Like the stockings? That's me on my deck drinking a coffee. I'm so Punky Brewster meets Beetlejuice, aren't I?
Okay, that's not actually me. But it could be me if I were outwardly funky and had nicer legs, which is why I chose it to be the new look for my blog.
Just felt like switching things up a little bit. And when The Maven wants something technical done, she looks no further than the office-turned-hobby-sound-studio where her husband sits in all his glory amongst instruments and editing equipment we probably can't afford.
He owes me big time. I feel no guilt dragging him over to my computer on a Saturday night because I've impulsively decided to change my blog's template. It's what he signed up for, being married to me and all. He knew what he was getting himself into.
However, someone who didn't know what she was getting herself into was me, when I wrote Thursday's post about getting naughty on the celly. Who knew so many people would take me up on the offer to sex me up wireless style?
After I admitted my complete and utter devastation over Pixie's poor reply to my very first dirty text message, I decided to go make myself buff by doing some pilates. Obviously if I'm not getting any sexting action it's because I'm not hot enough, right? Right. A few core exercises would give me the body I need to get the dysfunctional attention I so obviously crave. Right? Right.
It was then, in the middle of the third set of crunches, that I had my very first sizzling phone message from none other than AngelMama, my pregnant and obviously hormonal friend. What a sweetheart to do that. So very thoughtful! I was touched. Well, not actually touched because it was over the phone.
Emotionally fondled, if you will.
("Fondled" is probably not the word I should be using, as rumours could circulate as to my part in her pregnancy. I swear that, while I do have a large penis, I did not contribute in any way to her condition. We are strictly friends who occasionally - and by that I mean once - send each other dirty texts.)
At any rate, it was great. I got what I wanted while feeling both empowered and progressive. Go team Maven! I threw down the weights and switched from yoga pants to jammies. Being healthy is for suckers and people who aren't hot by default, anyway. I required no more validation than that little bleep on my phone. Cherry popped and mission completed. Back to being a dull suburban mom who justifies her monthly cell phone bill by getting bi-monthly emergency calls from the school.
Breakfast came at 9:30 yesterday morning. I sat with two of my friends who are known to be some of those people. You know, those people. I ranted about them in my last post: the ones who are only interested in your physical presence in between firing off and receiving text messages on their expensive gadget phones.
The conversation went something like this:
Them: Read your blog. Are we some of those people?
The Maven: Totally. I mean, I love you guys and everything, but not all of us live by our phones. Some of us just have them around in case the school calls or... *phone vibrates in my pocket*... Hang on a sec. What? She wants to do what with my... ? Oh my. That's really naughty! Anyway, what was I saying?
Them: Was that just a *gasp* text message?
The Maven: Actually that was a sext message, if you want to get technical, because someone felt bad for me. But whatever; it was only one. Not multiples, like you guys, who can't breathe outside without your *phone vibrates in my pocket*... Uh... Oh. Ohh. Heh heh! That's naughty.
Them: *Looking at latest text* Let me see... I get the first part, but what does 'towel time' mean?
The Maven: Uh, no clue, but I'm sure raunchy and that's all that matters. Just so you know, this never happens. I never get more than one text, like, a week, let alone in under two minutes. Heck, I don't even have my phone charged most of the time.
Them: Uh-huh.
The Maven: Seriously! That was a total fluke. Anyway, tell me about your *Phone vibrates in hand*... Yikes. You can't even read that one. I probably shouldn't have read it, either. *Phone vibrates again* ... Wow. I'm just going to leave this on the table, okay?
Ask, and ye shall receive. And receive. And receive.
I even got another couple tonight. XUP told me my blogging is hot. She must know that the way to my heart is through my writing... Or chocolate covered almonds.
I also have to mention that Pixie did redeem herself as one of the Friday morning sexters. She lost her chance to be my first, but I think we can still salvage our friendship. She might need to buy me a few coffees to heal the wounds of rejection, but we'll make it.
I have had the funniest couple of days thanks to stream of texts buzzing their way onto my phone. Thank you so much, you gutter crawling perverts. You've not only caused me to laugh at innapropriate times in innapropriate places, but you've upped my street cred with Geekster. He's now seeing me as the sext goddess I truly am.
Or can be.
Or basically begged to be in a blog post that sounded so desperate people felt bad and gave me pity sext.
Alright, so I'm not very sexty at all. I get it. I hijacked the train into The Land of Make Believe and I'd like to hide out here for a while, if that's okay.
In my real life I drive a minivan, you know.
Enough said.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Thursday, May 28, 2009
The Would-be Technowhore
First of all, I want all fourty-three (thanks CBG!) sheeples to send some love out to Geekster's grandma, who took a fall on Monday morning and is now in the hospital with a fractured pelvis. The doctors are optimistic that she'll be walking again in no time, but we worry. She's 89, has Parkinson's and uses a walker. She needs a broken hip like she needs... well, like she needs a broken hip. I mean, come on.
She's about the loveliest person on the planet, so we do want her up and running - or walking, at least - very soon. Please send all the love and adoration normally sent in my direction over to her, alright? Thanks.
Geekster was in Peterborough today while I held down the fort. He's on his way back now and, if not too exhausted from six or so hours of driving, will be very impressed with the state of Casa Maven. But more on that later. If we're going to talk about my various accomplishments and results, let's start at the beginning:
This morning, after showering and getting myself attractive-like with the help of the trusty makeup box (I need an entire box, which unfortunately says a lot about my looks underneath the caked on colouring, but I digress...), I welcomed five parents and nine children my house, for a total of sixteen bodies, Spawnling and myself included. It was rainy this morning so I invited the playgroup posse over to wreck my house. Not only is playgroup officially over, but the space we rent has been rather germy over the last few weeks, so it's been the park or bust. No park, no playgroup.
I wanted playgroup, dammit. I thrive on chaos and gossip; frankly, I'm but a shell of a human being without my weekly dose. With all the rain I knew sacrifices would have to be made so I could acquire my Thursday fix. Scrubbing down the house last night seemed but a small price to pay to feed my inner demon.
The morning went off without a hitch. I suckered everyone into bringing food while I supplied - get this - juice and coffee. Juice and coffee! Not, like, cheese or anything expensive. Oh, no. The Shoe brought a pricey brick of the orange stuff with her, while Pixie walked in with organic crackers. Handcuffs sported a cute bag of bulk raisins and a few kiwis and Thrashmeister (our resident at-home-dad/rock god) rounded out the feast with bananas and grapes.
See what I mean? Juice and coffee are nothing. I totally rule the snack kingdom right now.
My clean house was obviously trashed with the horde of goblins running amuck. Plastic food mixed with foam swords and a few leftover raisins made for an interesting corner of the playroom closet. Thomas the Tank Engine and friends made their way under my grandmother's antique chairs and in between the couch cushions. I also discovered that banana mashed into a beige carpet is nearly invisible until you step on it.
You learn something new every day. Not always something that gross, but I'm a glass is half full kind of girl. That's what carpet cleaners are for, my friends. They keep a smile on my face even when faced with the digusting.
Pixie had a look around before everyone went home and asked if she could stay to deep clean with me.
...Was that a trick question? Was I supposed to say 'no' or something?
Hell yes, she could stay and clean. I'd even give her a diet cola because I'm that generous.
So clean we did. We got rid of three bags of stuff from the once repulsive playroom. I even - get this - got rid of baby toys without feeling sad. Some heavy magic was weaved this afternoon, I tell you. before long most of the house was about as clean as it gets, which is all I can really ask for with two dogs, two cats and three gremlins making their nests in it. And I, with a face full of satisfaction, welcomed my children home like June Cleaver did the Beave. Smiling and asking about school instead of frantically throwing dishes in the sink in hopes of discovering a clean enough surface on which to cook dinner.
Could the day get any better, you ask? I mean, other than a family member in the hospital, which is bad. But I'm looking at the full portion of the glass here. The day did get even better, but not right away. First, I had to send a text message.
Pixie has a boyfriend we'll call Transit Tom. I met him a few weeks ago and I really like the guy. He's funny and witty and stuff. I wanted to not like him because that's what friends are supposed to do, or so I've heard. But he won me over, much to my dismay. Apparently I need to find someone else not to like.
Anyway, Transit Tom and Pixie send each other text messages that are apparently quite raunchy. Every time he sends her one some porn-like music starts playing on her vibrating pink cellphone. She then giggles, writes back and goes back to talking about potty training or time-outs or whatever else the conversation is about.
I was intrigued. To be quite honest, I rarely text anyone. Since I have a regular ol' phone and not one with a fancy keyboard, I find the entire texting process annoying and pointless. I could just call the person, or fire off an email. I could write on their Facebook wall. I could send them a tweet. Why would I want to very slowly type out a shortened message on a phone? Worse still, I dread becoming one of those people. The ones who, while you're sitting having a coffee with them and pouring your heart out, whip out their phone, chuckle at the incoming message, write one back, put it in their pocket, look up, listen to you for another thirty seconds and start the process all over again the next time a beep is heard.
You know: Those people. The Maven doesn't want rumours to circulate like "Oh, she's beautiful and smart and funny and all, but don't try and talk to her for any length of time. She's one of those people."
I'm annoying enough already without pulling my attention away from a face-to-face conversation. Some people can really pull off doing two things at once and hardly seem like they're zoning out to make dinner plans, but I'm not one of them. I can only focus on one thing at a time and I like to keep my friends. So, no, I do not text very much.
Still, today I thought I would try to explore the other side of texting: the dirty messages. Sexting, as they call it. It seems like a good platform to get skanky. It's private but removed, like email but without the formality. Also, if your dirty message is not well received, you can always claim you sent it to the wrong person or something.
Now, with my husband being at a hospital in another city with his injured grandmother, I thought best not to send him 'what are you wearing, you sexy beast?' messages; probably not a good time. I needed another person I knew well enough to flirt with, albeit innocently. And who other to send my first dirty phone text to than the queen of perverted messages herself? She was complimenting my new shirt today - a lot. She's obviously into me, so why not give her a little thank you in thrill form for all her help today?
In between changing a poopy diaper and folding laundry, I grabbed my phone and hastily began punching keys. After only ten minutes I had written the following:
Extremely proud of myself for entering the nasty world of sexting, I put down the phone and got back to my regular duties; homemaker by day, phone slut by night. That would be my new motto. As soon as I received my first naughty message back I would officially be ready to send randy thoughts to my husband in the middle of his next business meeting. All I needed was my cherry popped, and it was bound to happen at any...
... The phone buzzed. So soon? Wow, she was quick. What dirty little diddy was awaiting my eager eyes?
... Xo? That's the sexting equivalent of what? First base? I believe she just blew me a kiss. Or blew me off. One of the two.
I am still, quite officially, a sexting virgin. Apparently Pixie didn't like my shirt that much. I bet her meager response was her way of getting me back for that picture I posted of her a few months ago that she doesn't like. Girls hang on to that stuff for a long, long time, you know.
So, if anyone wants to whip off something raunchy, my cell phone number is on my Facebook page. It's not too late to give me something to tell my husband when he gets home, you know. After sixteen years a little spice is nice, if you know what I mean.
(Mom, if you're reading this post I would like you to disregard everything you read from "Transit Tom" to "Spice is nice". Thank you and I love you. You may read on.)
Just when I was feeling defeated, I went to Tim Hortons to buy the gremlins some donut holes.
Okay, okay: I went to buy myself a coffee and bribed the whining out of them with donut holes. Is that better? Honesty works.
I gave the woman behind the counter my order while adding that my children would likely murder me if I didn't walk out with a box of Timbits (those would be the brand name for their donut holes, in case you live in a deep pit somewhere). She then returned with my coffee and a very heavy box of twenty Timbits.
So heavy that I had to count them when I got home: 35. That's 20 + 15, in case you suck at math like Barbie.
Karma, you are awesome. Especially when you are good karma and you give me good things on special days when I'm cleaning my house and failing at being a technowhore.
In short, the day was pretty sweet. My house is very clean, my children are happy and my husband should be home shortly to finish off the bulging box of Timbits with me.
Maybe I should have grabbed the Tim Horton woman's cellphone number? She obviously liked me enough that she didn't want me murdered by children. That's a good sign, right?
She's about the loveliest person on the planet, so we do want her up and running - or walking, at least - very soon. Please send all the love and adoration normally sent in my direction over to her, alright? Thanks.
Geekster was in Peterborough today while I held down the fort. He's on his way back now and, if not too exhausted from six or so hours of driving, will be very impressed with the state of Casa Maven. But more on that later. If we're going to talk about my various accomplishments and results, let's start at the beginning:
This morning, after showering and getting myself attractive-like with the help of the trusty makeup box (I need an entire box, which unfortunately says a lot about my looks underneath the caked on colouring, but I digress...), I welcomed five parents and nine children my house, for a total of sixteen bodies, Spawnling and myself included. It was rainy this morning so I invited the playgroup posse over to wreck my house. Not only is playgroup officially over, but the space we rent has been rather germy over the last few weeks, so it's been the park or bust. No park, no playgroup.
I wanted playgroup, dammit. I thrive on chaos and gossip; frankly, I'm but a shell of a human being without my weekly dose. With all the rain I knew sacrifices would have to be made so I could acquire my Thursday fix. Scrubbing down the house last night seemed but a small price to pay to feed my inner demon.
The morning went off without a hitch. I suckered everyone into bringing food while I supplied - get this - juice and coffee. Juice and coffee! Not, like, cheese or anything expensive. Oh, no. The Shoe brought a pricey brick of the orange stuff with her, while Pixie walked in with organic crackers. Handcuffs sported a cute bag of bulk raisins and a few kiwis and Thrashmeister (our resident at-home-dad/rock god) rounded out the feast with bananas and grapes.
See what I mean? Juice and coffee are nothing. I totally rule the snack kingdom right now.
My clean house was obviously trashed with the horde of goblins running amuck. Plastic food mixed with foam swords and a few leftover raisins made for an interesting corner of the playroom closet. Thomas the Tank Engine and friends made their way under my grandmother's antique chairs and in between the couch cushions. I also discovered that banana mashed into a beige carpet is nearly invisible until you step on it.
You learn something new every day. Not always something that gross, but I'm a glass is half full kind of girl. That's what carpet cleaners are for, my friends. They keep a smile on my face even when faced with the digusting.
Pixie had a look around before everyone went home and asked if she could stay to deep clean with me.
...Was that a trick question? Was I supposed to say 'no' or something?
Hell yes, she could stay and clean. I'd even give her a diet cola because I'm that generous.
So clean we did. We got rid of three bags of stuff from the once repulsive playroom. I even - get this - got rid of baby toys without feeling sad. Some heavy magic was weaved this afternoon, I tell you. before long most of the house was about as clean as it gets, which is all I can really ask for with two dogs, two cats and three gremlins making their nests in it. And I, with a face full of satisfaction, welcomed my children home like June Cleaver did the Beave. Smiling and asking about school instead of frantically throwing dishes in the sink in hopes of discovering a clean enough surface on which to cook dinner.
Could the day get any better, you ask? I mean, other than a family member in the hospital, which is bad. But I'm looking at the full portion of the glass here. The day did get even better, but not right away. First, I had to send a text message.
Pixie has a boyfriend we'll call Transit Tom. I met him a few weeks ago and I really like the guy. He's funny and witty and stuff. I wanted to not like him because that's what friends are supposed to do, or so I've heard. But he won me over, much to my dismay. Apparently I need to find someone else not to like.
Anyway, Transit Tom and Pixie send each other text messages that are apparently quite raunchy. Every time he sends her one some porn-like music starts playing on her vibrating pink cellphone. She then giggles, writes back and goes back to talking about potty training or time-outs or whatever else the conversation is about.
I was intrigued. To be quite honest, I rarely text anyone. Since I have a regular ol' phone and not one with a fancy keyboard, I find the entire texting process annoying and pointless. I could just call the person, or fire off an email. I could write on their Facebook wall. I could send them a tweet. Why would I want to very slowly type out a shortened message on a phone? Worse still, I dread becoming one of those people. The ones who, while you're sitting having a coffee with them and pouring your heart out, whip out their phone, chuckle at the incoming message, write one back, put it in their pocket, look up, listen to you for another thirty seconds and start the process all over again the next time a beep is heard.
You know: Those people. The Maven doesn't want rumours to circulate like "Oh, she's beautiful and smart and funny and all, but don't try and talk to her for any length of time. She's one of those people."
I'm annoying enough already without pulling my attention away from a face-to-face conversation. Some people can really pull off doing two things at once and hardly seem like they're zoning out to make dinner plans, but I'm not one of them. I can only focus on one thing at a time and I like to keep my friends. So, no, I do not text very much.
Still, today I thought I would try to explore the other side of texting: the dirty messages. Sexting, as they call it. It seems like a good platform to get skanky. It's private but removed, like email but without the formality. Also, if your dirty message is not well received, you can always claim you sent it to the wrong person or something.
Now, with my husband being at a hospital in another city with his injured grandmother, I thought best not to send him 'what are you wearing, you sexy beast?' messages; probably not a good time. I needed another person I knew well enough to flirt with, albeit innocently. And who other to send my first dirty phone text to than the queen of perverted messages herself? She was complimenting my new shirt today - a lot. She's obviously into me, so why not give her a little thank you in thrill form for all her help today?
In between changing a poopy diaper and folding laundry, I grabbed my phone and hastily began punching keys. After only ten minutes I had written the following:
"You looked hot today - especially when you were mopping my floors. Rawr!"
Extremely proud of myself for entering the nasty world of sexting, I put down the phone and got back to my regular duties; homemaker by day, phone slut by night. That would be my new motto. As soon as I received my first naughty message back I would officially be ready to send randy thoughts to my husband in the middle of his next business meeting. All I needed was my cherry popped, and it was bound to happen at any...
... The phone buzzed. So soon? Wow, she was quick. What dirty little diddy was awaiting my eager eyes?
Txt from: Pixie
Msg: X0
... Xo? That's the sexting equivalent of what? First base? I believe she just blew me a kiss. Or blew me off. One of the two.
I am still, quite officially, a sexting virgin. Apparently Pixie didn't like my shirt that much. I bet her meager response was her way of getting me back for that picture I posted of her a few months ago that she doesn't like. Girls hang on to that stuff for a long, long time, you know.
So, if anyone wants to whip off something raunchy, my cell phone number is on my Facebook page. It's not too late to give me something to tell my husband when he gets home, you know. After sixteen years a little spice is nice, if you know what I mean.
(Mom, if you're reading this post I would like you to disregard everything you read from "Transit Tom" to "Spice is nice". Thank you and I love you. You may read on.)
Just when I was feeling defeated, I went to Tim Hortons to buy the gremlins some donut holes.
Okay, okay: I went to buy myself a coffee and bribed the whining out of them with donut holes. Is that better? Honesty works.
I gave the woman behind the counter my order while adding that my children would likely murder me if I didn't walk out with a box of Timbits (those would be the brand name for their donut holes, in case you live in a deep pit somewhere). She then returned with my coffee and a very heavy box of twenty Timbits.
So heavy that I had to count them when I got home: 35. That's 20 + 15, in case you suck at math like Barbie.
Karma, you are awesome. Especially when you are good karma and you give me good things on special days when I'm cleaning my house and failing at being a technowhore.
In short, the day was pretty sweet. My house is very clean, my children are happy and my husband should be home shortly to finish off the bulging box of Timbits with me.
Maybe I should have grabbed the Tim Horton woman's cellphone number? She obviously liked me enough that she didn't want me murdered by children. That's a good sign, right?
Monday, May 25, 2009
In Which The Maven Justifies her Behaviour
Okay. First of all: Are there really 42 people who want to read my rants? Really? Check out my followers. Wow. I'm both honoured and filled with guilt. I feel like a drug dealer who gave you bad cocaine cut with Old Dutch, and now you only want that kind because it makes you imagine pygmy elephants singing opera, which is rather funny.
I'm very sorry. Flattered, but sorry.
Mostly flattered.
As a gift to the sheeple, I am going to do something new. As of this post I will begin replying to the majority of comments like other bloggers do. You know what I mean: A few people write comments and I reply to them with my own comment. I haven't done it much in the past, but that's because I've generally thought myself above it. I don't write here so other people can read it; I do it for me. This is my platform on which I create skillful masterpieces of literature that do not require the feedback of others to be worthy or beautiful.
...Alright, alright. I'm just lazy. But the fake reason sounded better.
Truth be told, I love comments. I live for comments. I read each and every one enthusiastically. I post something and I hover around the computer waiting for them to start pouring in. I really do, and I'm ashamed of it. It's horribly unhealthy to be reliant upon external sources of validation, isn't it?
Isn't it?
I also love random emails from people I've never met, unless they want me to buy a fake Rolex or make my penis bigger.
My penis is plenty big, thanks. So big that I've been gifted a drawer full of fake Rolexes. It's a good life, being this well endowed.
I'm just really bad at replying, because my life, if one can't tell by reading my blog, is filled with commitments and chaos. I still have the funniest email sitting in my inbox from a reader who's weaning experience involved perfume and other original smells and tastes. I'm like, beyond impressed. This chick is highly creative and kind of insane. My type of person. I think we need to be friends, but I have yet to reply to her so I don't think I'm sending the right vibe. I just hope she still reads me in between sticking the pins in my voodoo doll (does she have pretty hair, my doll? She should if you're going for realism).
So, my gift to everyone is to actually start replying to comments and emails more often. My 42 followers deserve at least that. I want those kind words of adoration to keep flowing in, so I'm going to have to up my game and let you know I care.
Because we all know a giant penis can only carry me so far in this world.
It was Geekster's grandma's 89th birthday on Saturday, so we spent the weekend visiting her and the in-laws in Peterborough, Ontario. Did you know they have a free zoo there? It's just a little one, but it also has a water park and a train to ride and a bunch of other stuff to keep my whiny gremlins amused. We went on Sunday, along with great-grandma and her walker. If I can walk through a zoo at 89 I will wear a freaking superhero cape to celebrate how spry I am. All I could do yesterday when walking next to her was be sad that we're only related by marriage; Oh, to have those longevity genetics! They could really offset my saturated fat intake.
Today, it's back to the grind: I have a house to clean, then my own house to clean, a garden to weed, food dishes to create and a Jon and Kate Plus 8 party to host.
I never used to be a huge fan of the show. I mean, I liked the premise of this previously infertile couple now raising twins and sextuplets - and cute ones, I might add - but after watching it a few times I concluded it was more of a "reality" show than a reality show, if you know what I mean. It's chock full of fake family fun, with a mother who pretends not to be a narcissist (and fails miserably, I might add), a father who tries not to look like he's gasping for air under the crushing weight of his wife's controlling desire for fame and fortune, and kids who live their lives photographed and videotaped as they travel from resort to theme park, exhausted, in the name of ratings.
After watching a handful of episodes, I stopped; they were all the same. And besides, if I want mishaps and mayhem I don't need to turn on the television, I just have to walk into the playroom.
But then the drama started surfacing. Jon has a twenty-three-year-old school teacher girlfriend? Kate might be sleeping with the married bodyguard? Oh, now this is juicy.
The Good Maven tells herself she shouldn't watch that trash, as doing so is contributing to the exploitation of those poor children. Jon and Kate should be left alone to work things out in private and not under the world's microscope.
The Evil Maven justifies her desire to throw a Jon and Kate Plus 8 season premiere party by saying that if the Gosselins didn't want people peering into their lives, they wouldn't have a damn television show. If Kate wants ratings, we'll give her ratings. It's the least we can do. Think of the children's college funds! ... And Kate's pedicures!
I am a sick and bad person for loving that family's drama. I own that. On the other hand, watching their lives crumble on international television takes the focus off of Gutsy's health issues and Spawnling's toddler terrorizing for at least thirty minutes. It allows me to stall on making important appointments, getting any paid writing contracts sealed, or decluttering the basement.
My dysfunction brings about the beautiful gift of procrastination. Is that so wrong?
Is it? Please tell me.
(You're right. But let's pretend it isn't.)
Have a great Monday.
I'm very sorry. Flattered, but sorry.
Mostly flattered.
As a gift to the sheeple, I am going to do something new. As of this post I will begin replying to the majority of comments like other bloggers do. You know what I mean: A few people write comments and I reply to them with my own comment. I haven't done it much in the past, but that's because I've generally thought myself above it. I don't write here so other people can read it; I do it for me. This is my platform on which I create skillful masterpieces of literature that do not require the feedback of others to be worthy or beautiful.
...Alright, alright. I'm just lazy. But the fake reason sounded better.
Truth be told, I love comments. I live for comments. I read each and every one enthusiastically. I post something and I hover around the computer waiting for them to start pouring in. I really do, and I'm ashamed of it. It's horribly unhealthy to be reliant upon external sources of validation, isn't it?
Isn't it?
I also love random emails from people I've never met, unless they want me to buy a fake Rolex or make my penis bigger.
My penis is plenty big, thanks. So big that I've been gifted a drawer full of fake Rolexes. It's a good life, being this well endowed.
I'm just really bad at replying, because my life, if one can't tell by reading my blog, is filled with commitments and chaos. I still have the funniest email sitting in my inbox from a reader who's weaning experience involved perfume and other original smells and tastes. I'm like, beyond impressed. This chick is highly creative and kind of insane. My type of person. I think we need to be friends, but I have yet to reply to her so I don't think I'm sending the right vibe. I just hope she still reads me in between sticking the pins in my voodoo doll (does she have pretty hair, my doll? She should if you're going for realism).
So, my gift to everyone is to actually start replying to comments and emails more often. My 42 followers deserve at least that. I want those kind words of adoration to keep flowing in, so I'm going to have to up my game and let you know I care.
Because we all know a giant penis can only carry me so far in this world.
It was Geekster's grandma's 89th birthday on Saturday, so we spent the weekend visiting her and the in-laws in Peterborough, Ontario. Did you know they have a free zoo there? It's just a little one, but it also has a water park and a train to ride and a bunch of other stuff to keep my whiny gremlins amused. We went on Sunday, along with great-grandma and her walker. If I can walk through a zoo at 89 I will wear a freaking superhero cape to celebrate how spry I am. All I could do yesterday when walking next to her was be sad that we're only related by marriage; Oh, to have those longevity genetics! They could really offset my saturated fat intake.
Today, it's back to the grind: I have a house to clean, then my own house to clean, a garden to weed, food dishes to create and a Jon and Kate Plus 8 party to host.
I never used to be a huge fan of the show. I mean, I liked the premise of this previously infertile couple now raising twins and sextuplets - and cute ones, I might add - but after watching it a few times I concluded it was more of a "reality" show than a reality show, if you know what I mean. It's chock full of fake family fun, with a mother who pretends not to be a narcissist (and fails miserably, I might add), a father who tries not to look like he's gasping for air under the crushing weight of his wife's controlling desire for fame and fortune, and kids who live their lives photographed and videotaped as they travel from resort to theme park, exhausted, in the name of ratings.
After watching a handful of episodes, I stopped; they were all the same. And besides, if I want mishaps and mayhem I don't need to turn on the television, I just have to walk into the playroom.
But then the drama started surfacing. Jon has a twenty-three-year-old school teacher girlfriend? Kate might be sleeping with the married bodyguard? Oh, now this is juicy.
The Good Maven tells herself she shouldn't watch that trash, as doing so is contributing to the exploitation of those poor children. Jon and Kate should be left alone to work things out in private and not under the world's microscope.
The Evil Maven justifies her desire to throw a Jon and Kate Plus 8 season premiere party by saying that if the Gosselins didn't want people peering into their lives, they wouldn't have a damn television show. If Kate wants ratings, we'll give her ratings. It's the least we can do. Think of the children's college funds! ... And Kate's pedicures!
I am a sick and bad person for loving that family's drama. I own that. On the other hand, watching their lives crumble on international television takes the focus off of Gutsy's health issues and Spawnling's toddler terrorizing for at least thirty minutes. It allows me to stall on making important appointments, getting any paid writing contracts sealed, or decluttering the basement.
My dysfunction brings about the beautiful gift of procrastination. Is that so wrong?
Is it? Please tell me.
(You're right. But let's pretend it isn't.)
Have a great Monday.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
A Step By Step Guide to Field Trips
A kindergarten field trip, I've decided, can best be recreated by doing the following:
1. Take one box of angry cats.
2. Shake the box over and over (sorry PETA) to simulate a long, hot bus ride.
3. The box will now be full of angry, loud cats.
4. Place the box in the middle of a museum filled not only with many good hiding places but also hundreds of other cats milling about wearing the same or similar kitty fashion colours and fur styles and such.
5. Hand out lists of cats to watch to the volunteerparents shepherds.
6. Open the box and stand back. Way back.
7. Tell everyone to meet you back at the bus for 1:30 with their assigned felines.
8. Happy herding.
Holy tuna, Batman. Bed has never looked so welcoming.
After today, I am a freaking mothering goddess.
1. Take one box of angry cats.
2. Shake the box over and over (sorry PETA) to simulate a long, hot bus ride.
3. The box will now be full of angry, loud cats.
4. Place the box in the middle of a museum filled not only with many good hiding places but also hundreds of other cats milling about wearing the same or similar kitty fashion colours and fur styles and such.
5. Hand out lists of cats to watch to the volunteer
6. Open the box and stand back. Way back.
7. Tell everyone to meet you back at the bus for 1:30 with their assigned felines.
8. Happy herding.
Holy tuna, Batman. Bed has never looked so welcoming.
After today, I am a freaking mothering goddess.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Thoughts on Today's Mother
Today's Parent had an interesting article in their May 2009 issue in which it compared motherhood in the 80's to its current standard. I showed it to Geekster late last night as we were lying in bed trying to sleep but too wired on the store brand equivalent of Coke Zero (who says we're getting old?) We then got into a deep discussion about the fundamental changes in family life and whether or not they're a good thing.
I, of course, am full of opinions. And other stuff, but I digress. Having run the mom circuit for over twelve years, I've seen and experienced a lot. *Waving my cane around wildly*
First of all, the article states that women in Canada are having fewer children now than in the 80's. In 1981 women averaged 1.4 children each. That's maybe one baby with an extra head and three limbs. In 2006 it was 1.1 - Would you say that's the equivalent of a bouncing baby with two stomachs and a spare eye?
I, myself, prefer to have whole children. It's a personal choice. And I had three of them. I would like to think I saved nearly two other women the trouble and expense of raising their 1.1 children. You're welcome.
Moms are also getting older. The average first time mother in 1986 was 27 years old. Three years ago she was 29.3.
I'm sorry. I just have to ask the general population: Are you saying some of you want to start having children older on purpose?
Look. I've popped out wailing gremlins at 20, 26 and 30 and have had time to reflect on the pros and cons of motherhood at various ages. Let me tell you, there was an enormous difference in my energy levels between the start and the end of that decade. Getting three hours of sleep at 21 is not like getting the same amount at 31. This came to light on the day when I was trying to mainline the pot of coffee directly into my forearm with a whittled straw. The other thing I noticed? Surprise, surprise: I was less fertile as the years went on. Imagine that: the older I get, the less my body wants to make babies. Isn't that strange? What a concept! Is anyone studying this phenomenon?
I'm not advocating that every girl fresh out of high school should get knocked up - in fact, I would be the first to slap on some wings and run through the campus playing 'condom fairy', as I recognize that maturity plays a big role in our ability to parent - but I do think this idea that millions of years of biological evolution will gladly bend to our desire to get Ph.Ds and steady government jobs before having kids is out of line. It is good that we're more educated and not poverty stricken, but at the same time we don't have to wait until we have the hybrid Lexus and McMansion before we're 'stable enough' to breed.
The average marrying age is creeping up as well. We're now over 29 when we tie the knot. Then, most everyone I speak to says 'We need a few years as a married couple before we start having children.'
Pardon? Did you not live together for six years before getting married, go on at least two vacations every twelve months, buy a house, pay bills, purchase furniture and cook for each other? Did you not figure out that he leaves his dirty socks in a pile next to the bed until after your special day, or that he really only watches Grey's Anatomy with you because it makes you a little horny?
That's right, I forgot. Getting married changes everything. Must be the magical rings of Gondor you're now sporting. Go frolic in the fields, little Hobbits. Far be it for me to judge. We sort of did things backwards anyway: baby, marriage, house. We didn't follow the script, exactly. I like to call it 'creative licensing.'
There were some other interesting finds in the article that you can peruse, but one thing that really caught my eye - which seems to only be found in the print version of the story - was this:
By tallying up all the unpaid work a mother does, the Powers That Be have decreed a working mother is worth an additional $68,405 US, while a stay-at-home-mom (that would be me) should be earning a whopping $116,805 US.
I closed the magazine feeling rather pleased with myself. I smirked, even, and patted myself on the back.
And then I realized the unfortunate reality of the situation: I may be worth a lot, but I don't get paid a dime. Meanwhile, a working mom might be missing out on nearly 70K, but at least she still gets a paycheque.
No wonder most of us go to work. Now I feel like a sucker.
***
I say all of these things in jest, of course. I don't care if you have babies at 18 or 88. I don't care if you get married, don't get married, get married five times or marry a donkey. I don't care if you go to work, play hooky from work, or hook at work for that matter. I just want my $116, 805 x 12. Imagine the happiness I could buy with that.
Monday, May 18, 2009
Immune to Healthy Lifestyles
The gremlins are sleeping and the Geekster is away, so the Maven will play?
Nope. The Maven will eat cheddar chips and watch a documentary on the evolution of dinosaurs to modern day reptiles and birds.
The Maven is an exciting individual who leads an exciting life. We should all wish we were more like her.
I may have partied hard with my Fruitopia and Sprite Zero mocktails on Saturday night at my sister's, but normally I'm a pretty dull person. Very dull. Drab, even. Just ask anyone who knows me. They'll say "Oh. Her? She's... drab. I wish I didn't know her, actually. Why are we friends again? Oh. That's right: she makes me look good"
Yep. Allowing people to compare themselves to me is another way I keep myself indispensable.
What else am I doing right now? Why, I'm researching how to help my six-year-old not get pneumonia again! It's a lot of fun. I spoke with a blogger friend of mine who offered me great ideas from years of experience with her own child, and pretty much everything else I read is echoing what she said: Eliminate or reduce refined sugar, dairy and wheat.
No problem. It's not like those are main ingredients in anything.
Right now, I'm going to take the path of fewer tantrums and practice reduction rather than complete elimination. I would like to maintain my sanity as well as his health. Surely there must be a happy medium. Right?
Right?!
I really hope I'm right.
If we're vegetarians who don't eat wheat, dairy or sugar, what on earth can we eat?
- lettuce and other green things
- apples and stuff like apples
- types of grains I can spell but can't pronounce, like quinoa (Kweh-no-ah? Kee-noo-ay? Kant-say-meh?)
- honey, but not on Eggos or anything good
- coffee flavoure with my tears because soy cream makes me want to vomit
Thus completes my list. See what I mean? We just can't do it. We wouldn't be able to eat anything. All of my favourite foods would be completely gone. I would be very hungry. I would waste away to...
No meat, no sugar, no dairy, no wheat. Got it.
At least I won't get pneumonia, and think about how hot I'll look!
Okay, okay. Reduction. And a naturopath. And a chiropractor (we have an awesome one). I just want to beat the shit out of this pneumonia once and for all. No child should get sick this often with the same thing. Not to mention that the 3 1/2 years that I breastfed the little nipple monkey doesn't seem to be providing him with a whole lot of protection in the lungs. How unfair is that? We are not amused.
I'm going to go sulk and brainstorm ways to get regular doses of oregano oil into Gutsy. Ever had oregano oil? You probably don't want to unless you're sick like Gutsy or a freak like me who likes her body to stay strong and fit.
I'm still working on the "fit" portion of that last sentence...
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Way more than you ever wanted to know about The Maven
Annissa Rae over at A Page In My Book was dying to learn all about yours truly (and seven other people, but mostly me) so she asked me to do this taggy thingy. Since I'm recovering from a fever - and no other symptoms, which I think is rather odd - and don't feel like doing much else, I figured I would indulge her. Besides, as a mom I'm forever focusing on the gremlins. What about The Maven? Let's talk about me, dammit.
8 of my most favourite foods:
1. Poutine. It's like a heart attack in a styrofoam cup.
2. Along the same line: chip truck fries.
3. The warm scones my neighbour just dropped off are officially on my list.
4. Old cheddar. The older the better.
5. Chocolate. (I'm starting to see where my weight problems come from)
6. Coffee. Did you honestly think I would leave out coffee? Do you not read my blog?
7. Vanilla chai soy drink. Seriously. It's freaking delicious.
8. Samosas. The vegetarian variety, obviously.
8 things I cherish:
1. Time to myself.
2. Time to myself.
3. Time to... Wait. I think I said that already.
4. My family, of course. When they're being quiet and letting me watch a movie, which they are not right now. We've had to pause Australia seven times in an hour. I think we've all but given up. So uncool.
5. The planet. Yes, I'm a tree hugger. Call me crazy, but breathing is a priority for me.
6. My grandmother's ring, and her fine china, too, which I now own.
7. My wedding ring. I always say it's ugly and we bought it second hand (budget wedding) and I would love a new one, but I thought I lost it once and was practically in tears at the thought of never wearing someone else's broken dreams on my finger again.
8. Watching the ducks waddle through our front yard, and the brown bunny who visits the back. Also, the squirrel orgies are interesting. Some call it territorial fighting, I call it the group dance of lust.
8 Ways I Kill Time:
1. Posting crap on my blog.
2. Posting crap on Facebook
3. Posting shortened crap on Twitter (StayAtHomeMaven - feel free to follow me and my shortened crap)
4. Taking Gutsy to the doctor so they can diagnose him with pneumonia - which is what happened, yet again, yesterday
5. Renting or buying console games for my children so I can stay up late playing them.
6. Giving people unsolicited advice - one of my all time favourite pastimes.
7. Checking myself out in the mirror and finding the best angles to hide my double chin.
8. Walking around the yard (if you've ever been in my yard you'd understand why I like to kill time out there. Fixer-upper house, sweeeet backyard)
8 Shows I watch
1. House, because he's a crotchety old bastard and I love him.
2. Doctor Who - I am a complete junkie.
3. Torchwood. If you haven't watched it, do so right now. I command thee.
4. The Tudors, because it's history mixed with smoldering plot lines.
5. Dogtown, because I'm always rooting for the underdog.
6. Paranormal State. Nothing paranormal ever happens but they make it seem like it does so I keep watching.
7. Buy Me, a Canadian show about real estate featuring real suckers selling their real houses. It reminds me why I never want to move again.
8. Property Ladder, because I love seeing people without clue wasting their money.
8 Things to do before I die:
1. Get really, really fat. Check.
2. Finally be a popular bitch. Check.
3. Own a vacation home in Spain. Check. (Just seeing if you're still paying attention.)
4. Hang out with Oprah. I don't know why, exactly. Maybe just so I can say 'O - that's short for "Oprah", by the way - she said to me the other day...'
5. Get healthy - this is a long term goal, apparently.
6. Go to a place where no one has ever been to Canada so I can start talking about highway snow tunnels and summer igloo maintenance work.
7. Become an author with oodles of readers. At least two dozen.
8. Spend as much time with the gremlins as I can, because nothing, absolutely nothing, is more important than my little horned ones
Ways to make me happy (Geekster, please pay attention):
1. Random gifting of coffee
2. Random gifting of chocolate
3.Taking the kids out so I can have a couple of hours to myself. Being in the house alone is a rare treat. I might get scared the first couple of times, but eventually I'd adjust.
4. Laughing at my jokes, even when they're lame.
5. Telling me I look amazing on days that I'm not even trying. You might be lying but it's still nice to hear and I'm vain enough to believe you.
6. Flowers. I've come to realize that flowers make me happy. How girly and disgusting.
7. Giving me a hug. Egads. I'm suffocating on my own estrogen right now.
8. That thing you do when you... Oh, wait. My mom reads this. I'll tell you later.
I'd tag 8 people like I'm supposed to, but I have to go finish watching Australia now. We've been trying since around lunch. That's 10 hours for a two hour movie. Besides, tagging 8 people does in no way compare to Australian cowboy Hugh Jackman. Drool.
8 of my most favourite foods:
1. Poutine. It's like a heart attack in a styrofoam cup.
2. Along the same line: chip truck fries.
3. The warm scones my neighbour just dropped off are officially on my list.
4. Old cheddar. The older the better.
5. Chocolate. (I'm starting to see where my weight problems come from)
6. Coffee. Did you honestly think I would leave out coffee? Do you not read my blog?
7. Vanilla chai soy drink. Seriously. It's freaking delicious.
8. Samosas. The vegetarian variety, obviously.
8 things I cherish:
1. Time to myself.
2. Time to myself.
3. Time to... Wait. I think I said that already.
4. My family, of course. When they're being quiet and letting me watch a movie, which they are not right now. We've had to pause Australia seven times in an hour. I think we've all but given up. So uncool.
5. The planet. Yes, I'm a tree hugger. Call me crazy, but breathing is a priority for me.
6. My grandmother's ring, and her fine china, too, which I now own.
7. My wedding ring. I always say it's ugly and we bought it second hand (budget wedding) and I would love a new one, but I thought I lost it once and was practically in tears at the thought of never wearing someone else's broken dreams on my finger again.
8. Watching the ducks waddle through our front yard, and the brown bunny who visits the back. Also, the squirrel orgies are interesting. Some call it territorial fighting, I call it the group dance of lust.
8 Ways I Kill Time:
1. Posting crap on my blog.
2. Posting crap on Facebook
3. Posting shortened crap on Twitter (StayAtHomeMaven - feel free to follow me and my shortened crap)
4. Taking Gutsy to the doctor so they can diagnose him with pneumonia - which is what happened, yet again, yesterday
5. Renting or buying console games for my children so I can stay up late playing them.
6. Giving people unsolicited advice - one of my all time favourite pastimes.
7. Checking myself out in the mirror and finding the best angles to hide my double chin.
8. Walking around the yard (if you've ever been in my yard you'd understand why I like to kill time out there. Fixer-upper house, sweeeet backyard)
8 Shows I watch
1. House, because he's a crotchety old bastard and I love him.
2. Doctor Who - I am a complete junkie.
3. Torchwood. If you haven't watched it, do so right now. I command thee.
4. The Tudors, because it's history mixed with smoldering plot lines.
5. Dogtown, because I'm always rooting for the underdog.
6. Paranormal State. Nothing paranormal ever happens but they make it seem like it does so I keep watching.
7. Buy Me, a Canadian show about real estate featuring real suckers selling their real houses. It reminds me why I never want to move again.
8. Property Ladder, because I love seeing people without clue wasting their money.
8 Things to do before I die:
1. Get really, really fat. Check.
2. Finally be a popular bitch. Check.
3. Own a vacation home in Spain. Check. (Just seeing if you're still paying attention.)
4. Hang out with Oprah. I don't know why, exactly. Maybe just so I can say 'O - that's short for "Oprah", by the way - she said to me the other day...'
5. Get healthy - this is a long term goal, apparently.
6. Go to a place where no one has ever been to Canada so I can start talking about highway snow tunnels and summer igloo maintenance work.
7. Become an author with oodles of readers. At least two dozen.
8. Spend as much time with the gremlins as I can, because nothing, absolutely nothing, is more important than my little horned ones
Ways to make me happy (Geekster, please pay attention):
1. Random gifting of coffee
2. Random gifting of chocolate
3.Taking the kids out so I can have a couple of hours to myself. Being in the house alone is a rare treat. I might get scared the first couple of times, but eventually I'd adjust.
4. Laughing at my jokes, even when they're lame.
5. Telling me I look amazing on days that I'm not even trying. You might be lying but it's still nice to hear and I'm vain enough to believe you.
6. Flowers. I've come to realize that flowers make me happy. How girly and disgusting.
7. Giving me a hug. Egads. I'm suffocating on my own estrogen right now.
8. That thing you do when you... Oh, wait. My mom reads this. I'll tell you later.
I'd tag 8 people like I'm supposed to, but I have to go finish watching Australia now. We've been trying since around lunch. That's 10 hours for a two hour movie. Besides, tagging 8 people does in no way compare to Australian cowboy Hugh Jackman. Drool.
Friday, May 15, 2009
Worthy of my Love
Are there any longtime readers in the crowd?
Of course there are. There would have to be. I mean, who wouldn't want to be reading mycrap prose for nearly two years? I'm sure Google's servers get congested every time I put a new post up. They're going to start charging me or demanding I put some ads on my page or something.
Those of you who've been around for a while might remember my friend Fallout Girl. I cleverly named her that because we had a falling out which caused us to not be in the same Starbucks together for about two years. It was an awful time; I knew she frequented the coffee house closest to both of us, so I made a point of going to the second closest one, which was actually quite far. Then, when I added up how much gas I was using, I got up enough courage that I thought I could see her without either bursting into tears or taking off at a mad dash. However, I would do a drive by the store to see if she was in it before actually walking through the doors with my head down.
Eventually, I grew some ovaries and decided I needed to tell her I was sorry for my part in things. That I had acted immaturely and selfishly, and that I wanted nothing more than for her to know that I regretted what I had done.
Isn't that big of me? I know. I astound myself daily with my wisdom and acts of bravery. I'd like to believe that somewhere in the world there is a shrine of Maven, where people go to meditate and ask for guidance.
(If there is a shrine of Maven, it's probably an cork board covered in creepy monochrome print-outs of my internet pictures with holes in the eyes. I somehow think that's more likely. Terrifying, but more likely.)
Just as I was patting myself on the back for how amazingly mature I was, Fallout Girl not only accepted my apology, but wrote an even more compelling letter, disolving me into a puddle of crying mess. Bitch stole my thunder.
So Fallout Girl's name is actually Emely, and she's way cooler than I am (but don't tell her that because she'll rub it in my face). We've rebuilt this friendship from the ground up and have made it stronger, better, faster, longer.
Wait. No. That's a Kanye song.
Em and I have so much in common, and although very busy schedules have kept us apart more than we'd like, when we see each other it's like we never left the lawn chairs. We laugh, we cry, we're just our crazy old selves. I can tell her anything and know she'll still love me (I believe that's called "co-dependence" but we'll keep that hush-hush as well, alright?)
To put it simply, when I talk to her it's like the sun is shining a little brighter. She has a big spot in my heart.
Now here's the Oscar-worthy twist in the tale...
I just had to pause a minute to take a breath and wipe some tears, because writing it out is so hard: Em has been battling cancer for a few years and was in remission for quite some time. However, it's back with a vengeance and her prognosis is not good. Really not good.
I think you know what I mean.
I told Em that every two or three days I have a little cry about it. When I saw her this morning I said I was about due. I've just changed the sign to read '0 Days Without An Incident'. Dammit.
The positive side to this is that she's doing what we all should be doing: She's living life to the fullest right now with honesty and humour and vigor. How many of us can truly say that?
That's right: Only me and Em. So let us lead you by example and get on the happy train.
I'm just trying to steal some thunder back.
I've been asking myself how I can help her when she needs it most. What can I do for her as her friend and a fellow mom of three? There are so many things, big and small. I think I'll figure it out as time goes on, as her needs and those of her family change. But one thing I know I'm good at is making the girl laugh. She even likes my terrible blog. She tells me all the time, like one of those slutty groupies, just hanging off me and such.
... I wonder if she has a shrine? I haven't been down to her basement in a while. Do my pictures have eyes? Maybe I should check my hair for missing locks...
One of the things I promise to do is give her something to laugh about on a regular basis. I shall continue to blog several times a week in my ridiculously funny and talented way - not because I'm ignoring how sad I am, but because there's nothing better to laugh at than my life. It's almost tragic.
I encourage you to go read Emely's blog. Give her some love and support. I know I will.
Love you, my friend.
Of course there are. There would have to be. I mean, who wouldn't want to be reading my
Those of you who've been around for a while might remember my friend Fallout Girl. I cleverly named her that because we had a falling out which caused us to not be in the same Starbucks together for about two years. It was an awful time; I knew she frequented the coffee house closest to both of us, so I made a point of going to the second closest one, which was actually quite far. Then, when I added up how much gas I was using, I got up enough courage that I thought I could see her without either bursting into tears or taking off at a mad dash. However, I would do a drive by the store to see if she was in it before actually walking through the doors with my head down.
Eventually, I grew some ovaries and decided I needed to tell her I was sorry for my part in things. That I had acted immaturely and selfishly, and that I wanted nothing more than for her to know that I regretted what I had done.
Isn't that big of me? I know. I astound myself daily with my wisdom and acts of bravery. I'd like to believe that somewhere in the world there is a shrine of Maven, where people go to meditate and ask for guidance.
(If there is a shrine of Maven, it's probably an cork board covered in creepy monochrome print-outs of my internet pictures with holes in the eyes. I somehow think that's more likely. Terrifying, but more likely.)
Just as I was patting myself on the back for how amazingly mature I was, Fallout Girl not only accepted my apology, but wrote an even more compelling letter, disolving me into a puddle of crying mess. Bitch stole my thunder.
So Fallout Girl's name is actually Emely, and she's way cooler than I am (but don't tell her that because she'll rub it in my face). We've rebuilt this friendship from the ground up and have made it stronger, better, faster, longer.
Wait. No. That's a Kanye song.
Em and I have so much in common, and although very busy schedules have kept us apart more than we'd like, when we see each other it's like we never left the lawn chairs. We laugh, we cry, we're just our crazy old selves. I can tell her anything and know she'll still love me (I believe that's called "co-dependence" but we'll keep that hush-hush as well, alright?)
To put it simply, when I talk to her it's like the sun is shining a little brighter. She has a big spot in my heart.
Now here's the Oscar-worthy twist in the tale...
I just had to pause a minute to take a breath and wipe some tears, because writing it out is so hard: Em has been battling cancer for a few years and was in remission for quite some time. However, it's back with a vengeance and her prognosis is not good. Really not good.
I think you know what I mean.
I told Em that every two or three days I have a little cry about it. When I saw her this morning I said I was about due. I've just changed the sign to read '0 Days Without An Incident'. Dammit.
The positive side to this is that she's doing what we all should be doing: She's living life to the fullest right now with honesty and humour and vigor. How many of us can truly say that?
That's right: Only me and Em. So let us lead you by example and get on the happy train.
I'm just trying to steal some thunder back.
I've been asking myself how I can help her when she needs it most. What can I do for her as her friend and a fellow mom of three? There are so many things, big and small. I think I'll figure it out as time goes on, as her needs and those of her family change. But one thing I know I'm good at is making the girl laugh. She even likes my terrible blog. She tells me all the time, like one of those slutty groupies, just hanging off me and such.
... I wonder if she has a shrine? I haven't been down to her basement in a while. Do my pictures have eyes? Maybe I should check my hair for missing locks...
One of the things I promise to do is give her something to laugh about on a regular basis. I shall continue to blog several times a week in my ridiculously funny and talented way - not because I'm ignoring how sad I am, but because there's nothing better to laugh at than my life. It's almost tragic.
I encourage you to go read Emely's blog. Give her some love and support. I know I will.
Love you, my friend.
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Another Letter to Spawnling
Dear Spawnling,
I'm so glad you like your hat. It's very nice. I picked it out because it says 'Kahunah' on the front and I found it rather fitting.
I, however, like the skin on your head to get air circulation. You wear that ball cap all day every day, despite how the plaid design clashes with other patterns you might be sporting. To prove this to you, I took a picture. Please do the right thing and either take the hat off sometimes, or wear the right colours and buy a toupee for future use.
While we're at it, could we talk about a few other things? How about nursing? Let's discuss how I would like my breasts back. They are mine. I know this because they are attached to my body. You are only borrowing them. You've had them for 32 months and your lease is nearly up. Please return the items to an affiliated breast dealership with only normal wear and tear present.
It is my understanding that you are putting up a fight about keeping the breasts for yourself. Please be aware that this is not an option - there is no buy-out plan available to you at this time. If you continue to use them for much longer, I fear they may shrivel up and become concave, being of no use to anyone, let alone you. I highly recommend you move to a newer model of lactation device, known as a cup. You may have taken one out on a test drive during the day but are apprehensive about using it full-time. As your nutritional adviser, I can help ease the transition with only minimal crying and flailing around the bed.
We hope.
Speaking of throwing yourself about, could we work on cutting back the screamfests? Yesterday, I decided to count how many times you burst into tears while doing one of the following things:
- throwing yourself on the floor
- throwing something around a room
- throwing something in my general direction
- calling me 'stupid mommy'
- telling me I'm a 'bad boy'
- pointing your finger at me as your face turns beet red and you do that all-over body shake that makes me realize how cute and funny your rage is
One or more of those things in combination constitutes a tantrum. And, my darling, you threw nine of them yesterday. Nine. And four of them already today. I can read a calendar, you know. I can count, too. Therefore, there is absolutely no need to prove that you are two-and-a-half.
If love between mother and child is unconditional, why do I feel so near my breaking point? The twigs are snapping all over Sanity Forest.
After your nap we will go buy flowers for the garden. You will be very well behaved, unlike this morning. You will instantly outgrow whatever phase you're going through and be the nice, happy listener that I'm accustomed to. You will stand by my side, smile politely at the staff and not pull any heads off the shrubs. I will not have to yell 'Come back here!' or 'Don't hit that lady in the wheelchair!'
It will be a fresh start to our new found synchronicity.
Snap!
There goes another one.
Sincerely,
Mom
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Mother's Day Just Isn't Enough
Before I begin, I must congratulate Bastette the Sponsette on 6 months of continuous sobriety. I had the honour of being there when she picked up her six month chip at a 12 step meeting last night. All I could think of was how incredibly awesome I am for being her sponsor and getting her to this point. Good on me. What a shining example of sobriety I am. You, too, can be as put together as I am while recovering from addictions.
Okay, I'm totally kidding. Well, sort of kidding. The goal is to be more together than I am (not that hard, really), and I think she will be. She's a strong cookie and I'm grateful to not only be her sponsor, but also her friend. Congratulations, Bastette.
We had another friend with us last night as well, who's just starting her journey in recovery. It was her first day sober and it was raw and honest. I remember being there and having some very supportive people around me. It doesn't seem like nearly eighteen years ago. It must be because I'm old and time blurs together. Soon I'll be shaking my cane at people and using terms like "Back in my day..."
Ew.
As we sat at the meeting last night, I realized that all three of us are mothers. We all have little gremlins underfoot and thus have a much greater responsibility to get and stay sober than the average joe. Or joelle. Or whatever you want to call the female version of joe. And then I realized just how fitting it was to be sitting there on the eve of Mother's Day.
And then I felt better about getting totally spoiled by my husband on Friday night, when he took me out for a coffee.
And a hot pink iPod Nano.
And a sweet docking station for it with some awesome speakers so I can listen to music in the kitchen without hauling in the laptop or wearing headphones (very dangerous to be without one of the senses with gremlins trolling the house).
I've concluded that I deserved those gifts. I gave life to three horned ones. I take newly sober moms to meetings. I... I.. Do other stuff, too. Lots of stuff. Like the dishes.
So happy
In truth, I don't think we get enough appreciation for the "lots of stuff" we do. We need more than just a single day to recognize all the hard work we put into our families. Naturally, I've come up with some suggestions:
Sock Sorters Appreciation Day
Does anyone realize how much time actually goes into pairing up socks? If I were to add up every awful t.v. show I've sat through while painstakingly checking for holes, matching and then rolling them together, I'd have a year's worth of quality Fox programming. The people who make sure one's sock drawer runneth over should get flowers every week. Just sayin'.
Mad Market Marathon Dashers' Day
Hats off to every mother who makes the late night trip to the store in order to buy granola bars for tomorrow's lunch boxes. So much about late night grocery store or pharmacy visits relies on absolute precision: Scanning one's brain to locate the closest 24hr store, making sure there's enough fuel in the vehicle to get there and back (and if there isn't, then heading to the closest en-route gas station), avoiding overnight construction-related lane closures, and, most importantly, remembering to do a little makeup touch up in the rearview mirror before heading in with the reusable shopping bags - a girl may be disorganized, but she doesn't have to look it.
Mad Scientist Information Week
Sure, it's easy to cook on grocery day; with a ride range of availability from all major food groups any sucker can throw a meal together. But what about the night before payday when the cupboards are all but bare? That takes the work of someone who's not all together. Only someone with a little crazy and a lot of experience (or is that the other way around?) can make a can of chick peas, some leftover pickles and an egg into something the entire family will eat.
I didn't say 'enjoy'. I said 'eat'. If they're hungry enough they'll eat anything, you know. I have proven this a few times with concoctions from my
Toddler Recuperation Specialist Awareness Month
Toddler + busy parking lot + bags of groceries = a frighteningly quick learning experience. Someone should be putting money away for the heart transplant I'm going to need. This particular act takes years off a life.
That and consuming copious amounts of chocolate while watching late night movies, but I'd rather blame the scary parenting experiences.
See? We're cheated out of many days of recognition. One just isn't enough. I suppose it will have to do until I become World President and make everyone bow to my will. For now, go hug your mom or someone else's mom or buy me some stuff. Regularly.
Happy Mother's Day.
Friday, May 08, 2009
Just Call Me "The Hovercraft"
This week has flown by faster than a toddler-thrown Tonka truck.
(Yes, I rather liked that, too. It was one of those great lines that came to me without warning. I believe us writers call that a "stroke of creativity". If I wasn't a writer I'd call it "brain on overdrive thanks to three large cups of coffee today". But whatever.)
Tuesday morning marked the last time I will do paid childcare. The last time. Ever. That's because I'm going to be a(n) (in)famous writer who makes gobs of moolah. I look forward to the day when I can say "I'm sorry, but I believe I'm a tad too rich to watch your children for money."
That will likely backfire on me as people start dropping their ankle-biters off for free. Then the sequel to my currently unwritten bestseller will also remain unwritten, and I will be poor.
And doing childcare.
I feel a little apprehensive about wealth-gloating now. When I do get rich, I shall try to remain humble in between naked frolicking sessions in the money room.
I figured I would have the rest of the week to start building wealth through the acquisition of writing contracts, but this fell to the wayside by Tuesday night when I was informed by an overwhelmed Intrepid that he wasn't quite done his International Fair project.
By "not quite done" he meant he still had about 40% of his writing to do followed by printing out good copies, making collages on bristol boards, finding Japanese articles to display, oh yeah, making enough ethnic food to feed around 500 people.
Did I mention the International Fair was on Thursday?
Panic.
Flashback: 1987
It's grade 6 and we're given a project to work on. We have to pick a country, do research on it, and present it at - you guessed it - an international fair.
I, being an eleven-year-old straight A student, guffawed at the idea of having to actually work on menial things like long term projects. I laughed in the face of organization. I snickered as my peers fretted over every little detail in April when we weren't presenting our countries until June. Kenya would wait for me while I rode my bike around a little more, right?
Reality struck three days before the project. I worked late into the night with very little help from my parents despite the constant complaining and crying. You'd think they were trying to teach me a lesson or something.
My project sucked and I was lucky to get a C-.
Good thing I wouldn't make that mistake again. Even better, I would be sure to pass my wisdom and new found sense of responsibility on to my children.
What a good mother I would be, leading my future family through past mistakes. As long as they didn't turn out like me, everything would be just fine!
(We're ending the flashback now. See the stars and curvy lines down there? Just making sure.)
The next two days are a bit of a blur. Buying bristol board. Staring longingly at my laptop as it gets overtaken for printing duty by moody pre-teen. Driving moody pre-teen's project partner to and from house. Lecturing a lot. Complaining a lot. Combining lecturing and complaining for interesting new parenting technique I have proudly named "Complecturing". Staying up until 1:30AM on eve of fair making rice and nori wraps while moody pre-teen conks out at 9:30PM.
Their project was - pun intended - fair. Intrepid and his partner did alright, but their lack of motivation toward the end did show in the presentation. I was a little disappointed, and more than a little frazzled by the effort I put into making sure they didn't completely fail.
I have no idea where these feelings came from.
... Nope. No idea.
Just when I was feeling like a hovering procrastination enabler, I walked around the fair (so I could compare my son's work to that of the rest of his peers), and ran straight into the Mexico Moms.
Most projects, even if well-done, were nothing compared to their table. Most kids had up a couple of posters, maybe a slideshow on a laptop or a nicely designed binder, a few artifacts from the country in question, and one or two dishes or drinks to sample. But the Mexican table took it to a whole new level; it was a fiesta for the senses.
Dozens of posters plastered the back wall behind a couple of large tables, which were filled with articles of clothing, toys, books, money, etc. Food? They had an entire meal prepared, including desert. "Would you like some rice pudding?" asked one of the moms as she approached me. "I made it last night. It's delicious! And would you like some of the cake? The other mom made it - it's her family's recipe from Mexico."
Mexico. Hmm. Imagine that.
The two girls who were technically doing the project sat behind the table looking a little bored as their mothers stood in front, chatting and answering questions.
I glanced over at Intrepid's "Japan" set-up and sighed. In comparison, it looked like a third world country.
Then, in my infinite wisdome, I looked beyond the surface and began to see what the International Fair was really all about: Learning about the countries? Hell, no. That's what Google is for. This went deeper than that. Mostly it was about figuring out how to work independently and as a team on a strict deadline.
When my son gets a project in the future, he'll hopefully know what to do with it. The Mexico Moms may very well end up doing their daughters' marketing presentations from the comfort of their assisted living residences.
So, in contrast, Geekster and I helping Intrepid make some sushi wasn't all that bad.
I think.
Maybe.
Pixie really enjoyed giving me a hard time about my hovering techniques over the last week. She reminded me of the post I wrote about her "son's" 100's Day project. She has gone so far as to draw a lot of comparisons in our parental enabling.
I beg to differ.
To prove it o her, I'm going to put up the old picture of her "helping" Archer put together his project (Where's Archer? At school, of course):
Just look at her doing all the work. It's disgusting.
And here I am this week making some sushi:
I see absolutely no resemblance.
(Yes, I rather liked that, too. It was one of those great lines that came to me without warning. I believe us writers call that a "stroke of creativity". If I wasn't a writer I'd call it "brain on overdrive thanks to three large cups of coffee today". But whatever.)
Tuesday morning marked the last time I will do paid childcare. The last time. Ever. That's because I'm going to be a(n) (in)famous writer who makes gobs of moolah. I look forward to the day when I can say "I'm sorry, but I believe I'm a tad too rich to watch your children for money."
That will likely backfire on me as people start dropping their ankle-biters off for free. Then the sequel to my currently unwritten bestseller will also remain unwritten, and I will be poor.
And doing childcare.
I feel a little apprehensive about wealth-gloating now. When I do get rich, I shall try to remain humble in between naked frolicking sessions in the money room.
I figured I would have the rest of the week to start building wealth through the acquisition of writing contracts, but this fell to the wayside by Tuesday night when I was informed by an overwhelmed Intrepid that he wasn't quite done his International Fair project.
By "not quite done" he meant he still had about 40% of his writing to do followed by printing out good copies, making collages on bristol boards, finding Japanese articles to display, oh yeah, making enough ethnic food to feed around 500 people.
Did I mention the International Fair was on Thursday?
Panic.
*~*~*
Flashback: 1987
It's grade 6 and we're given a project to work on. We have to pick a country, do research on it, and present it at - you guessed it - an international fair.
I, being an eleven-year-old straight A student, guffawed at the idea of having to actually work on menial things like long term projects. I laughed in the face of organization. I snickered as my peers fretted over every little detail in April when we weren't presenting our countries until June. Kenya would wait for me while I rode my bike around a little more, right?
Reality struck three days before the project. I worked late into the night with very little help from my parents despite the constant complaining and crying. You'd think they were trying to teach me a lesson or something.
My project sucked and I was lucky to get a C-.
Good thing I wouldn't make that mistake again. Even better, I would be sure to pass my wisdom and new found sense of responsibility on to my children.
What a good mother I would be, leading my future family through past mistakes. As long as they didn't turn out like me, everything would be just fine!
(We're ending the flashback now. See the stars and curvy lines down there? Just making sure.)
*~*~*
The next two days are a bit of a blur. Buying bristol board. Staring longingly at my laptop as it gets overtaken for printing duty by moody pre-teen. Driving moody pre-teen's project partner to and from house. Lecturing a lot. Complaining a lot. Combining lecturing and complaining for interesting new parenting technique I have proudly named "Complecturing". Staying up until 1:30AM on eve of fair making rice and nori wraps while moody pre-teen conks out at 9:30PM.
Their project was - pun intended - fair. Intrepid and his partner did alright, but their lack of motivation toward the end did show in the presentation. I was a little disappointed, and more than a little frazzled by the effort I put into making sure they didn't completely fail.
I have no idea where these feelings came from.
... Nope. No idea.
Just when I was feeling like a hovering procrastination enabler, I walked around the fair (so I could compare my son's work to that of the rest of his peers), and ran straight into the Mexico Moms.
Most projects, even if well-done, were nothing compared to their table. Most kids had up a couple of posters, maybe a slideshow on a laptop or a nicely designed binder, a few artifacts from the country in question, and one or two dishes or drinks to sample. But the Mexican table took it to a whole new level; it was a fiesta for the senses.
Dozens of posters plastered the back wall behind a couple of large tables, which were filled with articles of clothing, toys, books, money, etc. Food? They had an entire meal prepared, including desert. "Would you like some rice pudding?" asked one of the moms as she approached me. "I made it last night. It's delicious! And would you like some of the cake? The other mom made it - it's her family's recipe from Mexico."
Mexico. Hmm. Imagine that.
The two girls who were technically doing the project sat behind the table looking a little bored as their mothers stood in front, chatting and answering questions.
I glanced over at Intrepid's "Japan" set-up and sighed. In comparison, it looked like a third world country.
Then, in my infinite wisdome, I looked beyond the surface and began to see what the International Fair was really all about: Learning about the countries? Hell, no. That's what Google is for. This went deeper than that. Mostly it was about figuring out how to work independently and as a team on a strict deadline.
When my son gets a project in the future, he'll hopefully know what to do with it. The Mexico Moms may very well end up doing their daughters' marketing presentations from the comfort of their assisted living residences.
So, in contrast, Geekster and I helping Intrepid make some sushi wasn't all that bad.
I think.
Maybe.
Pixie really enjoyed giving me a hard time about my hovering techniques over the last week. She reminded me of the post I wrote about her "son's" 100's Day project. She has gone so far as to draw a lot of comparisons in our parental enabling.
I beg to differ.
To prove it o her, I'm going to put up the old picture of her "helping" Archer put together his project (Where's Archer? At school, of course):
Just look at her doing all the work. It's disgusting.
And here I am this week making some sushi:
I see absolutely no resemblance.
Monday, May 04, 2009
B is for "Babies". Your babies, that is.
You make really cute babies, you know. You have great genetics. Motherhood looks good on you. You have a beautiful baby belly - can I touch it? Wow! You're positively glowing. Are you going to have more? I just love your babies.
Your babies. Not mine. I don't have anymore babies.
Yes. That's a grin on my face.
It's been just shy of a year since Geekster had The Big V and ended our baby making spree that spanned more than a decade. (If you can call three births in ten years a 'spree', that is). He did so with no reservations, as he had been ready for a very long time. The Geek felt like he was done having kids after the first gremlin hatched, but knew my seemingly insatiable desire to procreate was as strong, if not stronger, than his will to live. Smart man that he is, he didn't stand in my way of having more.
And he is still breathing.
Over the last few months I've been putting myself through rigorous tests to see if I still feel as "done" as I did last summer. I'm not quite sure why I do this to myself, because my husband has made it abundantly clear that there is no going back. There will be no vasectomy reversal happening any time ever. Not that I've asked him, but he has reminded me now and then; perhaps it's some kind of maintenance program.
Still, the testing continues, and I've come up with some surprising results:
Looking
Testing begins with looking at babies. I like looking at them because they wear cute outfits and get to be chunky without anyone frowning at them. It's a good life, and for that I envy them. Other than the obvious niceties of infants, they're adorable and squishy and very, very small. On the other hand, they sometimes have puke running down their chins and it pools in the creases of their chubby little necks resulting in a cheese-like substance.
Result: Looking at babies does not make me want have more.
Holding
Holding babies brings out the mother in me. They're so warm I could fall asleep. When they whimper my breasts start to ache in that familiar way. They're so fragile and helpless and yet so incredibly beautiful and.... and... smelly? What is that yellow stuff on the baby's back... and on my thigh? Ah. That whimper wasn't because she was hungry.
Result: Holding babies does not make me want to have more.
Listening
Baby babble is one of the sweetest sounds on the planet. Their brains are building vocabulary at an astounding rate, and I find their learning not only fascinating but downright enjoyable. Then they start to cry because they can't tell me what's wrong by using their words. And then I start to cry because they're crying and I can't make them stop.
Result: Listening to babies does not make me want to have more.
Playing
I like to play with babies, especially when they're learning fun games like peek-a-boo and pat-a-cake - basically all the hyphenated ones. They clap their hands together, smile brightly, put their hands on yours, giggle excitedly, pick up a wooden block and proceed to clock you in the side of the head. Ouch.
Result: Playing with babies does not make me want to have more.
Exploring
Watching infants familiarize themselves with new territory is... Oh, who am I kidding? It's not enjoyable at all. It's a mad dash around the house, picking up every little piece of fluff so it doesn't go into a mouth, blocking outlets, locking cabinets, blockading stairs, and then trying to get the baby interested in something that's actually safe to play with, like a toy. It never works. They always find the mystery dog hair under the recliner and you're back to fishing things out of a a small opening with sharp little teeth.
Result: Exploring babies definitely do not make me want to have more.
Having evaluated myself I have come to the following conclusions:
- I enjoyed my infant gremlins very much, most likely because the secretion of oxytocin into my blood stream during breastfeeding made the stress of raising a baby more on par with deciding between brand name and store brand pizza sauce
- I enjoy not being the primary caregiver of other people's babies so that I may appreciate all the joys and wonder of a little human being and none of the unfortunate side-effects of that joy and wonder
- the day I could leave the diaper bag at home felt very much like the freedom if walking out of prison after serving time (Not that I would know firsthand, mind you. That's pure speculation, but I'm sure it feels similar)
- I enjoy the money I'm saving by not ever having to buy pregnancy tests. I couldn't even begin to guess how much we'd have in our retirement savings right now if I hadn't of bought so many
- so far, I have no inclination to adopt, which is the deal I struck with Geekster before he disabled his little friends: "I want you to promise me that we can consider adoption if at any point a desire for a fourth child makes its appearance." I like the idea of adoption very much, I just can't justify spending the $20,000 when I already have three gremlins. That's a lot of coffee, you know
- I have this new thing called "a life", which is not the same as the life I had before where I brought my baby with me everywhere and my boob was always hanging out. I'm in full support of women being able to bring their babies wherever they go so that they can nurse and have a healthy bond. But I've done that three times now, and with my youngest being 2 1/2, I'm discovering the joys of "date nights" and "movies" and "going out before he goes to sleep because his dad can get him to bed without me" type things... It's like there's this whole world out there for people who don't have spit-up all over their shirts. I never knew... I never knew
So keep having those babies, everyone, and make sure to let your friendly neighbourhood Maven have a cuddle and some pat-a-cake time. I have no problem trying to manipulate you into having more for my own selfish desires. I'm nice like that.
I am done. Really, truly done.
It's weird. Good, but weird.
Mostly good.
(Update on the fundraiser: It went GREAT! I don't know how much we made just yet, but the bake sale table was incredibly busy and the dunk tank was seeing a lot of dunking. I spent money I didn't have on yard sale stuff that went 100% to Jacob's family, and Jacob himself even made an appearance with his little brother, mom and dad. A beautiful day for a beautiful family. Damn it, I'm crying again. I really should do something about all these emotions. Is there an "off" switch?)
Sunday, May 03, 2009
Jerkfaces Shall not Inherit the Earth!
It's easy to be reminded of what jerkfaces people can be. We get little nudges of idiocy every day. "Oh! Look! Someone smashed in our car window for no apparent reason. What a jerkface." Or "Oh! Hey! Thanks for stealing Pixie's money out of her wallet. She didn't need to feed her children anyway. What a jerkface." Or, "Oh! Look! Someone cut in front of us in line to get coffee because he doesn't realize how closely tied my deep-rooted homicidal tendences and desire for caffeination are. What a jerkface."Jerkfaces are everywhere. It's enough to make me want to crawl into a bag of chocolate chips and never come out.
(Well, not until the chocolate is all gone. Then I might come out so I can find another bag. Very parasitic, my desire for chocolate is.)
Sometimes, I need to know that there are still good people in the world who aren't completely wrapped up in themselves. Besides, that's my job. We don't need a bunch of Maven clones.
Enter Jacob Randell, a boy I haven't yet had the pleasure of meeting, but who has already stolen my heart. Jacob is a little guy in kindergarten at Intrepid and Gutsy's school. In September he started throwing up every morning at 6AM. In November, after the simple diagnosis of acid reflux proved wrong, his parents sought out more answers. The news was devastating to his family: Jacob had a brain tumour.
This brave little guy has been at our local children's hospital ever since, and has received more treatments and surgeries than the majority of us will have in a lifetime. Both his parents have taken the last six months off work to be with their son. His mother just gave birth last weekend to his baby brother, Liam, and the entire family is relocating to another hospital two hours away for the next three months for more treatments, including a stem cell transplant.
Can't imagine it, right? Neither can I. Having close family friends who lost their two-year-old to a brain tumour at the age of two, and having a brother who was very sick in his early years, I have a bit of an idea. But not from a parent perspective. Not like that. It's a whole new level of devastation.
Jerkfaces hear about stuff like this and think "That's too bad. You know what else is too bad? I left my bank card at home and I can't get my latte now. Damn it!" That's the last time it even crosses their mind. Then they go smash some car windows or something.
When I found out about Jacob, I cried. And when I read his mom's updates on the Facebook group I cry more. Pretty much every time, actually. I'm a huge crybaby. In fact, if I cried fat instead of tears I'd probably be a runway model by now. They could cast me in roles where the character has an eating disorder. I'm actually pretty good at keeping it together when it comes to most things, but a boy with cancer? Hard to be stoic about that.
Today we have a fundraiser at the school for brave little Jacob. Jogging for Jacob's Journey is what it's called. The problem? I don't, um, jog very well these days. Something to do with carrying around a few extra pounds that make my bum wobble, thus throwing me off balance and sending me flying backwards into the ground.
Well, the bum-wobbling part is true. Flying backwards sounded like a better reason not to lace up the running shoes, though.
But there's a used book sale as well, and we have a lot of books. So we sent those in. And then there is also a bake sale. I can bake stuff. Too well, actually. Well enough that I eat a lot of my own baking and thus sabotage any future jogging plans. Baking that I have an excuse not to eat? Sign me up! I'll be jogging in no time.
I casually mailed a few friends and asked if they'd like to bake as well. But I didn't hold out a lot of hope. It's not that I think my friends are jerkfaces, but they're all very busy parents with a lot going on. And, if you're like most of us with children in the school system, you're completely burned out on Fundraisers by this time of year. There are only so many bottle drives and chocolate bar sales you can manage.
This is what was in my kitchen by the end of last night:
And there's more coming this morning.
Not only that, but a couple of the girls came by and helped me wrap the goodies until late into the night. The results are so pretty!
I had to take a few pictures to show off what love and hope can do. And, of course, in true Maven fashion, I had to start crying as I took them. Tears of joy and gratitude they may have been, but it still made it hard to focus the damn camera.
My friends are incredible people, aren't they?
But, like, duh. They're my friends. Who else would I pick?
If you'd like to make a donation to Jacob Randell and his family, you can do so on their website. It's only $10, and every little bit helps. Thank you.
Friday, May 01, 2009
Forgetting One's Anniversary: a Primer
So, I applied for this job type thing.
Now, don't go getting your organic cotton panties all in a bunch. I'm not abandoning anybody. I'm not changing the blog name to go-to-work-mayhem or anything. So relax, put down the poisoned Kool-aid and come give me a hug.
There, there.
Not only am I probably one of hundreds of applicants and thus am unlikely to make it beyond this point, but it's a work-at-home job anyway. You know, a jammy-wearing, coffee slurping, Oprah-watching job. I would get to do something I'm excellent at: Blogging for the masses. I've been doing that for about three years, but now I'd actually get paid.
Hey. What did I say two paragraphs ago? Drop the Pink Swimmingo and dry those eyes. Even on the slightest chance that I actually do land this fantastic job, I'm not going to stop posting here. This is the only place where I can write stuff that borders on offensive and yet increase my readership. It's like the Bermuda Triangle of the blogosphere.
This is where I take a really bad month/week/day/cup of coffee and turn it into something resembling humorous.
This is where I refer to my children as "gremlins" and mysteriously get told I'm an incredible mother anyway.
This is where I freely speak of bovine insemination as a job I would not want to do, and learn from a friend raised on a dairy farm that you use something called a 'Pro-Jac to knock those cattle up.
Tempting, but I think I'll leave the fun to the farmers.
I'm staying right here. This new job, if I were to miraculously land it, would not allow me to be overly verbose, incredibly vain and consistently whiny. Those are qualities I can only show off here. And, if there's anything I know about being a stay-at-home-mom, it's that we need a venting spot.
There is little in this world that could pry me away from my house for 40+ hours every week. I suppose that might have to change when I'm World President, but that won't be for at least ten more years. In the meantime, I like being home with my darling gremlins. Sure, they strip most of the serenity from my daily existence, but they do it in such a cute way that it's hard to be angry.
Anyway, I'm going to tear my nervewracked mind away from potential employment and instead focus on something I completely forgot about until about two hours ago: My anniversary.
Well, one of my anniversaries. The first date one. The one that made all the magic and eventual procreation happen. The important one, as we call it. And I forgot about it. And yes, when my husband walked in with a bouquet of flowers and a kiss I realized what a classic role reversal we've created.
How did I become the guy in this situation? I'll explain myself: This morning I sent two gremlins off to school, did groceries in a very crowded store with Pixie and three of our children, came home, spoke with my neighbour who was having a bad day, put some of the groceries away while comforting a very upset Spawnling who had just woken up from a cat nap, carried him in my arms while I put away the rest of the groceries, took in E-man and his baby sister while their mom went to work, carried around a tired little baby until she fell asleep, cleaned up a poop accident, rescued Spawnling from the top bunk (those last last things were done simultaneously, I might add), welcomed three of Inrepid's pre-teen friends into the house, drove the daycare kids back to their place, came home and made four pizzas for six children and two adults, broke up arguments, asked them nicely to stop playing "purple nurple", cleaned up a water disaster (thanks, Spawn), had to sit down because I had literally been standing 90% of the day...
.. And that is why I forgot my damn anniversary, alright?
Also, I should humbly add that I spoke to my husband online and on the phone on more than one occasion and, instead of wishing him a happy anniversary, I asked him to pick up root beer on the way home.
I am a very bad wife.
The good thing about this situation is that he's a guy and therefore doesn't really mind that I forgot about our fateful meeting sixteen years ago. He doesn't expect flowers and he doesn't hold in a battallion of hurtful words to unleash either in a catastrophic meltdown or very slowly in the most passive aggressive ways possible. Thank goodness for that. I don't know how men can put up with us. It must be because we have pretty hair and smell nice.
There's something I can do for him later, after the pre-teen posse leaves and our gremlins are tuckered out and in their pods for the night. Something very naughty and delightful. Something he will appreciate much more than flowers or a wife who remembers important dates.
Butterscotch ice cream.
Yummy.
Happy anniversary to the man who has put up with me for exactly half my life. How on earth does he do it?
Now, don't go getting your organic cotton panties all in a bunch. I'm not abandoning anybody. I'm not changing the blog name to go-to-work-mayhem or anything. So relax, put down the poisoned Kool-aid and come give me a hug.
There, there.
Not only am I probably one of hundreds of applicants and thus am unlikely to make it beyond this point, but it's a work-at-home job anyway. You know, a jammy-wearing, coffee slurping, Oprah-watching job. I would get to do something I'm excellent at: Blogging for the masses. I've been doing that for about three years, but now I'd actually get paid.
Hey. What did I say two paragraphs ago? Drop the Pink Swimmingo and dry those eyes. Even on the slightest chance that I actually do land this fantastic job, I'm not going to stop posting here. This is the only place where I can write stuff that borders on offensive and yet increase my readership. It's like the Bermuda Triangle of the blogosphere.
This is where I take a really bad month/week/day/cup of coffee and turn it into something resembling humorous.
This is where I refer to my children as "gremlins" and mysteriously get told I'm an incredible mother anyway.
This is where I freely speak of bovine insemination as a job I would not want to do, and learn from a friend raised on a dairy farm that you use something called a 'Pro-Jac to knock those cattle up.
Tempting, but I think I'll leave the fun to the farmers.
I'm staying right here. This new job, if I were to miraculously land it, would not allow me to be overly verbose, incredibly vain and consistently whiny. Those are qualities I can only show off here. And, if there's anything I know about being a stay-at-home-mom, it's that we need a venting spot.
There is little in this world that could pry me away from my house for 40+ hours every week. I suppose that might have to change when I'm World President, but that won't be for at least ten more years. In the meantime, I like being home with my darling gremlins. Sure, they strip most of the serenity from my daily existence, but they do it in such a cute way that it's hard to be angry.
Anyway, I'm going to tear my nervewracked mind away from potential employment and instead focus on something I completely forgot about until about two hours ago: My anniversary.
Well, one of my anniversaries. The first date one. The one that made all the magic and eventual procreation happen. The important one, as we call it. And I forgot about it. And yes, when my husband walked in with a bouquet of flowers and a kiss I realized what a classic role reversal we've created.
How did I become the guy in this situation? I'll explain myself: This morning I sent two gremlins off to school, did groceries in a very crowded store with Pixie and three of our children, came home, spoke with my neighbour who was having a bad day, put some of the groceries away while comforting a very upset Spawnling who had just woken up from a cat nap, carried him in my arms while I put away the rest of the groceries, took in E-man and his baby sister while their mom went to work, carried around a tired little baby until she fell asleep, cleaned up a poop accident, rescued Spawnling from the top bunk (those last last things were done simultaneously, I might add), welcomed three of Inrepid's pre-teen friends into the house, drove the daycare kids back to their place, came home and made four pizzas for six children and two adults, broke up arguments, asked them nicely to stop playing "purple nurple", cleaned up a water disaster (thanks, Spawn), had to sit down because I had literally been standing 90% of the day...
.. And that is why I forgot my damn anniversary, alright?
Also, I should humbly add that I spoke to my husband online and on the phone on more than one occasion and, instead of wishing him a happy anniversary, I asked him to pick up root beer on the way home.
I am a very bad wife.
The good thing about this situation is that he's a guy and therefore doesn't really mind that I forgot about our fateful meeting sixteen years ago. He doesn't expect flowers and he doesn't hold in a battallion of hurtful words to unleash either in a catastrophic meltdown or very slowly in the most passive aggressive ways possible. Thank goodness for that. I don't know how men can put up with us. It must be because we have pretty hair and smell nice.
There's something I can do for him later, after the pre-teen posse leaves and our gremlins are tuckered out and in their pods for the night. Something very naughty and delightful. Something he will appreciate much more than flowers or a wife who remembers important dates.
Butterscotch ice cream.
Yummy.
Happy anniversary to the man who has put up with me for exactly half my life. How on earth does he do it?
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