner dragon on a regular basis.

But there is something about me that makes my mother hurl insults at me whenever she gets the chance. Something about my looks, or my speech pattern or my breathing that makes her remind me, in front of my children, that she doesn't like me. She isn't sure she loves me. She wishes she didn't have me.

Of course, two minutes later she denies uttering those words. And then the "poor pity me" routine begins. It is exhausting and embarrassing. My husband and his family, all too often witnesses to such behaviour, have no words and no explanations. They simply hug me harder and offer a prayer.

My friends, often disbelieving at first, until witnessing awful outrages over nothing, are puzzled and saddened. Most grew up with wonderful parents and can't imagine having this type of relationship with their mother.

My children, whom I have tried to shield as much as possible from this craziness, don't understand how a grandma can be so wonderful to them, but so unjust and cruel to their mother. They are at an age where things are starting to make sense to them and they don't know how to make the pieces to this puzzle fit.

I used to feel sorry about this, pity myself and my lack of a mother. I used to spend hours trying to remember one single childhood memory that involved a hug, a touch or kind words or laughter with her. I honestly can't. I have many with my dad, but not one with my mother.

I know I am not the first in this club, nor will I be the last. But knowing this fact doesn't make it any less isolating. Any less painful. Every argument we've had, every harsh word, I pick apart to examine and see where I went wrong. Was it really my fault that my mother didn't talk to me for two full months from the day I buried my son? Could I have been nicer to her at the funeral? I guess I should have hugged her first instead of waiting until the end of the day. But I just couldn't face that accusing look in her eyes, the one that said I failed as a mother and managed to kill the one good thing I had done.

I haven't given up trying to reach my mother. But now I understand, it isn't me. Something within her is broken and is reflected back to her, every time she sees me. Sometimes she can control that rage and disappointment, other times she can't. But I admit to no longer caring as much. Or hurting as much when she tells me what a loser and a disappointment I am. I fear one day I may stop caring all together. And that saddens me.

Because for all the feelings of shame and sadness I feel when I think of her, I know that I am who I am because of her. I am resilient, persistent and humorous because of her. I am intelligent, sharp and I know what I want, thanks in large part to her and her genetics. I am the mother I am today because of the mother she was yesterday. I wouldn't change that.

But I do grieve that mother-daughter bond, especially when my own beautiful daughter comes up to me to simply hug me and tell me she loves me.

How I wish it were that easy for me.

Shoot Me Please. It Would Hurt Less And Be Quicker...

2007-01-24T07:26:00.000-07:00

After a night of wishing I would just hurry up and die already, pleas for mercy which God seemed fit to ignore, it appears that I have a day of illness and misery to face. Alone, with a nine month old baby who is teething and constipated. A baby, whom I love very much, but whom I would rather just give to the first friendly face I see today.

Won't my sister appreciate that?

When I stumbled to the kids rooms, alternating between moaning and cursing, my darling children shrieked and told me they have never seen me so ugly looking.

Just what I needed to hear first thing in the morning to motivate my diseased ass first thing in the morning.

Any one want any children? They're cute, skilled at hiding dirty socks in the oddest places, ignoring the chunks of food on the dishes they are supposed to be cleaning and generally just smearing dirt around to help give the house a new look.

Best of all, they're FREE.

Kidding. I jest. It must be the lack of sleep due to the pain of the sore throat, inner ear infection and all around crap-tastic feeling one acquires when living with the plague.

Even Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog. Ever, is giving me a wide berth. Sure, he loved me when I may have had worms crawling out my ass, but swollen lymph nodes and horking up loogies apparently offends his delicate sensibilities.

Traitor. I'm sooo buying him the generic brand of doggie biscuits next time.

So please excuse this pathetic, whiny post. I'm all alone and I don't have my husband to whine too. I don't dare breathe near my children, or I will be dealing with this virus for weeks. Nobody likes trading disease like trading baseball cards.

Forgive my inarticulate ramblings, I'm still wishing for death.

Pray for a quick end to this people. Or at least for me to feel well enough to once again torture my beautiful children....

Lukewarm Reception

2007-01-22T08:32:00.000-07:00

My husband likes to complain that I spend too much time in front of my computer. I tease him about the fact he's just jealous that my fingers spend more time stroking my keyboard than him, and he pretty much agrees. Yesterday, I was a little nervous about attending the family birthday party. I confess to having a hard time watching my neice and nephew grow older and blow out the candles on a cake that is now bearing one less name in frosting.

To combat my nerves, I did what any blogger would do. I blogged. I surfed the net, checking out new blogs that I generally do not have time for. Time slipped away from me, until I realized that if I was to attend this family function I had better get my arse out of my chair and start riding herd over my children. Who were happily absorbed in some video game and squabbling with one another.

As I hustled them into the shower, I reminded each of them that water was a precious resource and not to squander it. Don't forget to wash behind your ears and make sure you rinse all the soap and conditioner out of your hair. I nagged at them to make sure they washed all the parts of their bodies which included their privates and their toes. Standing in the streaming water does not constitute washing. Remember to use soap.

Satisfied I had nagged appropriately, I started tidying up and getting ready myself. I could hear the arguing over who got to shower first, the annoyed protests of hurry up! and the sounds of my children getting clean. After a few minutes (but who really knows because my idea of tidying up and getting ready at this point meant sitting back down in my chair and reading more blogs) one child slowly emerged from the bathroom and then eventually the other.

All scrubbed and shiny. Good as new. Looking at the clock, I noted how time was really moving and I better bust a move. After quickly reminding (translation: more nagging) the kids to dress appropriately, I hopped into the shower myself.

I should have realized something was amiss when I could barely see where the shower was. The steam was cloying and claustrophobic. But by now I was thinking of nothing but Bug and hoping I could pull through the party without turning into a mushy, weepy aunty.

I turned on the water and quickly hopped in. I didn't have time to adjust the water temp, I had to get my ass in gear. The spray of water hit my skin and I quickly grew goosebumps as big as my dog. I adjusted the water and waited for warmth. Except the water seemed to be growing cooler. I turned around once more, and turned the hot water on full blast. By this point my poor body is shivering uncontrollably.

Nothing. Just lukewarm water quickly chilling into an icy blast of winter. I waited for a second until I realized something.

The little buggers used all of the hot water. And now I was stuck with a cold shower.

By the time I was done having the world's quickest shower, my lips were blue, my teeth chattered so hard they about rattled out of my head and my knees were knocking together from the cold.

As I toddled off to my room to get dressed and regain feeling in my toes, my darling children commented on how quickly I managed to shower. Fric took it upon herself to ask if I had managed to remember to wash all of my body parts, including behind my ears.

Frac commented on how he loved a good shower as he stuck his finger in his (hot) water soaked ear.

Cheeky children.

As I chattered and shivered and tried to dress, I lectured them from my bathroom. About the importance of hot water and how it is imperative to make sure to save enough for the next person in line to use the shower. How consideration and kindness is a reward of it's own.

How if it ever happened again I would toss them naked into a snowbank and let them see how much they liked having a frosty shower.

My cheeky children just laughed and reminded me that in using all the hot water they had done me a great service.

"How do you figure?" I asked them, still trying to regain sensation in my skin.

"Think of how much water you saved, Mom. You had the quickest shower ever!"

It was hard to argue with that logic. But the next time those two hop into the shower, I fully plan on sneaking into that bathroom and dumping a big bucket of ice water over their heads.

I figure it will be the easiest way to teach them to conserve hot water. And the most fun.

For me, anyways.

Pass the Puns, Please

2007-01-21T09:16:00.000-07:00

Today is the day my extended family gathers to celebrate all the January birthdays. Which will include my Bug's. Last year, so fresh from shock and riddled with pain, I hid in the bedroom and tried to shut out the world and the hurt by squishing my eyes closed and holding my breath until the world spun.

I saw my two year old nephew do the same when he was in trouble and it seemed to work for him. Apparently, I must have done it wrong, because I didn't have the same results.

This year, this day, the wound has been scabbed over and (so far) I have managed not to pick at the scab. So I plan on partaking in the festivities, drinking some happy juice and making a pig of myself when it comes to eating the cake. The way I figure it, I'm eating for two.

NO, I'm not preggers. Although, technically I am expecting. As soon as the government plays nice and hands me over a baby that some one else didn't want.

No, I was referring to the fact I must eat enough cake and icecream for the Bug and for me. Eating for two. At least that's what I'm gonna say when I hip check the kiddies out of the way to get the last piece of cake. All's fair when it comes to cake.

Now I'm off to prepare for the big afternoon. But before I leave, I present to you, my interweb friends, some cheese.

It has a slight odour and an after taste resembling a groan.

Just the type of cheese I like. Enjoy!

There was once this second-rate orchestra led by a second-rate director.

In the orchestra was this guy on the cymbals who never banged them at the right time. So the conductor said, "If you don't get it right this time I'll kill you."

When the time came for the percussionist to get it right, he didn't. And so the director pulled out a gun and shot him dead.

Of course, the police came and arrested him and eventually the conductor ended up on death row.

The day came when he was sent to the electric chair. As the crowd watched, the executioner flipped the switch ... but nothing happened. Everyone wondered what when wrong.

But the director knew. Saddened by all that had taken place, he said, "I never was a very good ... conductor!"

I Double Dog Dare You...

2007-01-19T07:32:00.000-07:00

I love winter. Mostly. I love the snow and the winter sports. Even curling. I love how freshly fallen snow paints a new pristine landscape and erases the sins of yesterday. (Or at least covers the dog poop and McDonald's cups thrown out of the back of my car.) I love toques and scarves and stylish leather gloves. I have six winter coats, (Sorry Boo, you still love me right?) to alternate with what ever I happen to be wearing.

I love the feeling when it is very cold the air seems to bite your lungs when you inhale and the snow actually crunches beneath your feet. I love hurling myself and my children down steep hills on inner tubes and praying to God that we will walk away with our bones intact. I love how the sky looks at winter, and how the stars seem so especially bright. I love standing still while the snow gently falls to the earth and marvelling at how quiet and peaceful the world seems. As I stand there with my tongue out, trying to catch the fat, fluffy flakes, I am transported in time, once more ten years old and making angels in the snow; not a thirty-one year old mom with a big mastercard bill and a looming mortgage.

Of course, if I'm stuck inside for long periods of time with my children, I hate winter. Or if I manage to drive into a snowbank and get stuck, I really hate winter. Or if I fall on my ass in front of my kids, God and a group of goodlooking men while trying to walk in three inch stilettos across an icy parking lot and look cool, well I fu%*ing hate winter.

But I have great winter memories, growing up here in a winter wonderland. Snowmen, snow forts, tunnels, tobaggoning, watching my best friend ski into a tree and break her arm. Great memories. Like the time my dad was struggling to bring in supper (KFC I believe) and he slipped. The bag crashed to the ground and the gravy container popped open and splashed a bit on the outside of our metal screen door. Dad picked it up, brushed his bruised ass off and we dined like royalty that night.

That's not the great memory. No, we had two basset hounds at the time. They were begging and getting underfoot so Mom put them outside to relieve themselves and give us a break while we feasted like kings. A few minutes later we heard some whining and a ruckus so we opened the door to see what the commotion was about. Turns out one of the hounds discovered the gravy on the outside of the metal door and did what any dog would do. He licked it. And promptly regretted it.

No, opening that door to find my dog with his tongue stuck to the door will be a childhood memory I will forever cherish. And don't worry Mrs. Chicky, he wasn't injured. We grabbed some warm water and melted his tongue loose. While laughing our asses off.

Which of course brings me back to the time I was seven and a young, nose-picking child. It was recess and I was on the swings. I was working up a good sweat. Suddenly, the frost on the metal pole looked so enticing. So I had me a Dumb and Dumber moment. There I was stuck to the damn pole. Crying and panicking, while a large horde of children gathered about me and started to laugh and poke at me with sharp pointy sticks. (Well, okay, maybe not, but they may as well have for the scars on my soul from their verbal taunts are surely equal to that of being prodded by the pack of blood thirsty children.) My older brother walked through the crowd, which parted like the Red Sea when Moses walked through it, and wrapped his arms around my waist and gave me a good tug.

F*&ker. I was still attached to that damn pole and now my tongue was bleeding. As my brother was trying to amputate my tongue, some wonderful guardian angel (I think it was the fourth grade teacher) appeared with some water and saved me from having to have my tongue reattached.

I was teased about that for weeks until the next dumbass kid tried the same thing. Ahh, fond memories of surviving winter.

Which of course, leads me to the point of this post.

Guess what I did last night? Nope, I did not stick my tongue to a metal post. Or watch Nixon the World's Greatest Dog. Ever try to wrestle his tongue free from the front door.

I merely double dared my children to stick their tongues to the frosted side of our metal pool. And then I whipped out my camera to document this monumental moment of their childhood while laughing my ass off.

They survived, tongues intact, and now have their own winter war story to pass along to their kids.

Me, I'm still laughing my ass off.

I LOVE winter. But I love being an evil, masterminded mom even more.

***Sorry folks. I only publish pictures of my dead kids, not the ones with a pulse!!!***

Invisible Man

2007-01-17T07:57:00.000-07:00

I am a creature of habit. I find comfort in routine. Sure I love a good adventure, but nothing makes my heart trill more than the static minutiae of daily life. Every morning starts off the same: rise, let the dog out, go to the washroom, torture my children's retinas by turning on their bedroom lights with no warning while singing "Good morning Sunshine! Time to get up and earn Momma some money!" (I believe in early indoctrination...) and then I stumble to my coffee pot.

When ambrosia is in my cup and the delightful smell is wafting in my nose, I sit down at my computer and ignore my children arguing over who gets the last Poptart and who is stuck with plain old cornflakes. I begin to immerse myself in the delights of the blogland before me. Looking for quick hits of entertainment, enlightenment and occasionally, education.

I love my bloglines. I wish I had more time in the day to discover the vast unknown blogs out there. It boggles my mind to know there are so many undiscovered (by me) writers out there whom I could be gleaning useful tips from.

Occasionally when I read my blogs, I stumble upon something that makes me stop and think, something that makes me want to sit up and say "Wait! I have something to say too!!!" This happened to me last week when the incomparable Catherine wrote about her Wonderbaby's pox. With the sad images of that child staring back at me, I read how Her Bad Mother felt when people only saw WB's spots and not the beauty of her soul.

Of course, Catherine has a way with words that I envy. I secretly wish she would come west and adopt me and Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog. Ever. Think of the skills I could soak up from being around such brilliance on a daily basis. But alas, who would feed my kids?

I digress. This topic obviously touched my soul. For the first eight days after Shalebug was born I sat at his side and held vigil. Every movement he made, every breath he struggled to inhale, every drop of blood he lost to the NICU vampires, I watched. I would look at this baby, my baby and wonder why I felt nothing but fear. Maternal instinct, protection, but not the overwhelming love I knew with my other kids.

For eight days I wondered if he could see (he could, as we later found out) or if he could hear. (ABR results confirm ability to hear.) I wondered why when he cried he seemed so off. I couldn't place what was the matter with my son but I knew something wasn't quite right. Finally, after hours of staring at this child who lay there like a dead fish, it occurred to me that I had never seen him blink. I gently blew in his face to see if he would respond.

Nothing. Excited, I grabbed the nearest neonatologist and explained what I saw. Suddenly, there was a flurry of activity around my Bug. The geneticist was called and the neurologist and the neurosurgeon. They peppered me with a barrage of questions and then the neurologist performed the most scientific test I have ever witnessed in my life: he grabbed a tissue out of the nearest Kleenex box, rolled it into a stick-like shape and spit on the end of it to form a point on his tissue spear. He then jabbed it into my son's eye.

Nothing. No response. There was a chorus of "Aha's!" and a flurry of tests ordered and then they began patting themselves on the back and they started to walk away. "Wait!," I blurted out, confused by all the medical speak for I had yet to become fluent in doctor-ese. "What is it, what's the matter with him?"

The neurologist turned around and simply said he had Moebius syndrome. Great! I thought, finally we are making some head way. I naively thought this meant we would be on our way home soon. Let's treat it and get the hell out of dodge, I thought. I asked what this meant and he just said Bug would never smile or frown and then he walked away.

Mystery solved. As I stared at this stone faced little baby, it all began to make sense. He didn't respond to my voice or touch with all the usual physical cues a normal child would. There was no gassy smiles, no cute infant grimaces and no angry baby faces when he was pissed off.

Nothing but his big beautiful eyes staring back at me. Until, of course they rolled up into the back of his head. (His way of blinking.)

This was the start of Bug's journey and it wasn't even his hardest path to travel. But it was by far the most pressing issue we dealt with on a day to day basis. It wasn't until I was presented with a non-verbal child who did not have the ability to communicate with his face that I understood the importance of body language.

Family and friends were lost when it came to dealing with Bug. They tried hard and they wanted to love him, but his stone face made it difficult. They confused his laughing for crying and they couldn't see when he was working up to a full blown fit. He was easy to ignore. Because he was hard to read.

Added to his blank face, was the splints and casts, tubes and machines and a lovely little wheelchair, and our Bug was a walking advertisement for "Hey! Over here! Look at me and then pretend you don't see the handicapped child!" It was a tough lesson for me to learn, especially after priding myself on having the two most beautiful babies in the world.

Where did Bug fit in? At first I railed at God, at the injustice of it all. I would look at pictures of people with Moebius syndrome and (ignorantly) cry on my husband's shoulder. "They're so UGLY!" I couldn't believe that my child was sentenced to a life of disfigurement, paralysis, and worst yet, ugliness all because I cooked him wrong in utero.

I quickly swallowed this, but secretly I was glad Bug was a boy. Somehow it would have seemed so much worse to have a girl who had all of these problems. An ugly girl would have been too much for me to bear.

And then I met someone. The NICU was in the same hall as the Burn ICU. We shared a wait room. There was a man who had severe burns to all over his body. He used to pace this hallway up and down every morning. When I saw him, I shuddered and thought to myself what a monster he looked like. What a poor man, I thought. And then I would toddle off to go and pity myself and my infant son in our little world inside the NICU.

One day, after encountering this man every day for a week and every day quickly looking away so I wouldn't have to see his disfigurement and he wouldn't have to see my pity and fear, I brought Fric and Frac to see their brother. They were four and three years old, respectively. They saw this man pushing his i.v. pole and painfully shuffling along and they stopped dead in their tracks.

Fric, always the brave one, loudly asked "WHAT IS WRONG WITH HIM, MOMMY?" and Frac, my super-sensitive boy started to cry and cling to me, because he thought the man was a monster.

I was mortified. I met this man's eyes for the first time and felt ashamed. It suddenly dawned on me that this was a person trapped behind the scars and bandages. I saw his pain and for the first time, I saw him. His name was Frank, and he gently explained to my kids what had happened to him. Fric was satisfied and eager to see her brother, but Frac was still tightly wrapped around my legs, suspicious of this man-monster.

When I saw my stone faced angel that morning, clarity hit me. I realized there would always be people in the world who would only see his mask, his syndromes, his deformities. People who would only see the disability instead of his abilities. And there would always be people who would choose not to see him at all. Bug would be invisible to a large portion of our society. Simply because of how he looked or, in his case, didn't look.

I talked to Frank every day after that. I apologized for my reaction and explained why I was always around. We became hospital friends, clinging to the mutual bond we found in a puke green hospital corridor. One day Frank was not around and I didn't even notice.

But I never forgot Frank, or my reaction to him, or that of my kids. And later, every time I saw someone look away from me and my child, I thought of Frank. Every time Bug would form long strings of foamy drool that hanged from his mouth like a rabid St. Bernard and his eyes would roll into the back of his head and some soccer mom or old lady in the grocery line up would see it and then pretend not to see us, I thought of Frank.

Every time an old man or a child would see Bug's crooked, scarred feet or feeding tube and then stare at him like he was a bug under a microscope, Frank was shuffling along in the recesses of my mind and in the hallway of my heart.

It took me a long time to learn how to cope with having a disfigured, disabled son. My vanity never recovered. I went from angry to sarcastic, to feeling the need to explain with lengthy medical terms to simply nodding and smiling. I always wondered what Bug thought when I rambled on to some mother or child who simply remarked on his sunglasses.

Did he roll his eyes behind those shades because he had to, or because he just wanted me to shut the hell up? Did he notice people's pointing and staring or worse yet, their obvious attempts at ignoring him. Did he care? Did it hurt his heart the way it hurt mine? Did he take it personally the way I seem to? The way I still do?

One day I will ask him. Until then, I keep him and Frank close to my heart. My vanity no longer rests on that of my beautiful children or what the world thinks of me. I learned to see past the surface and look for the shining soul peering out. In every one.

Because sometimes that shine is hard to see. But it is never invisible. All you have to do is see the smile in their eyes to see that light. I know.

The Dust Bunnies Are Rallying For War

2007-01-15T07:33:00.000-07:00

Have you ever had a dream so wonderful that when you wake up you feel bereft and close to tears, upset because you were forced from your fantasy and back into reality? I had one of those dreams Saturday night. I wasn't dreaming of my beautiful boy (although when I do, I wake up with the same feelings), I didn't dream of winning the lottery and then having to hand over the winnings to my mother and mother-in-law to spend while they roll around naked in my dollar bills. (Yes, I've had that dream and it was entirely unpleasant.) I wasn't dreaming of Clive Owen, George Clooney and my husband fighting over me. (It could happen!!)

No, this particular dream was filled with feather dusters, cleaning chemicals and obedient children. And then I woke. To my reality. A reality filled with dust bunnies, poorly folded laundry and yellow spots sprinkled like candy on icecream around the porcelain throne. Not to mention water marks on the mirrors, greasy dishes and lovely hand prints at the four foot mark on most of my walls.

I really love being a mother. What I wish I had known before giving birth was how the word 'mom' was an acroynm for 'maid'.

Yesterday I decided to take back my freedom. It was war and I am tired of losing every damn battle. (Yes, I am delusional, but shhh, don't tell my adoption case worker.) I decided that at ages ten and nine, my darlings Fric and Frac, realized that the sweet deal they had going was coming to an end. No more gourmet cooked meals (I use Kraft dinner with the white cheddar...), no more candy just for being cute (that might still happen, as I have a propensity for filching it from them) and most importantly, no more maid service.

It was time for my rugrats to learn how to clean.

Quit laughing at me. I told you I was delusional.

So I spent the better part of my day yesterday teaching my daughter and my son how to dust, clean toilets, fold towels and mix the proper ratio of Mr. Clean to water. I even taught them how to use the washing machine.

Don't get me wrong. It's not as though my children are completely useless. They do have chores. They half-ass their way through the dishes on a nightly basis, they clean their rooms the same way I clean my house (shove things in the closet and under the bed and pray to God my mother doesn't notice), they stack wood and take out the garbage. They whine and snivel their way through shoveling half the walk and some of the deck and they fold socks into creatively mismatched pairs.

But it is time for more. Because I am tired. I am lazy. And I am the MOMMY. What I say goes.

So I slapped on my educational mother cap, and began the teaching process. This meant a lot of tongue biting (I'm still tasting blood) and a lot of repetition. I grew more grey hairs and I swear I have two more lines on my face. But when we finished (Thank God for small freaking miracles) the kids had a sense of satisfaction and pride.

I managed to keep from killing them, making them feel bad and I even managed to make it fun. That would be because of the music I blared through out the day to muffle the sounds of my cursing and moaning. Thanks Creed and Pink. You cover a multitude of sins when blaring full blast on the stereo.

When the kids went to bed, I looked around. I tried not to see the grime smeared all around, the streaky mirrors, and the dust bunnies that escaped with their lives. I tried to ignore the fact that my wash machine now rattles in an odd way it never did before. And as I re-washed (sigh) my wine glass, I knew that I had done okay.

Because I still had my sanity, I hadn't hurt anyones feelings and there is always next weekend to do this all over again.

After all, practice makes perfect right?

After a few glasses of my mommy juice things looked better. Cleaner. I went to bed feeling good. Because while I may not have the cleanest house or the motivation to get off my ass to do it myself, I will always have Clive.

What more could I ask for?

Pass the Puns, Please

2007-01-14T09:47:00.000-07:00

Good morning to all my cheery internet friends!

As a current single parent, (thanks to my husband trading me in for his band of merry men in his attempt to chase the almighty dollar) I have had many a sleepless night. Let me tell you, when you are accustomed to crawling into bed to snuggle and molest a large, beautiful, blonde man and all you find is a short, hairy, flatulent dog (and my apologies to the many of you out there who think I am either describing their husbands or themselves...) the night can be rather long.

It could be worse, I suppose. Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog. Ever, has been my knight in shining armour. Without his annoying snuffles and soft snoring, I might go mad at the thought of climbing into that vast, lonely bed for yet another eight hour reminder of who (and what) is missing.

However, a gassy dog is a stinky dog, and my nose has been assaulted regularly since the absence of my man. Which has meant a lot of time staring at the computer screen while I should have been catching my beauty sleep.

The upside is, I have found some remarkably stinky fromage to pass along.

So while I am off to yawn, stretch and drink copious amounts of caffeinated beverages to stay functional for a long day of being trapped inside with my sweet, frenetic children, please enjoy le fromage. Served from me to you with a yawn and a groan...

While shopping at a local toy store, John came across a long line of people waiting for a promised shipment of dolls from Mattel. As he scanned the line, he noticed his friend, Wally, waiting with all the others.

Knowing that Wally had no daughters or young relatives, John figured that Wally must like the dolls himself.

"Wally, I didn't know you were a collector!"

"I'm not," Wally replied
.
"Then why are you standing in this long line?"

"Well, I've never been able to resist a barbie queue!"

What's In a Name?

2007-01-12T07:39:00.000-07:00

One morning, after months of lurking about and stalking my favorite blogs, I gathered up my courage, collected my thoughts and made the big leap. I pressed PUBLISH for the first time. I struggled with what to name my blog, as I didn't have a clear concept of what my site would be about. Obviously it would mention my children, because after more than 30 months of pregnancy (collectively, of course), seemingly endless hours of ~~torture~~ labour, multiple stitches and a total loss of dignity, they are an integral part of my self.

That and the law says I have to feed them.

I knew I would be writing about my darling husband because I love him so. And if I kept quiet about all the stupid shit he says my head was in danger of popping like an over-filled helium balloon. (But he's the bestest, sexiest, most generous husband this lady could scrape up around these parts. And I love you so and miss you, in case this is the odd freaking time you decide to READ my blog.)

But I needed to name my blog. As I sat staring at my glowing screen, listening to the hum of my beautiful iMAC, I was suddenly at a loss for anything creative. Or remotely clever.

Immediately, the words 'Redneck Mommy' popped into my head. I wasn't bright enough to Google them first. Nope, I was blinded by mirth, so delighted in my ahem, cleverness that I simply ran with them.

(I was remembering a hot summer day when I was ten and I asked what a redneck meant. My uncle pointed to his very sunburned neck and said this. Ironically, he meant himself and not his fried skin. I was TEN. Oops.)

Knowing that my mother would die of mortification if she knew I called myself a redneck, (or my family a bunch of hillbillies) I pressed the lovely PUBLISH button once more. Nothing like an act of passive aggressive cowardness to really stick it to your mother. (I have since spent the last year trying to keep quiet the fact that I have a blog, let alone her finding out the name of said blog.)

I didn't understand how creative the Google-loving perverts could be. Or how the word "Redneck" is really just code for hillbilly porn. It's been an education. Some of it funny, some of it just plain ewww....

Because I am celebrating the fact that I managed to shove my children onto the school bus this morning and then flee like a third-rate bank robber, and because I am celebrating the fact that I can leave my dog outside to shit on his own, I have decided to share some of the Google searches that have lead the public to me.

Not you of course, dear internet. The other public. Wink, wink.

Pissed on the Ground: Well, I don't, but my neighbour has been known to. Especially if I am standing nearby, wearing slippers.

My Neighbours are hillbilly trash: See above.

Redneck toothless smile: That would be my Daddy's toothless grin you're googling.

Tacky tattoo redneck: What's your point? Some tramp stamps having meaning.

rabbit murderer: And Google led you HERE??? As far as I know, I haven't been guilty of that since they actually started selling premade home pregnancy kits.

origin of baby showers: I don't know, but if you find out could you let me know? Because after the pain that was my sister's, somebody has some explaining to do.

husband is hung: If you mean in the literal sense, hanged, like a certain Iraqi warlord, then no, no he isn't. If you mean hung in a more pornographic way, I'm certain he would agree with you. I, however, am refraining from commenting on the size of Mr. Pickle.

I want to know how a dandelion grows: Something to do with water and sunlight. Having worked in a greenhouse and priding myself on having a huge green thumb, I should know. But when I see the little suckers I kill first and then ask questions later. I'd advise the same action unless you are fond of the prolific little weeds.

picture of kid duct taped to wall: A work of art, if I say so myself.

redneck magic: That would be what happens in our bedroom. Wink, wink.

Does Kraft Dinner Give You TapeWorms: Not sure about that. But there is a case to be made for Pinworms.

After collecting my Google queries and writing this post, I realized something.

I really am a redneck. And there are some questionable folk out there. Questionable, perverted folk.

Welcome to my blog.

****Edit: These are not the dirty ones either... I couldn't type past all the blushing I was doing! And DELURK dammit! I mean, pretty please...****

Mommy's Developed An Attitude

2007-01-10T09:53:00.000-07:00

***Updated Below!!!***

Living in Canada, on the prairies, there are certain things a person can expect. An inept government, small children playing street hockey, and of course, snow.

I'm a big believer in the "If you can't beat it, embrace it" philosophy. Therefore, instead of whining and moaning about our weekly blizzards, I have learned to love them.

And if you believe that let me tell you about that magic money tree I sell on the side.

Most of the time, I do love the snow. Most of the time I don't have to go to the pharmacist to ask for a pill to kill the worms that may be crawling out of my ass. Most of the time I wake up to get doggy kisses instead of having the dog puke up disgusting chunks of last night's supper he rummaged out of the garbage. All over my upper half. Before I even got out of bed. Most of the time, if the phone rings at 6:30 in the morning, it is my husband calling to tell me how much he loves me and misses me and how I'm the sexiest thing to walk the earth. Instead of a 60 year old dude with a raspy smoker's voice calling to tell me to get my ass out of bed and phone all the parents on the bus route to tell them the buses are cancelled.

Most of the time, snow doesn't matter. Snow is beautiful. A white carpet of freshness that magically erases the ugliness of the day before.

Then there is the dreaded SNOW DAY.

So with the invisible worms, the doggie ralph and the angry parents (because I'm not the only mom who loves Snow Days), yeah, I freaking love winter this morning.

Especially when I tried to open my door to let my damn dog out (and yes, for today, Nixon has lost the title of the World's Greatest Dog. Ever. It went right into the toilet with all his vomit scraped off my arm and chest.) This is what I found:

This is how far I can open my front door. My ass is thin, but it ain't that thin.

This is what my world looks like this morning:

Rather bleak. And try as I might, I just couldn't capture the gusts of snow on camera. That might have something to do with the fact that I was too damn lazy to bundle up and go outside, but oh wait, I can't get out my front door.

For some perspective, this is the tree outside my bedroom window. It is five feet tall.

Yesterday, I could see most of it.

So today, I hate snow. My worm-loving, vomit covered self hates the snow.

To Mother Nature and Jack Frost I say:

Now I'm off to push my kids into a snow bank. That is, after they shovel the deck so I can squeeze my ass out the door.

Well, we are now on day two of the Blizzard That is Driving Mommy Batty. It has since stopped snowing, but the gusting winds and low temperatures mean that my darling children, whom I love more than sanity itself, are trapped inside my home, alone with their stark raving lunatic for a mother. Seeing as how it is currently -31 celcius (that's -24 to you Yanks) without the damn windchill factor, I have to keep everyone inside.

Which poses a problem for my dog who hasn't learned how to use the inside facilities just yet. And why didn't anyone tell me about having to shovel a path for a small dog just so the little shit will shit outside????? Yes, I'm talking to you Mrs. Chicky, dog-trainer extraordinaire!

Every time the damn dog needs to go outside I have to bundle up and brave the elements. I'm hairy, but I ain't that hairy. It's cold out there!!

For the rest of the day I plan on hiding in my pantry, drinking my mommy juice. And when the good stuff runs out I'll just start adding some whiskey to my cocoa.

This way, when the kid's coup d'etat is successful, I will be numb to the pain and oblivious to the consequences.

Pray for me people.

Parenting Ain't Pretty

2007-01-08T13:43:00.000-07:00

When I started blogging, I did so with the intent of remaining anonymous. Easier said than done. Slowly, I became a little less unknown. First, I showed the husband and held my breath, waiting and watching for signs of anger or annoyance. After all, I regularly picked on him and his Mr. Pickle for blog fodder. Instead, he laughed. (Which is why I married him and remain firmly entrenched as his doting wife.) But he loved my blog so much he told a friend. And then I told a friend, and soon a whole bunch of friends knew about my anonymous blog.

Now, pretty much everyone but my mother, mother-in-law and my Boo's sisters (because they'd rat me out quicker than a hummingbird's heart beat) knows about my not-so-secret website. In fact, this weekend while I was at a pub, the D.J. wanted to talk to me so he called the Redneck Mommy up to the stage. I realized he was calling me!

Now that I am not so anonymous, I am keenly aware that my blog has ramifications it didn't before my "outing." Do I continue making snarky remarks about my mother, my MIL, or my genetically challenged family? Will my children be affected by the words I tumble out into cyber space? How far should I go to protect their privacy?

It is with great thought and consideration that I bring to you today's post. It was not an easy decision, I wrestled with it like I would wrestle my older brother for the last Pop-Tart. Not only is this post highly embarrassing to my daughter, but it is of an unseemly topic.

But in the interest of honesty and public education I have decided to proceed. Any mother (or father) who has had to clean up vomit, wipe up splattered poop, pick boogers or sop up blood from an open wound can deal with this. After all, parenting isn't clean. It's messy. We all know that.

And for you parents out there in the midst of the terrible twos or the foggy newborn stage: Brace yourselves. It gets worse.

I'm share because I care.

My daughter Fric, has been complaining of having a rash on her um, buttocks for the past week or so. She gets quite red faced and shamed; after all she is ten and almost an adult. Snort.

Finally after listening to her whine and peering at her bottom to look at this invisible rash, I had enough. I took her to our pediatrician, The Big Cheese. My love for The Big Cheese is well documented. I would marry this man if polygamy was legal out here in the sticks. So driving for an hour for the T.B.C. to peer at my daughter's bottom is not really a hardship.

Plus, there are Starbucks and Tim Horton's in the city. Win-win.

After the Big Cheese squeezed me in the warmest bear hug known to mankind, he ushered us into an exam room and proceeded to pepper us with questions. It was like being reunited with your best friend. Never mind the fact that this was the man who regularly gloved up and shoved his fingers in my child's bottom. (Come to think of it, he's done that to more than one child of mine.) Nevermind this was the same man who came at us with flu-shot the way a veterinarian would come after a lion with a tranquilizer needle. Just ram it in and get the hell out of the way. No, The Big Cheese will always be a member of our family no matter what atrocities he commits in the name of health care.

After our chat he told Fric to hop up and lose the pants. Suddenly my once red-faced daughter was eager to shed her bottoms. A kind smile and a charming word or two from a handsome man was all it took for her to drop her drawers and get on all fours.

That sentence is alarming on soooo many levels. Lord, have mercy and give me strength to get through her teen years...

A quick perusal of Fric's bottom half, he told her to hop down and get dressed. "See," I told her, "that wasn't so bad." I was all righteous with parental authority, so sure was I that this was all in her head.

Turns out I was right. There was no rash. It was in her head. But it is so much worse.

Pinworms.

I just about died laughing (yes, because I am a kind and supportive mother...) when he told Fric and me the diagnosis. Fric wasn't understanding what having Pinworms meant, so in the most sympathetic and reassuring way I could muster, I explained.

"You have worms in your ass."

My beautiful ten year old daughter was horrified. Indignant, she denied this and looked to The Big Cheese to prove me wrong.

Instead, our lovely pediatrician, my hero, laughed and said, "Yup, you've got worms crawling out of your butt. Don't tell your brother."

By now, I'm laughing so hard tears are streaming down my face and my lovely daughter is slowly killing me with her death glare.

"It's not funny, Mom!"

That's when The Big Cheese handed over the prescription and reassured my daughter everything would be fine, the worms would die. And then he told me everyone in our house had to take the medicine. Because we all might be infected.

Suddenly it wasn't so funny. And my non-itchy ass has started to itch at the mere thought.

I chose to breed for this.

An itchy ass and more mouths a mother could feed.

May the Pinworms never visit your home.

Pass the Puns, Please

2007-01-07T02:10:00.000-07:00

That whoosh you hear is my exhalation of relief. Relief that I don't have any more milestones to have to overcome for the next few months. I would like to thank each of you for your well wishes, kind words and prayers that you sent to me, my Bug and my family. It really helps to know that I'm am not alone in this; somewhere out in the great blogosphere are actual people who took the time to remember my angel. Thank you. Words seem inadequate.

But I feel as though I have to give you all something. A thank you token for your good deed. Which brings me to my cheese.

I looked hard for the right fromage but sadly, all I found were groaners.

But groaners are good. Especially since this is the only type of groaning I'm gonna be doing until the hubs gets home! Wink, wink!

So, grab your morning java, or your Captain Crunch and enjoy the cheese.

It's on me.

An elephant and a crocodile were swimming in the Amazon, when the elephant spots a turtle sunning himself on a rock.

The elephant walks over to the turtle, picks him up in his trunk and hurls him far into the jungle.

"What did you do that for?" asks the crocodile.

The elephant answers, "That turtle was the one that bit me almost fifty years ago."

The crocodile says, "And you remembered him after all these years? Boy, you sure do have a good memory."

"Yep," says the elephant. "Turtle recall."

Happy Birthday Bug

2007-01-05T09:08:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was my Shalebug's sixth birthday. Which had me and the kids wondering, do they celebrate birthdays in heaven?

We decided that yes, they do, and we should too. So we bundled up and collected a few of our favorite nephews and headed to the movies.

Me and a group of ~~monkeys~~ kids, alone in a dark room with no adult supervision. It was a small miracle that no one was arrested, injured or found rocking in the corner with her arms wrapped around her body, muttering "What have I done???" over and over again.

If you ignore the fact that I spent more money on popcorn, Gobstoppers and soda than I did on groceries for my family, it was a pretty successful outing. One that I hope to repeat, say in a year, when time has blurred the images and my memory has receded.

But as I corralled my herd of six to ten year olds and tried to keep them from breaking bones or running into traffic on the way to the theatre, I wondered what my Bug was doing.

Was he dancing on healed and straightened feet?

Was he singing with the angels, finally able to find his voice that for so long had remained silent?

Was he laughing his ass off at the antics of his siblings and cousins while his mother tried to pretend she didn't know those crazy children in the movie theatre?

Was he thinking of me, the way I was thinking of him?

Happy birthday my beautiful boy, my moonbeam, my Bug. For four years, ten months, 17 days and 21 hours you were the light that lit my soul and shone upon this family. And now we have the blessings of remembering that light, that love even if we couldn't reach out and touch you and be slimed by your kisses.

You still light up this family. You just do it in a different, slime free way.

We haven't forgotten. I hope you haven't either.

I'll Take Coffee Over Pride Any Day...

2007-01-03T09:56:00.000-07:00

This morning and every morning that has passed since I grew up and tossed out my taste buds, has started the same. I yawn, stretch, pee and stumble to the kitchen. Where I mutter to myself about not having a maid, room service or children who are well trained as I try to measure out the exact amount of precious coffee beans to put in my beautiful stainless steel coffee maker so that I may turn back into a human being and join the world of humanity.

Without my java, the lifeblood of the god's, I'm a monster. A pathetic, snivelling little monster.

Yesterday morning started out the same as every morning before it. Bleary eyed, I made my way to the kitchen to caffeinate my blood. As I listened to the coffee percolate, I checked my email and smelled the wonderful scent of ambrosia slowly filling the glass pot. When the coffee was ready I jumped up to pour myself a cup, knowing that my day was only going to get better from the moment of my first sip of that mud colored liquid.

I poured my coffee into my favorite cup (because it doesn't taste the same if it's not in the right cup) and I reached for the sugar bowl. Empty. Not to panic. I have a big pantry. Surely there is sugar, whether it be white, brown or spilled on the floor in there.

Not a grain to be had. In my entire house. My darling (and when you read that please know I mean dumbass) children made gluttons of themselves when left unattended to make their breakfasts. Apparently Rice Krispies don't taste the same with out half a pound of sugar to smother the taste of the rice.

This leaves me in a quandary. How can I have my java without sugar? I am not one of those people who have completely developed into adulthood and abandoned their taste buds altogether. No, I need sugar to drink my high octane vitamin. Dammit!!! I need sugar!!!

I was left with three choices:

1. Suck it up buttercup, and just drink the vile poison without the sweet goodness of sugar to save the taste.

2. Call my mother and face her, knowing that I will hear about how stupid I am for the rest of my days.

3. Call my mother in law and face her, knowing that I will be admitting what a lousy mother and wife I am by running out of a simple necessity.

After careful consideration (and to those of you who wonder why I didn't just run to the store...I live in the sticks, it would have taken an hour to go get my sugar and by then my coffee would have been cold. Plus I'm not fit to drive without my caffeine jolt) I did what any coffee-loving desperado would do. I wandered over to my mother-in-laws, admitted my inadequacy and begged sugar in trade for my soul.

I walked away with just over three teaspoons (I'm not kidding, she carefully measured it out into a baggy) and no pride.

But dammit, I had my sugar.

****Later in the day I went to the grocery store and bought out the entire sugar stock. And lectured my children about the dangers of letting this household run out of sugar and not telling their mother. With mental images of blood stained walls and padded rooms running through my children's minds, hopefully this will never happen again.****

Impuzzable

2007-01-01T12:08:00.000-07:00

Every Christmas, Santa fills our stockings with toiletries, candies, the obligatory orange and of course, puzzles.

Now I never claimed to be the brightest bulb in the box, but I like to think that I am not the dullest knife in the drawer either.

I may have to rethink that.

Meet my darling Boo's puzzle. His "Santa" happened upon it at the local educational toy store. "Santa" thought it would be good fun to watch Mr. Smarty-pants suffer the indignity of not being able to put the pieces back in the box after wrestling with it for hours of his life, which he would never get back.

However, "Santa" did not receive her wish. Nope, Boo took it out and within minutes had reassembled it. Then he handed it to Fric and Frac. They took considerably longer, but eventually they got it all put back in the box and figured out.

Every damn day I take those f&$%^g pieces out and try to squeeze them back into their case. Every damn day I have to listen to my husband tell me it shouldn't be so hard, there are only seven pieces. Every damn day, my kids snicker behind their hands and then go off to giggle about what a moron their mother is.

But I don't give up. I'm gonna shove those pieces back into the bleeping box if it takes my whole damn life.

I may not be the quickest but I am the MOST stubborn.

There is a lesson to be learned here, I'm sure of it. But I am too damn busy banging my head against the wall and fiddling with tiny little blue plastic pieces to figure it out....

Pass the Puns, Please - New Years Style

2006-12-31T10:37:00.000-07:00

Happy New Year to all my blogging buddies, the lurkers and the google perverts that mosey on over looking for something to make them go schwing. Sadly, this batch of cheese is not going to make anyone overly excited, but it will bring a reaction. More of the nose scrunching, groan inducing kind brought on by really bad cheese that has been sitting out in the sun for way too long.

I promise cheese afterall, and some of the best kinds are the those that are pungent.

Hee hee. Couldn't resist.

With that said, I'm off to look for the loudest, most irritating noise maker I can find. After all, the party tonight is not at my house, so I'm unleashing my inner beast. Sorry Martha-Freakin-Stewart and The-Great-White-Hunter, but I have got to be heard over the million or so children you two decided to produce. Children whom I will be encouraging to be VERY loud when the clock strikes 12. After all, the beast will be unleashed and inebriated. Should be fun!

So Happy New Year to all, and may this upcoming year bring stinky cheese for us all to enjoy!

The new year's resolution for the bankrupt gardener was to forget the past and rely on the fuchsia.

I always get lost driving on New Year's eve. I blame the Old Lane Signs.

The Very Best Intentions

2006-12-29T12:24:00.000-07:00

I love ringing in each new year. Not because it is an excuse to get plastered and walk around pinching people's bottoms; who am I kidding, I don't ever feel a need to have a reason to do that. No, I love looking back on the year past and marveling on how I managed to stay sane, married and out of prison. Oh, and how nobody knocked on my door and took away my children while I stood there puffing on my cigarette, yelling at the cops about how nobody treats this redneck like this and gets away with it....

Too bad I don't smoke.

This past year was pretty tame in comparison to some of the years I have had. I didn't have the opportunity to watch my best friend being dragged out of her house handcuffed, while wearing only a tank top and shorts. No shoes, no undies and no bra. (And Roxylynn's girls need to be confined. Someone could lose an eye when those girls are loose.) I didn't have to go down to the local cop shop to give a statement on her behalf to get her sprung. Nope, nothing exciting like that happened this year. This year Roxylynn learned how to be a law-abiding citizen and avoid the slammer. There goes my summer excitement...sigh...

This year was almost dull. We had family get togethers with only one or two dramatic moments. I can proudly say only a few of those moments were due to my inner shrew being released. Our family grew by one; the lovely addition of The Worm, and we didn't lose any more family members. Hallelujah! I made wonderful new friends through this little blog. Some of them hairier, some mouthier, and some more verbose than others, but all dear to my heart. And these are just a few of the wonderful people who have reached out to touch me (and not in a dirty way.) I thank you all.

I even managed to make a few new friends who exist beyond my computer screen and can come over to actually poke me. Not that any of them have (though I'm sure they've started looking for a sharp stick), but they've all taken a weird fascination with my snide and sorrowful self. For which I am absolutely grateful.

This New Year's Eve, I plan on loudly proclaiming my resolutions. (Loudly because, well, I'll probably be drunk and I tend to have a problem with volume control while inebriated.)

Because I love you so, I'll let you in on these promises.

First off, I pledge to keep my mouth shut when dealing with any mother figure I have in my life. (Included in this: MIL's, Nana-Inlaws and matriarch-type neighbors.) I will do this even if it means stitching my lips shut.

(I will consider myself successful if I can keep my trap shut until after Bug's birthday. Yes, I know dear internet, that is only Jan.4, but I never said I aimed high...)

Secondly, I promise to be the best damn mommy in the world, to both my existing and future children. This is a broad spectrum pledge which includes trying to include more food choices in their diet which doesn't come out of a box and have a delicious orange cheese flavored powder to stir in; and also includes the promise of trying not to embarrass my children by walking into their school with my slippers on, a ball cap and no makeup while yelling "Yooohooo, mommy loves you....You forgot to give me a kiss...." Because this has been known to happen on occasions such as when they forget to take their lunches or bring their homework with them.

(Who am I kidding, I take pleasure in tormenting them. I just plan on learning how to be more subtle about it...)

Thirdly, I plan on not subjecting this body to any more tattoos or piercings.

(I have the best of intentions, but without my hubs to put a leash on me, this one may be kinda hard...)

And lastly, I plan on being the best damn wife to Boo that I can be. Because with the ten year anniversary rapidly approaching, surely the man deserves it. I promise to be attentive to his every sexual need, not to nag at him to pick up his tools or his dirty socks and to actually smile while scrubbing out his bathroom.

Okay, who am I kidding. I'm outright lying. If he wanted that type of wife, the poor bastard never would have married me. He likes me fiesty.

Of course there are the typical resolutions I make every year, like trying hard not to incur any more speeding or parking tickets; promising not to spend any money foolishly on books, music, and shoes; and pledging to curb my sarcastic remarks to any and all sales people and adoption workers I meet, but I think we all know the flaws of those intentions.

I never claimed I didn't have a few er, quirks to my personality.

So this New Year's eve, I will be the one tottering about, spilling my drink and loudly proclaiming my new resolve.

While my children silently watch their mother in awe and shame and my husband does his best to keep me from pinching the ass of the 20 year old boy who is slightly afraid of this aging redneck.

Happy New Years friends. May your resolutions be more successful than mine.

I Just Wanted My Vagina Book...

2006-12-27T09:03:00.000-07:00

For most people there are four seasons. Spring, summer, autumn and winter. I, however, have five seasons to deal with. I like to call it the sorrow season. It begins every Oct 21 and runs until Jan. 5. This time of year has no spectacular display of autumn foliage, nor does it have breathtaking exhibition of wintery whiteness. No, this season is generally accompanied by used and crumpled tissues; empty kleenex boxes; and a big bulbous red nose. (Apparently, there are some seasonal similarities...)

This season of sorrow was hard. Not that I expected jolly laughs and good times. I honestly believed that getting through all the firsts would be the most difficult part of the grieving process; everything after would pale in comparison.

I was wrong. What I neglected to take into account was that through a lot of those so called "firsts", I was still in shock. My son was only dead for two months when I had to face our first Christmas without him. I had barely processed the fact that he was gone, let alone what a lifetime of Christmas seasons without him would mean.

Shock is a grieving mom's best friend. It can numb the sharpest of pains like nothing else.

The only shock I had this year to to insulate my pain was when I touched a shorted out wire on a string of Christmas lights this winter. And it didn't help dull my pain or lessen my memory. It did however, get me to curse like a seasoned sailor who just picked up a cross-dressing tart only to discover....

I wasn't ready for the onslaught of emotions that began bombarding me from the anniversary date until now. I had naively and somewhat stupidly thought that I had done the hard part and survived.

Turns out, the hard part keeps on coming. It never really ends. It's like that annoying pink rabbit banging on that freaking drum to advertise batteries. It just never stops banging away at my heart, at my head.

This year was harder than last year. Last year people made excuses for my shabby appearance, my lack of thoughtful gifts, my inability to articulate an intelligent thought. After all, I was grieving. I had just lost my baby boy. This year, it was as if a spot light was turned on me and people were examining me to see if I survived my year in purgatory. Apparently, I didn't receive a passing grade. This year people expected the T from the past to make a long awaited appearance. They thought that she would come back in fine style, shake off the dust from being trapped in a grieving box for so long and start entertaining the masses. They were disappointed to discover that she no longer exists.

That T, that piece of me is gone. Replaced by a more sober, sadder version of myself. This T no longer cares if the packages are deliciously wrapped and rival Martha Stewart's. This T no longer cares if Fric has a hole in her stocking or if Frac's hair is cut. This T realizes the only value of Christmas is the value you create by being together and appreciating the small moments togetherness creates.

The old T was buried with her son. She no longer exists. It's a hard lesson for those who love me. It's a hard lesson for me. I resent having had to change. I liked myself, who I was before death reached in and snatched the light from my soul.

But I like who I am now too. I have walked a path no person should have to. I have experienced a pain so severe, so debilitating, no human should survive. But I did. I survived, am surviving. I may have a few more earrings and body art to show for it, but I am relatively intact.

I discovered a strength, a resilience I never knew was part of me. And I kept my funny bone, even when my heart was ripped from my body and buried with my Bug.

All in all, this Christmas was good. Hard, but good. I kicked my hubs ass several times around the board games, I watched my children's faces light up with excitement and wonderment and I talked with my Bug through out it all. He was as much a part of this Christmas now as when he was alive. Minus the tube feedings and shitty diapers. There was a bad moment, when my well-meaning mother-in-law gave me my present. To every other adult female in the family she gave various vagina books; Your Vagina and Menopause, Your Vagina and It's Health, How to Be an Effective Leader with a Vagina; I was looking forward to my vagina book. Perhaps I'd get the How to Grieve with a Vagina, or How to Watch What You Say When You Have a Vagina.

Sadly there was no vagina book for me. Instead there were three lovely picture frames. It was a thoughtful gift, but it only served to remind me that while I replace the pictures in two of the frames, one picture frame will be frozen in time, collecting dust. Forever frozen while everyone moves on.

Every one but me.

I don't believe I will every truly move on. Part of me will linger with my boy until the day he is in my arms once more. Part of me doesn't know how to let go, forget a life so beautiful it hurts to remember it. Part of me never wants to.

Because that life, that boy, is part of me, a part of this family I created. It is a part I cherish, love and admire. And death do us part, it still exists. It always will. Some years it may be more dusty, others it may be more vibrant, but every ~~year~~ day it is always present.

I am looking forward to this season of sorrow coming to an end. After the new year, when the tree is back in storage, the ornaments carefully packed away and the house once more swept clean of Christmas merriment, I might be able to breathe deeply again, without this pain in my chest. I just have to get through New Year's. And his sixth birthday. I will survive. I will cope. I may even grow.

If I don't think too hard of who he would have been if life had worked out just a bit differently.

Merry Christmas - Now Pass Me My Puns...

2006-12-23T17:03:00.000-07:00

It's been a rough couple of days out in my neck of the woods. Boo has been facing a worrisome health scare (he is fine), my dad's new teeth make him puke and I fell on my ass in front of a bunch of handsome men, and not one of them volunteered to pick my sorry ass up off the ground. Not only did I bruise my pride, but my ego took a beating too.

Then there was the Christmas concert from hell for Fric. An hour and a half of listening to grades six, seven and eight students butcher various Christmas melodies. It was like listening to a cat screech - in stereo, for a really long time. And the school didn't provide liquor to dull the pain.

The next day was the concert for my son Frac. His class had a lovely performance and the only butchered melody at this school was when the grade three's whipped out their recorders. I, however, wept like a grieving war bride when they trotted out the kindergarteners for their class production. Most people chuckled and laughed at the requisite fidgeting, butt scratching and nose picking, but I couldn't stem the flow of tears when they started singing "Away in A Manger."

Bug was supposed to be in that Kindergarten class this year.

Sigh.

But the shopping is done, the gifts are wrapped and the only Christmas task I have left to perform is to supervise the assembly of the gingerbread house tonight. While not getting frustrated because I can't get the walls to stand up and stick together. Of course, it will probably help if I didn't supervise while slightly tipsy, but where's the fun in that?

I'm signing off on a holiday break now. I plan on spending the next few days alternating between various stages of drunken debauchery, and full on crying. Perhaps both at the same time. I have already stocked up on the red wine and the kleenex.

I will be back sometime after boxing day. Hung over, I'm sure, and loaded with embarrassing tales of Christmas woes.

Until then, have a Merry Christmas everyone!

Unlike my children, I believe in quality over quantity (with the exception of alcoholic beverages) so as my Christmas gift to you, I dug up a fabulously stinky pun for my friends.

Enjoy the cheese!

And like a little gift found in the toe of your stocking, I give you this:

Who hides in the pantry at Christmas time?

A mince spy.

HO!HO!HO!

Picture this...

2006-12-20T12:15:00.000-07:00

With all the merriment of the Christmas season upon us, it has been easy to overlook the fact my darling hubs and I are expecting another member to our family. After all, I'm not pregnant and thus, I am not suffering from weight gain, hormonal mood fluctuations and odd cravings. (Well, I have been jonesing for some smoked oysters, but I am most definitely not pregnant.)

So when my adoption case worker contacted me and informed me she needed to do an informal home visit before the formal home assessment could be done (gotta love bureaucracy!) I was taken back. I panicked. I didn't feel ready to take on the responsibility of a new child. But I am smart enough to realize that a lot of this is due to holiday stress. I miss my son, and it's hard to think of anything but Christmas morning with no Bug to cuddle with. So I agreed to the meeting and set up a time.

Which was this morning. Of course, that meant hastily running around, stuffing things into closets and doing a quick once over with a duster. I just prayed she wouldn't want an inspection of the kids rooms or my laundry room. All three of which look like a tornado blew through them.

She didn't. No, she was more interested in my parenting techniques. How I discipline the kids (where's my wooden spoon), support them in crisis (suck it up, buttercup), provide them with adequate nourishment and stimulation so that they will grow into healthy and productive members of society (Chef Boy R Dee, I love thee). Imagine her surprise when she discovered the Worm, just hanging out.

Kidding. That isn't my nephew. Just some random neighbor's kid whom I duct-taped to the wall. With her ducky.

After her shock of learning this redneck's technique for time-outs, we quickly settled into a groove discussing our grief, our hope and our goals.

The conversation quickly turned to child matching and what type of child Boo and I hope to adopt.

It's hard to put into words. Sometimes it is just easier to show somebody a picture.

He or she should fit right in around here.

***No children were harmed in the makings of this post. As for the kid in the pic, I couldn't tell you.***

The Welcome Wagon

2006-12-18T07:37:00.001-07:00

My husband phoned last night to inform me he would be arriving home this afternoon, instead of tomorrow night.

I want to be excited, but I'm falling a little flat. He should arrive home before the children get off the school bus, which means....Well, in theory it means there is time for a little afternoon delight. It's been several weeks since I have had to pick up his dirty socks, sleep in the hollow of the bed, or watch him scratch his boyish parts. I should be ravenous for a little man-love. But I'm not. Because the moment he gets home, my honey-do list will be calling his name. After all, I have weeks of garbage bags out on the back deck, no wood for the fire place and most importantly, so much freaking snow in the yard that people are starting to think I am an abominable snow woman. (And they haven't even seen my legs to prove their theory.)

The reality of my hubs homecoming is more likely this:

Boo: " Honey, I'm home. Come give your man some love."

T: " Shhhh, you'll wake up The Worm. He's teething and acting like Lucifer himself this afternoon."

Boo: "Well, then we'll just have to have quiet love," said as he paws at me.

T: "Did you just walk on my clean floors with your muddy boots still on?"

Boo: "I've been saving myself for you ...."

T: "Wait, did you walk up the drive way? Did you not notice my car parked at the bottom, by the road, because our driveway has over two feet of snow in it? Do you know how hard it is to pack The Worm up that driveway with his diaper bag and food bag. He's over 25 pounds now!"

Boo: " Come here, let me give you a massage, I'll work out your kinks..."

T: "Could you please go blade the driveway so I could actually, oh, I don't know, drive up it."

Boo: "Now? I just got home?!"

T: "Even better. You're still wearing your boots and your jacket..."

Boo: mutters as he heads outside "Well, I'm fucked, but somehow it just doesn't feel right..."

Don't get me wrong, I plan on rewarding his good behaviour with a little naughty behaviour of my own. But a woman has her priorities. And nookie with the hubs, while still delightful, falls behind her nephew's afternoon nap and plowing the driveway, but still comes before oh, say, scrubbing the toilets and folding the laundry.

Now, if you will excuse me. I have to locate a chainsaw to hack away the forest growing on my ~~tree stumps~~ legs. I wouldn't want the hubs to know he married a Yeti.

Pass the Puns, Please

2006-12-17T08:44:00.000-07:00

With the Christmas season upon us, it is a time for merriment. Office parties, community-league gatherings and get-togethers at friends and relatives homes. It is the time of year when you can imbibe in some spiked eggnog, or a lovely merlot and feel good about grabbing that cute guy's bottom. It's the season for normally shy and awkward dudes to feel brazen and bold enough to approach that pretty lady across the room and ask if they are wearing any underwear.

Because what could be more festive than going commando in a sub-arctic climate?

(And yes, it really happened. And yes, I was indeed wearing undies. Not that I told him. Pervert.)

Christmas season is a time for festive cheer. It's a time when you can sit by a warm fireplace with a good buddy, crack jokes and stir your coffee with candy canes. (Thanks Piano Man.) It's a time you can go to your best friend's house and eat all of her lovingly baked Christmas goodies. (Hint, hint, Roxylynn.) And it is the time of year I can spread my festive cheese with all my bloggy buddies. (Well, I'd spread the cheese regardless, but this way, I feel good about it!)

So, in keeping with my Sunday tradition, (you know, the one where I post a pun instead of actually having to think up a real post,) I present to you my Christmas ~~cheese~~ cheer. And because I believe in quantity vs. quality at Christmas, you get a two-for-one.

So enjoy. Go forth and be merry.

One Christmas, Dan and Stan built a skating rink in the middle of a pasture.

A shepherd leading his flock decided to take a shortcut across the rink. The sheep, however, were afraid of the ice and wouldn't cross it. Desperate, the shepherd began tugging them to the other side.

"Look at that," remarked Dan to Stan. "That guy is trying to pull the wool over our ice!"

This one is dedicated to my good buddy, Kimmy K. Because she is such a classy and clever gal. Cheers!

What do you get when you cross a pickle and a reindeer?

Rewards of motherhood

2006-12-15T08:03:00.000-07:00

I love being a mom. Most of the time. Most of the time, the rewards outweigh the disadvantages. Who doesn't love stretch marks, minivans and mom jeans? Most of the time, I see my children and I marvel that my husband and I could have created such fabulously beautiful and intelligent children. Because, let's face it, we didn't have the strongest gene pool to work with... I don't mind getting up at the crack of dawn to supervise their attempts at making breakfast. After all, they are nine and ten, and I have set a good example through the years, teaching them how to pour the cereal into the bowl and not on the floor. I help them make their lunches, I nag them to put socks on and comb their hair and brush their teeth.

I smile when they roll their eyeballs at me, because it wasn't so long ago that I was doing the same to my mom. I have to walk to another room when I hear them talking about the boys and girls they like. I don't want to be caught sniggering at their romantic escapades. After all, there is nothing funny about a boy hiding a girl's mittens at recess.

I enjoy the creativity they exhibit in their ~~pathological lying~~ story telling. And the creativity they show when making up excuses to get out of chores, well, that just demonstrates their ability to think outside the box. Because, really, do the dishes need to be washed every day?

I don't mind spending hundreds of dollars on school fees, clothes, shoes and food. Not to mention all the gadgets and gizmos they need as they grow older. Play time was cheaper and easier when they banged on the pots and pans, but it is so much more rewarding, and fun to hear them try and learn to play the guitar or the saxophone. I do love music, after all.

Especially rewarding is the generosity these darling children exhibit when it comes to food. They are so thoughtful, leaving food out to attract rodents and ants. They go out of their way to stuff apples and rotten sandwiches into the darndest places, to ensure that all of God's creatures are as well fed as they are.

Really, could a mother be prouder?

In the end though, I get even with them. They don't know it, but I do. By the time they were three, I had both of them telling strangers that drugs and premarital sex were life's biggest dangers. You should have seen the looks. I treasure the memories. Then there was the time I kool-aided their hair. Fric was pink, Frac was green and Bug was purple. Good times. What's better than making your children a walking rainbow of creativity? I just wanted them to get used to people pointing and staring at them. After all, the world is a cold, cruel place. Why soften the blow, when you can toughen the hide?

And until very recently, they thought that bumping uglies meant smashing an ugly face into another ugly face. More than one bloody nose came from that phrase. And today, after a morning of listening to them argue over who was going to put the milk into the fridge, I told them that it was okay if they left it out on the counter. It wouldn't spoil. They could put it away when they get home, and it will be good to use tomorrow morning.

I'm looking forward to watching them eat breakfast tomorrow. I love being a mom.

I can't wait to tell them about yellow snow....

Remembering Our Blessings

2006-12-13T08:14:00.000-07:00

I've been honest about how I'm struggling to find my festive spirit this year. It's difficult to acknowledge the magic of Christmas when my heart feels like it's been ripped out and trampled on by a throng of sale-happy shoppers.

It is hard to remember to be merry and it is even harder to remember to be thankful for all that I have. After all, I lost perhaps the biggest part of my soul just over a year ago.

But then something comes along and makes a person appreciate all that they have. And I have a lot. I have my health; a wonderful, albeit sometimes dense, and all too often absent husband; two beautiful, healthy children; and my own personal angel waiting for me at the pearly gates. Oh, and let's not forget Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog. Ever.

Not every one has this much.

I am thankful. I am blessed.

So if you have a few extra bucks hanging around, (and let's face it, it's Christmas, we're all rich, what with all the money trees we grow in our back yards) I ask you to go visit a friend and help children who are suffering. Bid at this auction, buy some tickets to help support a worthy cause. Because not every person is born healthy. And not every parent gets to watch their children grow up.

I know.

And then go see another good friend of mine. Whose little boy is also very sick. And the family is struggling to make basic ends meet. Go, buy some of his art. Support his cause and help a family who has walked the path that I, and so many others have walked.

Because sometimes that path is a lonely, desolate road, with the only end in sight the end no one wants for their child.

On My Knees

2006-12-12T07:52:00.000-07:00

When I first fell in love with my husband I was 15 years old. I had just spent the entire day busting my ass, building a pig pen (yes, really) with his cousin down the road. I spent all day nailing planks and dreaming of ways to see my darling Boo, when suddenly, he materialized out of thin air.

The flirting began, and before you knew it, I was cussing him out and trying to kill him. I called him a variety of names and hurled a hammer at his head, all the while our parents sat yards away, planning our future.

Of course, as anyone who plays ball with me could tell you, I really couldn't hit the broadside of a barn, so my darling Boo's noggin was safe from flying carpentry tools. Boo is no idiot though, he beat a hasty retreat and disappeared. I didn't know whether to be heart broken or relieved.

Just when I was about to give in to my teenage angst, the young and foolish Boo returned on horseback and swept me into his arms for our first real kiss. Boo was a believer in grand gestures and romance.

Then he got married.

And suddenly his grand gestures entail standing in front of me when I am sitting on the couch or at the computer and whipping out Mr. Pickle and letting me know he has something for me to suck on.

Or, if I mention I have a sore throat, he always let's me know he has a cure.

Classy and romantic. How did I get so lucky?

Before he ~~abandoned me~~ left to go to work this last time, we got into an age old argument. You know, the one where he wants to know why, when I'm sitting on the couch next to him watching the evening news, I can't simply lean over and um, provide him with a hummer.

After all, it's always ready to stand at attention, and according to my husband, would make the news so much more gratifying.

As a journalist, I always tell him the news is not supposed to be gratifying, but informative.

This of course led into a discussion about whether hummers where a dating activity only, a form of foreplay or a sexual activity all on it's own. Because apparently, according to my darling hubs, it's been so long since he's received one that he is reverting back into a prepubescent boy, dreaming of his ninth grade teacher and wondering how soft a woman's mouth really is. This of course, is not the complete truth. But it has made for some interesting discussions with my girlfriends. Apparently, I'm not the only wife on the block with a husband who feels that particular need is not being met.

So, like any good journalist, I took my enquiring mind out on the road and started asking questions. I was determined to find out whether I was saddled with the horniest husband in the world or whether my sexual appetite was lacking.

Turns out, my appetite is just fine. And my husband is not the most concupiscent. That particular honor must be bestowed upon my best friend Roxylynn's husband. Lucky her.

I learned something when I was snooping around, asking my perverted questions. One, I learned that I really have no ~~shame~~ boundaries. I will ask anyone pretty much anything. Two, my dad blushes like a school girl when I teased him about being able to take out his teeth and give my mom a gummer. Thirdly, all men wish we were horny little vacuum cleaners. Doesn't matter how much or how often they get it, they always want more.

Kind of like eating Chinese food. You can eat until your stuffed to the gills, and then an hour later you discover you are still hungry.

Of course, I learned other things, like the fact that some women enjoy the salty biproduct of a successfully rendered job. And for those who don't, apparently eating pineapple can help. (The men eat the pineapple, the women just, well, suck.) I learned the etiquette of spit or swallow. Who knew there was such a thing. Turns out most men really don't care, as long as they have a woman in the nether regions willing to drool and get lock-jaw for him.

I also heard hummer horror stories. If I was writing for Penthouse, I'd tell you about some of them, but let's face it, I've already attracted enough pervs with the whole spit or swallow sentence.

Boo has decided my indifference to this particular playtime activity stems from our teenagedom, and my sexual insecurities as a young woman.

Me, I just think, I have better things in life to ~~chew~~ suck on.

But I promise darling, when you get home, I'll be down on my knees, waiting for you.

Of course, I'll be scrubbing my continually dirty floors, but I will be down on my knees...

Pass the Puns, Please

2006-12-10T10:47:00.000-07:00

Since the hubs is out of town, busting his bottom to bring home my bacon, I had to attend my sister's best friend's wedding solo last night. It was an odd experience watching the lady I have known since she was four years old, say "I do" to a man I used to work with. Odder still, was the fact that many of my old co-workers were in attendance and none of them seemed to have changed. At all.

It was a lovely wedding, and a lovely reception. I managed to stay sober, and sadly that means I remember the awful jerking I did that was supposed to pass as dancing out on the dance floor. I'll admit, I was the one in the polka dot dress that looked like she had a medical condition, spazzing out there to Bob Seger.

It's a painful memory.

So to ease my pain, and perhaps inflict a little myself, I present to you this week's cheese. I'm not gonna sugar coat it, lie or try and pass it off as anything than the groaner it is. But know that when you read it, this still isn't as painful as witnessing me try to do the Macarena.

Enjoy!

Three Little Pigs went out to dinner one night. The waiter came and took their drink order.

"I would like a Sprite," said the first little piggy.

"I would like a Coke," said the second little piggy.

"I want beer, lots and lots of beer," said the third little piggy.

The drinks were brought out and the waiter took their orders for dinner.

"I want a nice big steak," said the first piggy.

"I would like the salad plate," said the second piggy.

"I want beer, lots and lots of beer," said the third little piggy.

The meals were brought out and a while later the waiter approached the table and asked if the piggies would like any dessert.

"I want a banana split," said the first piggy.

"I want a cheesecake," said the second piggy.

"I want beer, lots and lots of beer," exclaimed the third little piggy.

"Pardon me for asking," said the waiter to the third little piggy, "but why have you only ordered beer all evening?"

You're gonna LOVE me for this....

The third piggy says -

"Well, somebody has to go 'Wee, wee, wee, all the way home!"

Stockings

2006-12-06T07:40:00.000-07:00

I grew up loving the Christmas season. We weren't particularly religious folk; for us, the Christmas pageant was just an opportunity to visit with our friends and snitch as many cookies from the cookie plate as possible.

But my mom did up Christmas the way Martha Stewart can fold a linen napkin. With flare. Every year was a competition within herself to see if she could out do the year before. Could she toss more tinsel on an already over-burdened tree? Could she squeeze in another Santa figurine on the coffee table? Oh look, there is approximately two square inches of space that haven't been decorated. For the entire month of December, no matter what our family faults may be, I was always proud to be a part of this family.

Because we always had the best decorated house in town. Inside and out. And my mom was a firm believer in Christmas baking. Not only did we have the prettiest tree, but an ample amount of freshly baked goodies to consume while we lay in the dark and watch the twinkle of our tannenbaum.

Once I grew up and had kids of my own, it was a mad rush to replicate the memories of my Christmas yore. Boo didn't understand my desire to deck the halls; in his household they had a pathetic little Charlie Brown tree with six ornaments on it and one string of lights, most of which were burnt out. They didn't even have stockings. Gasp! My darling hubs would like to point out that Christmas to them was more than just tinsel and lights. It had religious and family meaning beyond how big the Christmas tree was, or if there was a talking Santa figurine.

Whatever. My house rocked. His didn't.

Eventually, I caught up with my mom. My house is a magical place at Christmas time. I tossed the tinsel in favor of garland, traded in the Santas for some beautiful nativity scenes, but I know how to deck these halls. And my kids love it. And the best part of all was watching the Bug's face light up when the Christmas tree was turned on. He didn't understand the fuss, or the muss. But he knew something was up. And every decoration I had was an opportunity for therapy for him. Touching the tree, feeling the prickles. Holding the smooth, cold glass balls in his small chubby little hands. Tasting the peppermint across his wet lips, from the candy cane I would swipe across his tongue.

All of it was so new and fresh for him, every year. And he loved it. While Fric and Frac pranced with excitement, barely able to contain their giddy glee at the thought of ripping into the presents, Shalebug thoughtfully stared at the twinkling lights, mesmerized by some vision only he could see.

So it became a pleasure to decorate every year. To see if I could outdo myself and my mother. I was building the excitement for Fric and Frac and I was providing an opportunity for Bug to reach out and talk with his angels. Every tupperware box Boo dragged in, bitching and moaning, was full of anticipation and excitement; filled with hope and promise.

It's not the same this year. Not for me, not for Fric and Frac. Sure, they are greedy little kids, anxiously awaiting the arrival of promised goodies for a year of half-assed good behavior. But the twinkle of the tree has lost it's sparkle. The water globes are no longer tiny little worlds of mystery, but just glass balls that no longer get drenched with drooly little fingers. The candy canes are now just candy to be forgotten on the tree, collecting dust. How does a person recapture the spirit of Christmas when the family angel is now on top of the tree, instead of in our arms?

How does a mother put on a happy face, decorate her home, bake her cookies, wrap her gifts, knowing that one of her children won't ever again stare at the glittery glow of her pretty tree?

So I carry on. I push through the throng of crazy Christmas shoppers, ignore the carols being sung on every corner and pretend nothing is wrong.

I bake, and I decorate. I tell silly jokes and I encourage the kids to dream of sugar plums and dancing fairies.

And I will watch the anticipation of the season build it's momentum in their tiny hearts, until they are busting at the seams with excitement on Christmas morning.

I will watch them tear into the paper-wrapped packages, and discard the bows I have lovingly placed on all the presents. I will watch their faces for signs of disappointment or glee when they discover what's inside their parcels.

I will play Christmas music and read the story of the birth of Christ, and try to carry on.

All the while ignoring the empty stocking that remains, mocking me, reminding me of what I lost. And what heaven gained.

Pass the Puns, Please

2006-12-03T09:42:00.000-07:00

I love winter. I'm a winter woman. I love the crisp, crunchy snow and the cool bite of the breeze. I love how my lungs feel when I inhale the icy air and then how snotsicles form when I exhale. I love how I sport a red, bulbous nose for the next six months and said nose constantly drips like a leaky faucet in my grandmother's old house.

I love being able to put on heavy sweaters and hats and mittens and go outside, grab a mittful of snow and hurl it at my children. All in the name of fun. There is something so therapeutic about the season.

I love being chilled to the bone, and coming inside to sit by the fire and nurse a piping hot cup of cocoa, complete with the tiny little marshmallows that slowly dissolve into sugary goodness.

I really love the winter. I even love the fact that I have had to drag my sorry ass out of bed twice this week so that I could extricate my sister and her car from the ditch she managed to drive herself into. Nothing like a sense of sisterly smugness to jump start the day.

I love winter. So on that note, I dug up some winter-flavored cheese. For you all to enjoy.

Because sharing means caring. So when you read this cheese, just keep in mind how much I care...

I was driving down a lonely northern road one cold winter day when it began to snow pretty heavily. My windows were getting icy and my wiper blades were badly worn and quickly fell apart under the strain.

Unable to drive any further because of the ice building up on my front window I suddenly had a great idea.

I stopped and began to overturn large rocks until I located two very lethargic hibernating rattlesnakes. I grabbed them up, straightened them out flat and installed them on my blades, and they worked just fine.

Of course, that's because they were wind-chilled vipers.

'Tis the Season

2006-11-30T08:34:00.000-07:00

With the Christmas season fast approaching, that means one thing.

Well, I suppose it means more than one thing, but for the purposes of this post, just roll with me people. Thanks.

With the Christmas season fast approaching, that means one thing.

Decorations. From the day after Thanksgiving (and for us Canucks that means mid-October) the holiday decorations go up in all the stores and malls. Every where you look you see the sparkle and twinkle of this holiday season. Which, for me, means that I am unable to take my children anywhere during this time.

Because what ten and nine year old do you know who needs more encouragement to get excited about the prospect of ripping open parcels on a cold winter's morning, while gorging themselves on vast amounts of chocolates and other assorted goodies, all in the name of the season?

Certainly, not mine. Which means whenever I need to take them out in public with me, I have to put a paper bag over their heads. Kidding. I only wish I could put the paper bag over their heads. (And duct tape over their mouths sometimes too, but my therapist and the police tell me this is a bad thing...)

I digress.

In our house, the decorations go up on Dec. 1. Regardless of temperature, blizzards, or general apathy, the tinsel is tossed the first day of December. My kids can count on this the same way they can count on the sun rising in the east and their mother looking like a hideous hag with a matching disposition every morning.

Which means digging out the damn decorations. Which, of course, are stored outside in a shed, buried underneath an assortment of crap that my darling husband has managed to toss on top of the boxes during the course of the year.

This is my husband's favorite job, every year. (Sarcasm, dear internet.) He absolutely loves having to pack in a seemingly endless parade of Rubbermaid containers and cardboard boxes. He manages to make it so fun, what with all his colorful cussing and boundless bitching. Once he dumps all the boxes in our front foyer, he then heads for the hills. Where it is safer for him; for by this time, I have had enough of whining and I'm generally ready to hurt him.

All in the name of the Christmas spirit, of course.

So last night, as I casually mentioned it was once again that time of year as we were cuddling on the couch, I was mentally prepared for the barrage of bad words and negativity I felt sure I was to encounter.

However, my darling Boo decided to shake things up a bit. Put some spice in our marriage. Toss me a curve ball...I could go on, but in the interest of brevity, I think you get my point.

Instead of acting like a whiny two year old coming off a sugar high and in desperate need of a nap, he pleasantly commented that he couldn't wait for the Christmas decorations to go up.

Startled, (and I admit, a bit pleasantly surprised) I asked him why.

(Cue the dumbass card now, folks.)

His response:

Because every time I put up the decorations, I clean the house afterwards. And it's getting a bit dusty. If I hadn't noticed.

Don't worry, dear internet. I didn't maim him. Although, no jury would find me guilty after that remark and my years of wiping up his pee splatter and picking up his dirty socks for him.

No, I just did what any good wife would do.

I went to bed and dreamt of Clive Owen. Dusting my house. While wearing a Santa's cap and sporting strategically placed tinsel...

Thanks Boo. That was just the type of encouragement I needed to get in the festive spirit.

Boo-Yah! To my Boo

2006-11-27T07:58:00.000-07:00

Oh, yeah. I'm doing the my Boo-YAH! dance, dear internet. I'd graciously like to thank all my bloggy participants for allowing me to so unmercifully rub my hubby's nose in the fact that he is wrong, wrong, wrong.

Victory is so sweet. And I am nothing, if not a gracious winner.

What started out as a simple question because I was scrounging for blog fodder and my hubs and I were stuck in our own version of groundhog day, ignited a real brouhaha in our home. It wasn't good enough that I posed the timeless question on the ole interweb, but then I roped and dragged everyone I knew into our little debate. It turned into a real battle of the sexes. I learned (finally) that men and women really are from two different planets.

I also figured out pretty quickly that men are, well, for lack of a better term, pigs. Granted, not all men are pigs, and most certainly not any of the few men who come to visit and comment on my site, but the men in my visible, three dimensional life, are big, fat oinkers.

And I wouldn't trade their curly tailed, snuffling snoutish ways for anything.

So after I posed my brilliant and highly scientific poll to all four of my regular readers I was a little surprised by the results. First off, more than four people actually chose to share their opinions! (Thank you, thank you, thank you.)

Secondly, I was RIGHT!

Boo-YAH! Ha, ha, Boo. Sorry, darlin'. But it turns out the world is full of enlightened people, nowadays.

For those who are keenly interested in the results, they were something like this:

(Keep in mind this was a highly scientific poll with a statistical accuracy of, oh, say +/- 50 percent...)

The Yes voters (or the highly enlightened, wonderful, Boo-Yah! loving friends of mine) weighed in at a whopping 56%.

The No voters (or the probably more realistic people, my husband would argue) countered at 18%.

The Women Yes, But Men No voters (fence sitters, as I like to call them) rallied at 18%, as well.

And my personal favorites; Only if One is Gay or Ugly voters (I love you all for your refreshing honesty) came in at 3%.

And so, my hubs is picking the crow out of his teeth, so sure was he that the whole damn world thinks his way.

I'm not naive, (shut up, dear brother-in law) I do realize not all women and men can be friends. And not every married couple can handle outside non-romantic friendships of the opposite sex. But then, not everyone is me, and not everyone has the fabulous good fortune of being married to the sexiest, sweetest (albeit, slightly archaic thinking) husband like mine.

So until the hubs pulls the plug on my man friends, or until his lady friends start tossing their panties at his head (and let's face it, I'm sure more than a few want to,) I think I'm just going to keep my man buddies.

Because at the very least, they make me realize over and over again, how very lucky I am to have my Boo.

And if Boo secretly fantasizes about his lady friends, well that's okay too. Because at the end of the day, it's me he is wrapping his arms around, while letting me shove my icy toes between his butt crack. (Canadian foreplay, didn't you know?)

Besides, we all know who wears the pants around here.

Boo-YAH!!

Pass the Puns, Please

2006-11-26T09:57:00.000-07:00

I went and gave away the keys to the kingdom. I told my brother in-law and his wife about my blog. But I'm not overly worried about it. After all, this is the same brother in-law who taught me how to drive and his wife is the same lady who got very, very intoxicated with me, one blurry Christmas eve. We share a lot of history, and I have enough dirt on the two of them to make their lives very uncomfortable, if you know what I'm saying...

So to the Great White Hunter, and his wife, Martha Freakin' Stewart, welcome to my blog!

And to all of you out there, dear internet, on this cold winter day, have some cheese on me. It helps keep you warm on these cold Canadian days...

For many years a certain white whale and a tiny herring had been inseparable friends. Wherever the white whale roamed in search of food, the herring was sure to be swimming right along beside him.

One fine spring day the herring turned up off the coast of Norway without his companion. Naturally all the other fish were curious, and an octopus finally asked the herring what happened to his whale friend.

"How should I know?" the herring replied. "Am I my blubber's kipper?"

***My husband would like it on the record that he had nothing to do with this particular piece of cheese, and the pansy is thereby distancing himself from said joke and any particular wife who may have thought it funny....***

******EDIT: If you haven't weighed in on the debate whether men and women can be friends and nothing more, please give me an opinion. My BOO-YAH! dance depends on it...******

Women Are Always Right (At Least In Our Minds...)

2006-11-24T07:31:00.000-07:00

The hubs and I are having a disagreement. It's an argument as old as time itself. For the duration of our marriage we have been having this same argument. (Sad, really, you'd think we would have either resolved it or moved on. Nope, not us. We are nothing if not tenacious.)

So I am asking all four of my regular readers, and all you invisible folks to delurk and weigh in. So that after 13 damn years I can put this miserable argument to rest once and for all.

Is it possible for a man and a woman to have a close friendship and not be or become sexually interested in one another. Or is it more of a When Harry Met Sally type of thing? Is it inappropriate for a married person to have a friendship with an unmarried member of the opposite sex?

What do you think? Enlighten us rednecks. Bring peace to my home.

If nothing else, lie for me. Give me what I need to do my happy Boo-Yah! dance for my hubs. Strike that. Tell me what you really think, even if it means him gloating and acting like the ass he can be, loudly proclaiming victory.

But for the love of all married folk, help us.

Because if I have to have this argument for another 13 years, I might just have to stick a fork in my eye.

Why I am Still The Family Joke

2006-11-22T07:34:00.000-07:00

I don't often post about my brother. Mostly, because he's almost 6 foot 5, has a goatee measuring more than a foot long, and biceps as big as my head. He takes turds that are bigger than me. Pissing him off would be very unhealthy. For me, that is. He had 18 years practicing folding me into a pretzel, and he's fairly smart. I'm sure he hasn't forgotten the trick.

I learned a few tricks too, growing up with a smarter, bigger brother, who was only a year older than me. One, I can run faster scared than he can run mad, and two, if I can get him to laugh so hard he can't breathe, I can take him.

Hence, I spent a lot of time growing up developing a sense of humor and looking for a good joke. Call it self preservation. I did have a big mouth, after all. And he tended to have a short fuse.

But now that there is 80 odd kilometers (50 miles for you Yanks) separating the two of us, I'm feeling brave once more. Even those freakishly long arms of his can't reach that far to throttle my lily white neck.

So allow me to introduce you to my brother, dear internet. Whom I shall refer to as Stretch, because I know how much that will annoy him. (Visualizing the eye-rolling, now.)

Stretch is attached to Stump. Stump is a charmingly little woman who stands at just barely 5 feet tall, which leads to many a family discussion about the difference in their heights. Stump is a brilliant special needs teacher, who has forever won a place in my heart with her kind ways to my children. Plus, she can crack the whip like no other. How she manages to control the beast that is my brother is truly a miracle. Stretch and Stump make a lovely couple.

Stretch is in a band. A lovely little death metal band. And if I had decided to out myself, I would link to it. But I am still sitting on that particular fence, vacillating like the indecisive blogger I am.

In a moment of brotherly support, I once attended a gig of his. Where scary women wearing dog collars and chains gyrated in a indecent manner, oblivious to the dudes wearing animal blood and tee shirts with anarchist slogans moshing around them.

In an effort not to appear so, well, normal, I punked up my hair, piled on the makeup and borrowed a tee shirt from my sister, who often attends such events. (That would be were I made my big mistake.)

Never trust your sister, and her Cheshire kitty grin.

I couldn't figure out why I was the life of this particular gig. After all, I was so whitebread in comparison to the other er, ladies, in attendance.

Finally, when my darling brother Stretch had enough giggles at my expense, he pulled me aside and asked how I was enjoying myself.

I gushed on and on about his band, the music and how proud I was of him.

And then I confessed I felt a little square in the wild crowd.

Nothing like leading a laughing man to a good joke.

He asked how I liked my shirt, and if I got any feedback on it.

I told him the shirt was fine, but now I was wary about his inquiry. After all, in all my years of being shoved into his smelly armpits or being held down while he farted in my face, he had never once bothered commenting on my appearance. Not even on my wedding day.

It was in this moment that every strange thing that had happened to me that evening made sense. I wasn't being acknowledged because I was the rock star's sister. Or because I was a hot metal momma. No, it was because I was walking around with the letters C.L.A.B.T. on my chest and on my back.

So you could see them coming and going. Along with the name of the band and the appropriate demon graphics on the shirt I sported.

I thought the letters were an acronym for some anti-establishment, anti-government theme, like all the other craziness around me. Damn my sister, and her bad sense of humor.

It was with great delight that my brother Stretch, informed me I was advertising for his rival band. (Oops. Who knew?)

And I was also loudly proclaiming to the world that I had a C@nt Like A Bear Trap.

Which would explain why I got so many dudes offering me their phone numbers that night.

Which would also explain why I left the gig, very hastily.

And would also explain why I have never borrowed another shirt from my evil sister.

So, if any one ever asks you if you have a C.L.A.B.T, dear internet, at least you will know what they mean.

Thanks for the education Stretch. I'm looking forward to the day I can return the favor.

The Magic Moment

2006-11-20T07:30:00.000-07:00

Warning, this post is ridiculously long, and filled with inappropriate subject matter. Any Japanese exchange students who should not be reading this, please close the window, now. Thank you. Any one over 18 years old, feel free to continue.

Let's talk sex. No reason to be shy about the subject. We've all had it. Granted, some have had it more than others, but let's try not to get jealous, shall we?

Frankly, with all the talk of babies and impending births around the blogosphere, it's enough to get this momma into the mood. (It's hard to hear all the voices in my head, with the ticking from my biological clock getting louder every second...)

As a woman who has been in a relationship with the same man for almost 13 years, married for nine and half of those years, and best yet, have known her beloved Boo since she was in diapers, well, suffice it to say, there is little mystery left.

Frankly, it's a bit of a miracle that when we see each other naked we don't run screaming in the opposite direction.

To counteract this er, boredom, I have gone to great measures to keep things, um, up.

We've had couch sex (kinda loses something when you both fall off..), floor sex (but really, is rug burn worth it?), and counter top sex (not so fun for the tailbone, and more to the point, I prepare food for my children on that surface....). Over the years there hasn't been a surface area we haven't tried to christen.

(Please understand, dear internet, we were very young and stupid when we started bumping uglies. We had a lot more stamina a decade, and three children ago.)

But now, it's hard to hear the soft moans and little pants over top the creaking and cracking of our joints. Quite the aphrodisiac, I assure you.

So what is a happily married couple to do?

Keeping in mind, I am the world's biggest prude. (Sort of an oxymoron, with me putting my private bedroom moments out for the world to ridicule, I am aware.)

That effectively rules out, well, pretty much everything. Sure, we've tried toys and videos, but if it requires electricity of any sort it just seems not worth it. Who has time to find batteries or go and turn the damn video player on, because one of our darling kids put the remote in the trash bag when I wasn't looking.

We've tried dirty talk, but that just makes me laugh my ass off. Not quite the effect my hubs had in mind when he asked if I wanted to be his dirty girl. Apparently, my giggles have a some what wilting effect on parts of his anatomy.

We've done food. But rubbing each other with whipcream or chocolate just reminds each of us of dessert and instead of leading to passionate love making, we get sidetracked and end up in the kitchen making sundaes and then toddling off to bed with our full bellies and never finishing what we had meant to start in the first place.

There is an upside to this problem. (I think.) At least we still desire to do it. Perhaps not always with one another, but our libidos do exist. There hasn't been a need for pharmaceutical interventions just yet.

But, after thirteen years, it is hard to feel that passion, that spark, that certain excitement that new lovers experience. No, there have been too many fights, too many tears, too many times you have had to pass him a roll of toilet paper as he sits on the throne. There have been too many intimacies. Teeth picking, farting in bed and my personal favorite, child birthing.

(Of course, all that physical intimacy leads to emotional intimacy, but that's a post for another day.)

And as anyone in a relationship knows, sex is a big part of the equation. With out sex, you may as well be in a relationship with your brother. (Or your cousin, as many of Boo's relatives know...)

Boo and I have worked hard to plow through our sexual minefield. We overcame mismatched sex drives, lethargy, laziness and lately, his absences. It's sort of hard to get your groove on when he is in another town.

Now that the kids are older, it also brings in a new twist. How quiet can we do it? It's kind of like having sex in your bedroom while your parents are upstairs watching Star Trek: The Next Generation. Not that I'd ever know anything about that, of course.

When the kids were younger, if they barged in on us and asked why Daddy was on top of Mommy, we'd simply tell them we were wrestling. And then tell them to go watch The Lion King for the umpteenth time. (I never said I was the parent of the year.)

Now, if they barge in on us, they have a fairly good idea that we aren't, in fact, wrestling. Case in point, this summer, the hubs and I decided to get our groove on while the kids were outside, playing on the trampoline. We thought we would indulge in a little afternoon delight. Unbeknownst to us, the little buggers had snuck back in for a snack while we were, er, busy. (Thank God we locked the bedroom door.)

When we were all dressed and satisfied, my hubs wandered out to get a drink, when the kids surprised him in the kitchen. They asked what we were doing and why the bedroom door was locked, and Boo told them we were talking about Shalebug. (Sorry, dear angelboy. Your daddy is not a quick thinker...)

My darling Fric, is, however, quick on the uptake. She knew something was up. She loudly asked why, if we were talking about her departed brother, was mommy moaning and telling daddy that it felt so good.

Yea.

I avoided their prying eyes for the rest of the day. I might as well have just opened up the bedroom door and given the little dudes an x-rated show.

So sex can be a bit of a chore around these parts. But I like to think that practice will eventually make perfect. Or at least a good red wine can help.

We keep our doors closed, our mouths shut, and we just keep trying. Because if we stop trying to have sex, we stop trying to master our marriage.

But there was one thing we forgot.

Last night, in the heat of the moment, things were looking pretty good. (Wink, wink.) Just when that magic moment was going to happen for a certain husband who shall remain anonymous, tragedy struck.

Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog. Ever, became a little concerned for his mommy. And decided he should check on her. And as he passed by a certain anonymous husband's bare ass, he decided to do what any good doggie would do.

He gave it a sniff. And then he licked it.

Apparently, it was a bit of a mood killer. Who knew?

So if you happen to see a certain snarly-faced man, with a bad attitude roaming your street, do yourself a favour.

Don't ask him how his night went. And certainly don't inquire about his dog.

Because not everyone likes an ass-licker.

Pass the Puns, Please

2006-11-19T10:34:00.000-07:00

One of the high points of my recent vacation was meeting a lady who loved puns as much as I do. We sat, drank some really nice wine and let the cheese flow. Soon other guests decided that we were having too much fun and they offered their favorite ditties, as well. It became a buffet of all different flavours; cheese of every variety. Even those who consider themselves connoisseurs of a good joke had a rolling good time. (However, that might have been due to the amounts of wine imbibed, and not due to the quality of the cheese...)

So it is with great flourish and trumpeting that I present to you, dear internet, this piece of cheese. It is rank with odour, leaves a strong after taste, but works really well with a nice Cabernet. Enjoy!

The zoo keeper in charge of the sea mammals was trying to train an otter to walk backwards. He was not having any success. He asked a coworker to see if she could do any better.

Lo and behold, a few days later, the otter was walking backwards.

Amazed, he asked his coworker, "How did you do that?"

"Simple," she said, "You put one foot in front of the otter."

Escaping the Clink

2006-11-17T14:50:00.000-07:00

I survived. It wasn't pretty, at times it certainly wasn't easy, but as the old adage goes, whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

More importantly, I didn't kill my mother. Or even maim her. For that, I'd like to take the time to appropriately thank the people responsible for such a Herculean feat.

Kevin Brauch, a.k.a. The Thirsty Traveller on the Food network, you are a good man. You didn't need to convince me of the joys of Jagermeister, (me and ole Jagger go wayyyyy back), but I am certainly thankful you shared your stash with me. You were soley responsible for my mother surviving Monday night after I was stuck in a vehicle with her for over six hours through a snow storm.

I should also thank Steven and Drew, who took it upon themselves to keep me in supply of Jack Daniels and a wonderful cabernet from Beringer's through out my trip. Without those two fine gentlemen, I most certainly would have throttled my mother on Tuesday, after listening to her tease me about how only cheap tramps get tattoos.

I may be a tramp, mommy dearest, but I assure you, I am most certainly not cheap. Ask my husband. He'll tell you.

I'd also like to thank Clyde, a 70+ year old gentleman who hand delivered a beautiful bottle of burgundy to my table, as thanks for simply reminding him of his wife in her younger days. Apparently, I am a spitting image of his beloved Eleanor in her hay day. He misses her dearly.

And a special thanks to Gordon, a fellow journalist who I ran into at the resort. I love the fact that you gushed about me to my mother and kept telling her how talented I was and how lucky she was to have me as a daughter. I never asked him to sing my praises, but it sure felt good when he did.

And yes Mom, I do realize he was hitting on me. I wasn't blind. Only drunk.

All in all, the week was a success. At least the part of it I can remember.

But it is good to be home. Safe in the arms of my Boo, and far, faraway from my mother.

Let The Good Times Roll

2006-11-13T08:31:00.000-07:00

Well dear internet, I am off. Soon I will be squiring my mother to a mountain resort to begin the mother-daughter bonding process.

Either we bond, or I will be locked up in the clink, waiting to make bail after I choke the life out of her.

I figure it's a crap shoot either way.

I won't be posting, but I will be out here, lurking and hanging on your every word. (Because when I'm hanging on your words I won't have to be listening to hers...)

And don't worry, I will have fun. Jose Cuervo and Dr. Sambucca are good friends of mine. I plan on catching up with the boys while I'm away.

Be back on Friday, and play safe people!

Pass the Puns, Please

2006-11-12T10:44:00.000-07:00

It's rodeo week around these parts and because I'm a community-minded type of gal, I am doing my part to contribute. I'm NOT wearing any shitkickers nor a ten gallon hat, but I will go to the local festivities, partake in some brewed beverages and listen to some big shiny tunes.

Because of my civic-minded ways, I have spent an unseemly amount of time in local watering holes. Which of course, leads me to the cheese I have to pass on to you.

So, without any further ado, enjoy le fromage!

A guy is sitting at a bar eating nuts in the bowl that are on the counter.

He looks down and he notices there is a nut talking to him. Leaning closer to hear what the nut is saying, he hears, "Hey you're one good looking guy!"

Then another nut said, "Yeah and I bet you're rich too!"

The man asks the bartender, "What's up with those nuts?"

The bartender just replies, "They are complimentary nuts."

******

Due to the fact that I am off to bond with my mother for a week of hell, and will be unable to post until Friday, I am offering a very special, two-for one offer today.

I dedicate this to the Piano Man. Without your very large television set, I never would have found this particular ditty. Which would be a shame, as it is too cheesy not to share with the world.

What do you call a pig who knows Karate?

A pork chop.

The Road To Hell...

2006-11-09T07:47:00.000-07:00

In an effort to restore harmony and goodwill to my nature, I am taking a mini-vacation next week.

I am traveling down to the mountains, staying at a posh resort and I plan on flirting madly with the obscenely young bellboys.

No kids, no husband, no dog. Just me. And my mother. Somebody, shoot me now. It will save me a lot of money, and I'm sure it won't be nearly as painful as being trapped in small quarters with the lady who gave me life.

The upside is the free booze, plush accommodations and the gourmet food I will be ingesting. (Good thing I didn't buy any skinny jeans. I am sure to pack on a few extra pounds...)

The downside is, well, my mother. But I'm trying to look at the upside to this mini-vacation. ~~I'm going to be trapped in a vehicle for five hours,alone with my mother, to listen to her nag, whine and criticize.~~ I will have ample time to learn something new about my mother during our travels. ~~I am going to have to drink like a fish to keep my sanity.~~ I plan on taking advantage of the free wine-tasting courses available at the Lodge. ~~I am going to have to sleep with one eye open the entire time.~~ I should remember to bring my own pillows.

How did I get sucked into this expensive, ill-advised mini-vacation from hell, you ask?

I was duped. I was supposed to be going with my sister, who backed out at the last second and my darling mom decided to take her place. I was trapped like a rat.

So now I am looking for a sitter for Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog. Ever.

Because the people I am trusting with my children are notorious dog killers.

And I don't trust them with my hairy, farthing baby.

Ironic, isn't it? They're good enough for my flesh, but not good enough for my pup.

And after four days of hell, you can bet your ass this momma is gonna need a lot of doggy kisses to recover from her personal perdition.

Mirror, Mirror On The Wall...

2006-11-07T08:11:00.000-07:00

Once a year I have to bite the bullet and do what most women dread. No, not go visit the gynie, (however, there is an appointment scheduled next week, so be sure to look forward to that post) but to wander to the nearest mall in search of the illusive blue jean. Ladies, you know the one I'm talking about. The search for a pair of jeans that accentuates your curves, gives you a butt or takes it away, doesn't make you look like a peg legged freak or some woman wandering around on her short little stumps. A pair of jeans that actually, gasp, flatters your body.

It's kind of like winning the damn lottery. Darn near impossible with odds I wouldn't bet my life savings on.

I have a few rules when it comes to my quest for the perfect fit. First off, I recognize I have given birth to three very large babies. Which means I have a nice roll around my midsection of loose, hanging flesh which I affectionately call my "Jelly roll." It doesn't matter how skinny a woman is, once she's been stretched to the limit a few times, she better include that excess skin in her self-esteem definition. Because short of paying someone to carve it off, it ain't going anywhere.

So no muffin top. I don't want to be hanging out in any direction. And while my hubs might like the crack of my ass, I don't think it necessary to show it off to the folks at the nearest grocery store. Or to any one else.

That effectively rules out low-riding jeans. But to my dismay, my choices were limited to either the low-riding, sausage-making jeans and those back-from-the-past, dreaded skinny jeans. Someone is having a good giggle at my expense some where.

(Don't even get me started on stretchy denim, either. Because you know that those suckers are gonna slide down and you are constantly going to be hiking them up. Oh, you'll try to do it discreetly, but you know that cute bag boy is gonna see you do it. As will the haughty rich bitch who you have an unspoken rivalry with and your school principal. Both of whom you will have to face at the next parent council meeting, while trying to ignore the fact that your jeans are slowly falling south.)

I felt like I was in a really bad episode of Punked and I was just waiting for Mr. Kutcher to point and laugh and tell me where the camera's were. That is, if I was famous...

I just want to know who the hell thought it would be a good idea to bring back the fucking skinny jeans, or drainpipes as the sales girl kept referring to them. I'm a fairly slim chicky, and let me tell you, those damn jeans added thirty pounds and shortened me by four inches. My self-esteem will never be the same again. Those puppies may look good on models like Miss Moss, but really, I don't have enough money to snort the amount of cocaine needed to get thin enough to look good in those damn jeans.

And to add insult to injury, the stores all want an obscene amount of money so you can wander around with your muffin top, or your delusions-of-grandeur skinny jeans, so people can point and snicker and whip out their camera phones to post pictures of you and your denim dreams on their blog.

Good times, dear internet. Good times.

The only saving grace to the day, was towing my best friend along with me.

Did I mention she is five months pregnant?

Trust me, any jean looks great next to the dreaded pregnancy jeans. I really had nothing to complain about.

Watching her try to stuff herself into those puppies, especially the ones with the elastic front panels, really made me feel a bit better about my choices.

After all, what good is having a pregnant best friend if you can't occasionally step on them to boost your own self-esteem once in a while?

For all you raging, hormonal blog friends of mine, don't worry, she got the last laugh. We went bra shopping after. And her swelling mammaries shamed my non-existent, sagging A-cup beaver tails....

**************************************************************

As a salve to my wounded spirit, it was my delight to discover that the incomparable Mrs. Chicky has made Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog. Ever. her doggie of the week on her other great blog.

So, I'm urging you to wander over there, take a look at my darling pup, and read about my hairy, little beast.

We are one step closer in global domination...

Good Bye Dear Hubs, Hello Hairy Legs...

2006-11-06T09:07:00.000-07:00

When Boo and I decided to forever tangle ourselves together in wedded bliss, we never gave much thought to what that meant. After all, we were young, in love and invincible. How hard could this marriage thing be, when both of our parents, all of our aunts and uncles and our grandparents before us, had mastered the art of marriage and the til' death do we part stuff.

What we forgot to remember when we were fooling ourselves into believing marriage was easy, was that none of our family members were married to me. (Although, my darling hubs does have some first cousin marriages along the way and an uncle wedded to a niece, and of course, his mother is married to her third cousin, but that's a post for another day...)

What Boo and I failed to realize marriage is hard. Especially when you are married to me.

I can be a tad over-emotional, demanding and (he insists) irrational.

(I don't like that word. Especially when used in relation to me.)

However, he may have a small point about some things. I will admit to being extremely passionate, slightly temperamental, and I do have high standards I expect him to meet.

But I am NEVER irrational. (Between you and me, dear internet, I may sometimes have irrational tendencies, but let's keep that on the down-low, shall we?)

But just when the hubs and I thought we had this marriage thing down pat, he changed the rules on us. He got a job that separates us for extended periods of time.

Which leaves me alone, with my dog, to try and raise our children.

(There went any hope for those two not spending copious amounts of time and money on a therapist...)

Just when I've adjusted to living life as a single mom, with only our odd phone calls to remind me of the love we share, he switches it back up, and comes home for a few days.

And then leaves again.

I'm having trouble adjusting. When I want to hang on to his sleeves and beg him to stay, using sex as a bribe and offers of gourmet cooked meals (cooked by some one other than me, of course) there is another part of me that is saying "Go, good riddance, leave already." I'm tired of sharing the remote, shaving my legs and trying to cook something other than Kraft dinner.

Inevitably, he leaves, and I'm free to grow enough body hair to resemble a small yeti, and that should make me happy, right?

The problem being a small, hairy yeti who is free to cook as much K.D. as she wants, is that she misses the laughs, the dog-breath (and I'm not talking about the World's Greatest Dog's breath), and the mattress dip.

That and he takes out the garbage for me too.

Hurry home, big guy. And bring razors. Your yeti will need them.

Pass the Puns, Please

2006-11-05T09:45:00.000-07:00

My long-lost husband surprised me with his presence home for two solid days, before I have to send him back to work. He then flourished two tickets to the Dixie Chick's concert and took me out for a night on the town. After a night of music, expensive stadium food and a little mattress dancing, (wink, wink) this is the best I could do this morning for my weekly edition of spreading the cheese. Now, please excuse me, I'm off to corner the husband to take out the damn garbage. (Saves me from having to do it later...)

Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful young fairy princess who dreamed of being a ballet dancer. One day, she read an ad in her email that announced the Royal Ballet's next auditions in a nearby town.

So on the right day, the fairy princess geared up one hundred white pigeons to her chariot, and off they flew to the theater.

After witnessing her outrageous entrance, the director immediately told her to go back home.

"But why?" wept the broken-hearted shell of the would-be-ballerina.

"Because," came the heartless reply, "I've got enough pigeon-towed dancers in the company already."