'Tis the Season

With the Christmas season fast approaching, that means one thing.

Well, I suppose it means more than one thing, but for the purposes of this post, just roll with me people. Thanks.

With the Christmas season fast approaching, that means one thing.

Decorations. From the day after Thanksgiving (and for us Canucks that means mid-October) the holiday decorations go up in all the stores and malls. Every where you look you see the sparkle and twinkle of this holiday season. Which, for me, means that I am unable to take my children anywhere during this time.

Because what ten and nine year old do you know who needs more encouragement to get excited about the prospect of ripping open parcels on a cold winter's morning, while gorging themselves on vast amounts of chocolates and other assorted goodies, all in the name of the season?

Certainly, not mine. Which means whenever I need to take them out in public with me, I have to put a paper bag over their heads. Kidding. I only wish I could put the paper bag over their heads. (And duct tape over their mouths sometimes too, but my therapist and the police tell me this is a bad thing...)

I digress.

In our house, the decorations go up on Dec. 1. Regardless of temperature, blizzards, or general apathy, the tinsel is tossed the first day of December. My kids can count on this the same way they can count on the sun rising in the east and their mother looking like a hideous hag with a matching disposition every morning.

Which means digging out the damn decorations. Which, of course, are stored outside in a shed, buried underneath an assortment of crap that my darling husband has managed to toss on top of the boxes during the course of the year.

This is my husband's favorite job, every year. (Sarcasm, dear internet.) He absolutely loves having to pack in a seemingly endless parade of Rubbermaid containers and cardboard boxes. He manages to make it so fun, what with all his colorful cussing and boundless bitching. Once he dumps all the boxes in our front foyer, he then heads for the hills. Where it is safer for him; for by this time, I have had enough of whining and I'm generally ready to hurt him.

All in the name of the Christmas spirit, of course.

So last night, as I casually mentioned it was once again that time of year as we were cuddling on the couch, I was mentally prepared for the barrage of bad words and negativity I felt sure I was to encounter.

However, my darling Boo decided to shake things up a bit. Put some spice in our marriage. Toss me a curve ball...I could go on, but in the interest of brevity, I think you get my point.

Instead of acting like a whiny two year old coming off a sugar high and in desperate need of a nap, he pleasantly commented that he couldn't wait for the Christmas decorations to go up.

Startled, (and I admit, a bit pleasantly surprised) I asked him why.

(Cue the dumbass card now, folks.)

His response:

Because every time I put up the decorations, I clean the house afterwards. And it's getting a bit dusty. If I hadn't noticed.

Don't worry, dear internet. I didn't maim him. Although, no jury would find me guilty after that remark and my years of wiping up his pee splatter and picking up his dirty socks for him.

No, I just did what any good wife would do.

I went to bed and dreamt of Clive Owen. Dusting my house. While wearing a Santa's cap and sporting strategically placed tinsel...

Thanks Boo. That was just the type of encouragement I needed to get in the festive spirit.

Boo-Yah! To my Boo

Oh, yeah. I'm doing the my Boo-YAH! dance, dear internet. I'd graciously like to thank all my bloggy participants for allowing me to so unmercifully rub my hubby's nose in the fact that he is wrong, wrong, wrong.

Victory is so sweet. And I am nothing, if not a gracious winner.

What started out as a simple question because I was scrounging for blog fodder and my hubs and I were stuck in our own version of groundhog day, ignited a real brouhaha in our home. It wasn't good enough that I posed the timeless question on the ole interweb, but then I roped and dragged everyone I knew into our little debate. It turned into a real battle of the sexes. I learned (finally) that men and women really are from two different planets.

I also figured out pretty quickly that men are, well, for lack of a better term, pigs. Granted, not all men are pigs, and most certainly not any of the few men who come to visit and comment on my site, but the men in my visible, three dimensional life, are big, fat oinkers.

And I wouldn't trade their curly tailed, snuffling snoutish ways for anything.

So after I posed my brilliant and highly scientific poll to all four of my regular readers I was a little surprised by the results. First off, more than four people actually chose to share their opinions! (Thank you, thank you, thank you.)

Secondly, I was RIGHT!

Boo-YAH! Ha, ha, Boo. Sorry, darlin'. But it turns out the world is full of enlightened people, nowadays.

For those who are keenly interested in the results, they were something like this:

(Keep in mind this was a highly scientific poll with a statistical accuracy of, oh, say +/- 50 percent...)

The Yes voters (or the highly enlightened, wonderful, Boo-Yah! loving friends of mine) weighed in at a whopping 56%.

The No voters (or the probably more realistic people, my husband would argue) countered at 18%.

The Women Yes, But Men No voters (fence sitters, as I like to call them) rallied at 18%, as well.

And my personal favorites; Only if One is Gay or Ugly voters (I love you all for your refreshing honesty) came in at 3%.

And so, my hubs is picking the crow out of his teeth, so sure was he that the whole damn world thinks his way.

I'm not naive, (shut up, dear brother-in law) I do realize not all women and men can be friends. And not every married couple can handle outside non-romantic friendships of the opposite sex. But then, not everyone is me, and not everyone has the fabulous good fortune of being married to the sexiest, sweetest (albeit, slightly archaic thinking) husband like mine.

So until the hubs pulls the plug on my man friends, or until his lady friends start tossing their panties at his head (and let's face it, I'm sure more than a few want to,) I think I'm just going to keep my man buddies.

Because at the very least, they make me realize over and over again, how very lucky I am to have my Boo.

And if Boo secretly fantasizes about his lady friends, well that's okay too. Because at the end of the day, it's me he is wrapping his arms around, while letting me shove my icy toes between his butt crack. (Canadian foreplay, didn't you know?)

Besides, we all know who wears the pants around here.

Boo-YAH!!

Pass the Puns, Please

I went and gave away the keys to the kingdom. I told my brother in-law and his wife about my blog. But I'm not overly worried about it. After all, this is the same brother in-law who taught me how to drive and his wife is the same lady who got very, very intoxicated with me, one blurry Christmas eve. We share a lot of history, and I have enough dirt on the two of them to make their lives very uncomfortable, if you know what I'm saying...

So to the Great White Hunter, and his wife, Martha Freakin' Stewart, welcome to my blog!

And to all of you out there, dear internet, on this cold winter day, have some cheese on me. It helps keep you warm on these cold Canadian days...


For many years a certain white whale and a tiny herring had been inseparable friends. Wherever the white whale roamed in search of food, the herring was sure to be swimming right along beside him.

One fine spring day the herring turned up off the coast of Norway without his companion. Naturally all the other fish were curious, and an octopus finally asked the herring what happened to his whale friend.

"How should I know?" the herring replied. "Am I my blubber's kipper?"


***My husband would like it on the record that he had nothing to do with this particular piece of cheese, and the pansy is thereby distancing himself from said joke and any particular wife who may have thought it funny....***

******EDIT: If you haven't weighed in on the debate whether men and women can be friends and nothing more, please give me an opinion. My BOO-YAH! dance depends on it...******

Women Are Always Right (At Least In Our Minds...)

The hubs and I are having a disagreement. It's an argument as old as time itself. For the duration of our marriage we have been having this same argument. (Sad, really, you'd think we would have either resolved it or moved on. Nope, not us. We are nothing if not tenacious.)

So I am asking all four of my regular readers, and all you invisible folks to delurk and weigh in. So that after 13 damn years I can put this miserable argument to rest once and for all.

Is it possible for a man and a woman to have a close friendship and not be or become sexually interested in one another. Or is it more of a When Harry Met Sally type of thing? Is it inappropriate for a married person to have a friendship with an unmarried member of the opposite sex?

What do you think? Enlighten us rednecks. Bring peace to my home.

If nothing else, lie for me. Give me what I need to do my happy Boo-Yah! dance for my hubs. Strike that. Tell me what you really think, even if it means him gloating and acting like the ass he can be, loudly proclaiming victory.

But for the love of all married folk, help us.

Because if I have to have this argument for another 13 years, I might just have to stick a fork in my eye.

Why I am Still The Family Joke

I don't often post about my brother. Mostly, because he's almost 6 foot 5, has a goatee measuring more than a foot long, and biceps as big as my head. He takes turds that are bigger than me. Pissing him off would be very unhealthy. For me, that is. He had 18 years practicing folding me into a pretzel, and he's fairly smart. I'm sure he hasn't forgotten the trick.

I learned a few tricks too, growing up with a smarter, bigger brother, who was only a year older than me. One, I can run faster scared than he can run mad, and two, if I can get him to laugh so hard he can't breathe, I can take him.

Hence, I spent a lot of time growing up developing a sense of humor and looking for a good joke. Call it self preservation. I did have a big mouth, after all. And he tended to have a short fuse.

But now that there is 80 odd kilometers (50 miles for you Yanks) separating the two of us, I'm feeling brave once more. Even those freakishly long arms of his can't reach that far to throttle my lily white neck.

So allow me to introduce you to my brother, dear internet. Whom I shall refer to as Stretch, because I know how much that will annoy him. (Visualizing the eye-rolling, now.)

Stretch is attached to Stump. Stump is a charmingly little woman who stands at just barely 5 feet tall, which leads to many a family discussion about the difference in their heights. Stump is a brilliant special needs teacher, who has forever won a place in my heart with her kind ways to my children. Plus, she can crack the whip like no other. How she manages to control the beast that is my brother is truly a miracle. Stretch and Stump make a lovely couple.

Stretch is in a band. A lovely little death metal band. And if I had decided to out myself, I would link to it. But I am still sitting on that particular fence, vacillating like the indecisive blogger I am.

In a moment of brotherly support, I once attended a gig of his. Where scary women wearing dog collars and chains gyrated in a indecent manner, oblivious to the dudes wearing animal blood and tee shirts with anarchist slogans moshing around them.

In an effort not to appear so, well, normal, I punked up my hair, piled on the makeup and borrowed a tee shirt from my sister, who often attends such events. (That would be were I made my big mistake.)

Never trust your sister, and her Cheshire kitty grin.

I couldn't figure out why I was the life of this particular gig. After all, I was so whitebread in comparison to the other er, ladies, in attendance.

Finally, when my darling brother Stretch had enough giggles at my expense, he pulled me aside and asked how I was enjoying myself.

I gushed on and on about his band, the music and how proud I was of him.

And then I confessed I felt a little square in the wild crowd.

Nothing like leading a laughing man to a good joke.

He asked how I liked my shirt, and if I got any feedback on it.

I told him the shirt was fine, but now I was wary about his inquiry. After all, in all my years of being shoved into his smelly armpits or being held down while he farted in my face, he had never once bothered commenting on my appearance. Not even on my wedding day.

It was in this moment that every strange thing that had happened to me that evening made sense. I wasn't being acknowledged because I was the rock star's sister. Or because I was a hot metal momma. No, it was because I was walking around with the letters C.L.A.B.T. on my chest and on my back.

So you could see them coming and going. Along with the name of the band and the appropriate demon graphics on the shirt I sported.

I thought the letters were an acronym for some anti-establishment, anti-government theme, like all the other craziness around me. Damn my sister, and her bad sense of humor.

It was with great delight that my brother Stretch, informed me I was advertising for his rival band. (Oops. Who knew?)

And I was also loudly proclaiming to the world that I had a C@nt Like A Bear Trap.

Which would explain why I got so many dudes offering me their phone numbers that night.

Which would also explain why I left the gig, very hastily.

And would also explain why I have never borrowed another shirt from my evil sister.

So, if any one ever asks you if you have a C.L.A.B.T, dear internet, at least you will know what they mean.

Thanks for the education Stretch. I'm looking forward to the day I can return the favor.

The Magic Moment

Warning, this post is ridiculously long, and filled with inappropriate subject matter. Any Japanese exchange students who should not be reading this, please close the window, now. Thank you. Any one over 18 years old, feel free to continue.

Let's talk sex. No reason to be shy about the subject. We've all had it. Granted, some have had it more than others, but let's try not to get jealous, shall we?

Frankly, with all the talk of babies and impending births around the blogosphere, it's enough to get this momma into the mood. (It's hard to hear all the voices in my head, with the ticking from my biological clock getting louder every second...)

As a woman who has been in a relationship with the same man for almost 13 years, married for nine and half of those years, and best yet, have known her beloved Boo since she was in diapers, well, suffice it to say, there is little mystery left.

Frankly, it's a bit of a miracle that when we see each other naked we don't run screaming in the opposite direction.

To counteract this er, boredom, I have gone to great measures to keep things, um, up.

We've had couch sex (kinda loses something when you both fall off..), floor sex (but really, is rug burn worth it?), and counter top sex (not so fun for the tailbone, and more to the point, I prepare food for my children on that surface....). Over the years there hasn't been a surface area we haven't tried to christen.

(Please understand, dear internet, we were very young and stupid when we started bumping uglies. We had a lot more stamina a decade, and three children ago.)

But now, it's hard to hear the soft moans and little pants over top the creaking and cracking of our joints. Quite the aphrodisiac, I assure you.

So what is a happily married couple to do?

Keeping in mind, I am the world's biggest prude. (Sort of an oxymoron, with me putting my private bedroom moments out for the world to ridicule, I am aware.)

That effectively rules out, well, pretty much everything. Sure, we've tried toys and videos, but if it requires electricity of any sort it just seems not worth it. Who has time to find batteries or go and turn the damn video player on, because one of our darling kids put the remote in the trash bag when I wasn't looking.

We've tried dirty talk, but that just makes me laugh my ass off. Not quite the effect my hubs had in mind when he asked if I wanted to be his dirty girl. Apparently, my giggles have a some what wilting effect on parts of his anatomy.

We've done food. But rubbing each other with whipcream or chocolate just reminds each of us of dessert and instead of leading to passionate love making, we get sidetracked and end up in the kitchen making sundaes and then toddling off to bed with our full bellies and never finishing what we had meant to start in the first place.

There is an upside to this problem. (I think.) At least we still desire to do it. Perhaps not always with one another, but our libidos do exist. There hasn't been a need for pharmaceutical interventions just yet.

But, after thirteen years, it is hard to feel that passion, that spark, that certain excitement that new lovers experience. No, there have been too many fights, too many tears, too many times you have had to pass him a roll of toilet paper as he sits on the throne. There have been too many intimacies. Teeth picking, farting in bed and my personal favorite, child birthing.

(Of course, all that physical intimacy leads to emotional intimacy, but that's a post for another day.)

And as anyone in a relationship knows, sex is a big part of the equation. With out sex, you may as well be in a relationship with your brother. (Or your cousin, as many of Boo's relatives know...)

Boo and I have worked hard to plow through our sexual minefield. We overcame mismatched sex drives, lethargy, laziness and lately, his absences. It's sort of hard to get your groove on when he is in another town.

Now that the kids are older, it also brings in a new twist. How quiet can we do it? It's kind of like having sex in your bedroom while your parents are upstairs watching Star Trek: The Next Generation. Not that I'd ever know anything about that, of course.

When the kids were younger, if they barged in on us and asked why Daddy was on top of Mommy, we'd simply tell them we were wrestling. And then tell them to go watch The Lion King for the umpteenth time. (I never said I was the parent of the year.)

Now, if they barge in on us, they have a fairly good idea that we aren't, in fact, wrestling. Case in point, this summer, the hubs and I decided to get our groove on while the kids were outside, playing on the trampoline. We thought we would indulge in a little afternoon delight. Unbeknownst to us, the little buggers had snuck back in for a snack while we were, er, busy. (Thank God we locked the bedroom door.)

When we were all dressed and satisfied, my hubs wandered out to get a drink, when the kids surprised him in the kitchen. They asked what we were doing and why the bedroom door was locked, and Boo told them we were talking about Shalebug. (Sorry, dear angelboy. Your daddy is not a quick thinker...)

My darling Fric, is, however, quick on the uptake. She knew something was up. She loudly asked why, if we were talking about her departed brother, was mommy moaning and telling daddy that it felt so good.

Yea.

I avoided their prying eyes for the rest of the day. I might as well have just opened up the bedroom door and given the little dudes an x-rated show.

So sex can be a bit of a chore around these parts. But I like to think that practice will eventually make perfect. Or at least a good red wine can help.

We keep our doors closed, our mouths shut, and we just keep trying. Because if we stop trying to have sex, we stop trying to master our marriage.

But there was one thing we forgot.

Last night, in the heat of the moment, things were looking pretty good. (Wink, wink.) Just when that magic moment was going to happen for a certain husband who shall remain anonymous, tragedy struck.

Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog. Ever, became a little concerned for his mommy. And decided he should check on her. And as he passed by a certain anonymous husband's bare ass, he decided to do what any good doggie would do.

He gave it a sniff. And then he licked it.

Apparently, it was a bit of a mood killer. Who knew?

So if you happen to see a certain snarly-faced man, with a bad attitude roaming your street, do yourself a favour.

Don't ask him how his night went. And certainly don't inquire about his dog.

Because not everyone likes an ass-licker.

Pass the Puns, Please

One of the high points of my recent vacation was meeting a lady who loved puns as much as I do. We sat, drank some really nice wine and let the cheese flow. Soon other guests decided that we were having too much fun and they offered their favorite ditties, as well. It became a buffet of all different flavours; cheese of every variety. Even those who consider themselves connoisseurs of a good joke had a rolling good time. (However, that might have been due to the amounts of wine imbibed, and not due to the quality of the cheese...)

So it is with great flourish and trumpeting that I present to you, dear internet, this piece of cheese. It is rank with odour, leaves a strong after taste, but works really well with a nice Cabernet. Enjoy!


The zoo keeper in charge of the sea mammals was trying to train an otter to walk backwards. He was not having any success. He asked a coworker to see if she could do any better.

Lo and behold, a few days later, the otter was walking backwards.

Amazed, he asked his coworker, "How did you do that?"

"Simple," she said, "You put one foot in front of the otter."

Escaping the Clink

I survived. It wasn't pretty, at times it certainly wasn't easy, but as the old adage goes, whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger.

More importantly, I didn't kill my mother. Or even maim her. For that, I'd like to take the time to appropriately thank the people responsible for such a Herculean feat.

Kevin Brauch, a.k.a. The Thirsty Traveller on the Food network, you are a good man. You didn't need to convince me of the joys of Jagermeister, (me and ole Jagger go wayyyyy back), but I am certainly thankful you shared your stash with me. You were soley responsible for my mother surviving Monday night after I was stuck in a vehicle with her for over six hours through a snow storm.

I should also thank Steven and Drew, who took it upon themselves to keep me in supply of Jack Daniels and a wonderful cabernet from Beringer's through out my trip. Without those two fine gentlemen, I most certainly would have throttled my mother on Tuesday, after listening to her tease me about how only cheap tramps get tattoos.

I may be a tramp, mommy dearest, but I assure you, I am most certainly not cheap. Ask my husband. He'll tell you.

I'd also like to thank Clyde, a 70+ year old gentleman who hand delivered a beautiful bottle of burgundy to my table, as thanks for simply reminding him of his wife in her younger days. Apparently, I am a spitting image of his beloved Eleanor in her hay day. He misses her dearly.

And a special thanks to Gordon, a fellow journalist who I ran into at the resort. I love the fact that you gushed about me to my mother and kept telling her how talented I was and how lucky she was to have me as a daughter. I never asked him to sing my praises, but it sure felt good when he did.

And yes Mom, I do realize he was hitting on me. I wasn't blind. Only drunk.

All in all, the week was a success. At least the part of it I can remember.

But it is good to be home. Safe in the arms of my Boo, and far, faraway from my mother.

Let The Good Times Roll

Well dear internet, I am off. Soon I will be squiring my mother to a mountain resort to begin the mother-daughter bonding process.

Either we bond, or I will be locked up in the clink, waiting to make bail after I choke the life out of her.

I figure it's a crap shoot either way.

I won't be posting, but I will be out here, lurking and hanging on your every word. (Because when I'm hanging on your words I won't have to be listening to hers...)

And don't worry, I will have fun. Jose Cuervo and Dr. Sambucca are good friends of mine. I plan on catching up with the boys while I'm away.

Be back on Friday, and play safe people!

Pass the Puns, Please

It's rodeo week around these parts and because I'm a community-minded type of gal, I am doing my part to contribute. I'm NOT wearing any shitkickers nor a ten gallon hat, but I will go to the local festivities, partake in some brewed beverages and listen to some big shiny tunes.

Because of my civic-minded ways, I have spent an unseemly amount of time in local watering holes. Which of course, leads me to the cheese I have to pass on to you.

So, without any further ado, enjoy le fromage!


A guy is sitting at a bar eating nuts in the bowl that are on the counter.

He looks down and he notices there is a nut talking to him. Leaning closer to hear what the nut is saying, he hears, "Hey you're one good looking guy!"

Then another nut said, "Yeah and I bet you're rich too!"

The man asks the bartender, "What's up with those nuts?"

The bartender just replies, "They are complimentary nuts."

******

Due to the fact that I am off to bond with my mother for a week of hell, and will be unable to post until Friday, I am offering a very special, two-for one offer today.

I dedicate this to the Piano Man. Without your very large television set, I never would have found this particular ditty. Which would be a shame, as it is too cheesy not to share with the world.



What do you call a pig who knows Karate?

A pork chop.

The Road To Hell...

In an effort to restore harmony and goodwill to my nature, I am taking a mini-vacation next week.

I am traveling down to the mountains, staying at a posh resort and I plan on flirting madly with the obscenely young bellboys.

No kids, no husband, no dog. Just me. And my mother. Somebody, shoot me now. It will save me a lot of money, and I'm sure it won't be nearly as painful as being trapped in small quarters with the lady who gave me life.

The upside is the free booze, plush accommodations and the gourmet food I will be ingesting. (Good thing I didn't buy any skinny jeans. I am sure to pack on a few extra pounds...)

The downside is, well, my mother. But I'm trying to look at the upside to this mini-vacation. I'm going to be trapped in a vehicle for five hours,alone with my mother, to listen to her nag, whine and criticize. I will have ample time to learn something new about my mother during our travels. I am going to have to drink like a fish to keep my sanity. I plan on taking advantage of the free wine-tasting courses available at the Lodge. I am going to have to sleep with one eye open the entire time. I should remember to bring my own pillows.

How did I get sucked into this expensive, ill-advised mini-vacation from hell, you ask?

I was duped. I was supposed to be going with my sister, who backed out at the last second and my darling mom decided to take her place. I was trapped like a rat.

So now I am looking for a sitter for Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog. Ever.

Because the people I am trusting with my children are notorious dog killers.

And I don't trust them with my hairy, farthing baby.

Ironic, isn't it? They're good enough for my flesh, but not good enough for my pup.

And after four days of hell, you can bet your ass this momma is gonna need a lot of doggy kisses to recover from her personal perdition.

Mirror, Mirror On The Wall...

Once a year I have to bite the bullet and do what most women dread. No, not go visit the gynie, (however, there is an appointment scheduled next week, so be sure to look forward to that post) but to wander to the nearest mall in search of the illusive blue jean. Ladies, you know the one I'm talking about. The search for a pair of jeans that accentuates your curves, gives you a butt or takes it away, doesn't make you look like a peg legged freak or some woman wandering around on her short little stumps. A pair of jeans that actually, gasp, flatters your body.

It's kind of like winning the damn lottery. Darn near impossible with odds I wouldn't bet my life savings on.

I have a few rules when it comes to my quest for the perfect fit. First off, I recognize I have given birth to three very large babies. Which means I have a nice roll around my midsection of loose, hanging flesh which I affectionately call my "Jelly roll." It doesn't matter how skinny a woman is, once she's been stretched to the limit a few times, she better include that excess skin in her self-esteem definition. Because short of paying someone to carve it off, it ain't going anywhere.

So no muffin top. I don't want to be hanging out in any direction. And while my hubs might like the crack of my ass, I don't think it necessary to show it off to the folks at the nearest grocery store. Or to any one else.

That effectively rules out low-riding jeans. But to my dismay, my choices were limited to either the low-riding, sausage-making jeans and those back-from-the-past, dreaded skinny jeans. Someone is having a good giggle at my expense some where.

(Don't even get me started on stretchy denim, either. Because you know that those suckers are gonna slide down and you are constantly going to be hiking them up. Oh, you'll try to do it discreetly, but you know that cute bag boy is gonna see you do it. As will the haughty rich bitch who you have an unspoken rivalry with and your school principal. Both of whom you will have to face at the next parent council meeting, while trying to ignore the fact that your jeans are slowly falling south.)

I felt like I was in a really bad episode of Punked and I was just waiting for Mr. Kutcher to point and laugh and tell me where the camera's were. That is, if I was famous...

I just want to know who the hell thought it would be a good idea to bring back the fucking skinny jeans, or drainpipes as the sales girl kept referring to them. I'm a fairly slim chicky, and let me tell you, those damn jeans added thirty pounds and shortened me by four inches. My self-esteem will never be the same again. Those puppies may look good on models like Miss Moss, but really, I don't have enough money to snort the amount of cocaine needed to get thin enough to look good in those damn jeans.

And to add insult to injury, the stores all want an obscene amount of money so you can wander around with your muffin top, or your delusions-of-grandeur skinny jeans, so people can point and snicker and whip out their camera phones to post pictures of you and your denim dreams on their blog.

Good times, dear internet. Good times.

The only saving grace to the day, was towing my best friend along with me.

Did I mention she is five months pregnant?

Trust me, any jean looks great next to the dreaded pregnancy jeans. I really had nothing to complain about.

Watching her try to stuff herself into those puppies, especially the ones with the elastic front panels, really made me feel a bit better about my choices.

After all, what good is having a pregnant best friend if you can't occasionally step on them to boost your own self-esteem once in a while?

For all you raging, hormonal blog friends of mine, don't worry, she got the last laugh. We went bra shopping after. And her swelling mammaries shamed my non-existent, sagging A-cup beaver tails....

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

As a salve to my wounded spirit, it was my delight to discover that the incomparable Mrs. Chicky has made Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog. Ever. her doggie of the week on her other great blog.

So, I'm urging you to wander over there, take a look at my darling pup, and read about my hairy, little beast.

We are one step closer in global domination...

Good Bye Dear Hubs, Hello Hairy Legs...

When Boo and I decided to forever tangle ourselves together in wedded bliss, we never gave much thought to what that meant. After all, we were young, in love and invincible. How hard could this marriage thing be, when both of our parents, all of our aunts and uncles and our grandparents before us, had mastered the art of marriage and the til' death do we part stuff.

What we forgot to remember when we were fooling ourselves into believing marriage was easy, was that none of our family members were married to me. (Although, my darling hubs does have some first cousin marriages along the way and an uncle wedded to a niece, and of course, his mother is married to her third cousin, but that's a post for another day...)

What Boo and I failed to realize marriage is hard. Especially when you are married to me.

I can be a tad over-emotional, demanding and (he insists) irrational.

(I don't like that word. Especially when used in relation to me.)

However, he may have a small point about some things. I will admit to being extremely passionate, slightly temperamental, and I do have high standards I expect him to meet.

But I am NEVER irrational. (Between you and me, dear internet, I may sometimes have irrational tendencies, but let's keep that on the down-low, shall we?)

But just when the hubs and I thought we had this marriage thing down pat, he changed the rules on us. He got a job that separates us for extended periods of time.

Which leaves me alone, with my dog, to try and raise our children.

(There went any hope for those two not spending copious amounts of time and money on a therapist...)

Just when I've adjusted to living life as a single mom, with only our odd phone calls to remind me of the love we share, he switches it back up, and comes home for a few days.

And then leaves again.

I'm having trouble adjusting. When I want to hang on to his sleeves and beg him to stay, using sex as a bribe and offers of gourmet cooked meals (cooked by some one other than me, of course) there is another part of me that is saying "Go, good riddance, leave already." I'm tired of sharing the remote, shaving my legs and trying to cook something other than Kraft dinner.

Inevitably, he leaves, and I'm free to grow enough body hair to resemble a small yeti, and that should make me happy, right?

The problem being a small, hairy yeti who is free to cook as much K.D. as she wants, is that she misses the laughs, the dog-breath (and I'm not talking about the World's Greatest Dog's breath), and the mattress dip.

That and he takes out the garbage for me too.

Hurry home, big guy. And bring razors. Your yeti will need them.

Pass the Puns, Please

My long-lost husband surprised me with his presence home for two solid days, before I have to send him back to work. He then flourished two tickets to the Dixie Chick's concert and took me out for a night on the town. After a night of music, expensive stadium food and a little mattress dancing, (wink, wink) this is the best I could do this morning for my weekly edition of spreading the cheese. Now, please excuse me, I'm off to corner the husband to take out the damn garbage. (Saves me from having to do it later...)


Once upon a time, there lived a beautiful young fairy princess who dreamed of being a ballet dancer. One day, she read an ad in her email that announced the Royal Ballet's next auditions in a nearby town.

So on the right day, the fairy princess geared up one hundred white pigeons to her chariot, and off they flew to the theater.

After witnessing her outrageous entrance, the director immediately told her to go back home.

"But why?" wept the broken-hearted shell of the would-be-ballerina.

"Because," came the heartless reply, "I've got enough pigeon-towed dancers in the company already."

Trust Me, I'm A Good Mom. Now Give Me A Baby

When the hubs and I decided to embark upon the adoption journey, we believed we were prepared for any and all roadblocks that stood before us. We thought we were prepared for the obvious and the invisible. We could handle our families lukewarm acceptance tolerance of the idea of bringing home a special child. After all, they grew to love the Shalebug, they will grow to love our new bundle of joy as well. Or I'll kick their asses.

We can pay our respective doctors fifty smackers each to fill out a medical questionnaire (four questions) to tell the government we aren't crazy, dying or addicted to any harmful substances.

We can forward copies of our marriage and birth certificates and have criminal reference checks done. No problem.

I'll even clean the house and pretend I don't let the dog (or the kids) drink out of the toilet when they come for a home inspection.

What we weren't prepared for were the silly ass questions of the self-assessment report. Or how freaking long it would take to finish the f#*&ing thing.

For example, How would you describe yourself?

As a over-worked, under-paid, tattooed and pierced soccer skating club mom, who has a twisted sense of humor and a passion for fried foods. (Some how I don't think this is what they are looking for.)

How would others describe you?

I don't know, when I've asked people to describe me, they've hoofed it to another room in two shakes of a lamb's tail. What does that say?

Do you use any street drugs?

Why yes. I'm cracked out on some whack Meth as I write this. (Seriously, if I used street drugs, would I really be interested in divulging my addiction to a government agency so they could swoop in and take my remaining two kids instead of handing over another?)

What was your education experience like as a student?

Well, beyond being known as the Carpenter's dream (flat as a board and never been nailed), when I wasn't being stuffed into a locker or being pointed at and the object of whispered giggles, I was busy being in the drama club and running for dear life on the track team. Me and my invisible friend really enjoyed standing at the side of the gym watching the cool kids dance and stick their tongues down each other's throat. But that was okay, because as I aged, I realized I was too cool for the cool kids and shunned them all, reveling in my status as a geeky loner. Yes, I showed them all.

What is your current employment and do you enjoy your job?

Indentured servitude to an unappreciative flock while being a full-time, unpaid babysitter for my seven month old nephew. And why yes, I love cleaning up pee, folding unending piles of laundry, wiping shitty bums of babies who don't belong to me, and serving lovingly cooked, balanced meals to children who shrivel up their noses and ask if they can have ketchup with it. I live for this job, why else would I be asking for you to give me yet another one?

How were you raised and disciplined as a child?

I was set loose in the wilderness to forage for nuts and berries. When I filled my bucket I followed my bread crumb trail back to my home to share with my siblings. When I didn't fill my bucket to the top, my father would march me outside, make me pick a willow switch, watch while he carved it and then suffer the indignity of having him use it on my backside.

All in all, it was a lovely childhood, thanks for asking.

What qualities do you most appreciate about your partner?

Well, I love how handsome he is, but mostly I love the fact that he leaves me for long periods of time to do as I please while he busts his ass to provide me with money to spend freely upon myself. And he never complains when I spend it on more shoes, or to put yet another hole in my body.


How do you resolve stress in your relationship?

I yell, nag and curse. If that doesn't work, I withhold sex. Works pretty well.

Describe, in detail, the kind of child your family would like to adopt.

One that never talks back, remains cute as a button, never needs to be fed and can change his/her own ass. If that's not available, I'll simply take the most messed up kid you've got; the one no one else wants.

What are your reasons for wanting to adopt?

Well, quite frankly, the idea of growing fat, becoming nauseous, constantly needing to pee and then subsequently squeezing a watermelon-sized infant out of my va-jay-jay just doesn't hold the appeal it once did. That and I'm looking for someone to take the place of my now deceased son, so that the work production in my child labor-run factory is increased. Isn't that everyone's reason?

So you see, dear internet, the real problem here. I have a smart mouth and an obvious desire to use it. So as I'm writing my answers in our little booklet, my husband is madly erasing and trying to politely re-write what I've wrote.

This is going to be a long process. And I'm going to have to buy a bigger eraser for my husband.

Open Season

November is an important month, here in Alberta. November means you are legally allowed to wander around aimlessly with a loaded weapon and take shots at anything that moves. It is open season on Bambi.

That's right, it's hunting season around these parts.

As a city-dweller, I never gave hunting season much thought. Or any thought, for that matter. But living out in the sticks, hunting has taken a whole new meaning.

We wear a lot of orange during this month.

Because you never know when some deranged, great white hunter is going to mistake you, your kids, or your dog for his trophy kill. After all, it must be hard to see clearly through that tiny little scope when your eyes are blood shot and bleary from all the strong coffee one must consume to stay warm.

Don't laugh. My mother-in-law's house has the bullet holes to prove it. Some hunters really can't hit the broad side of a barn. But can manage to miss a bull moose standing four feet in front of them, and instead take out the nearest farm house's window.

Driving down the dirt road, with open fields on either side, is nerve wracking during this particular month, with the mental image of a bullet hole in Grandma's hallway running through your mind. Didn't Dick Cheney shoot a lawyer in the ass when he mistook his backside for a bird? (I know, I know, it wasn't really his backside, it was the man's chest and face, but it's harder to make a joke about that...)

My point is, accidents happen.

The deer and the moose aren't the only things running for cover this month.

I empathise with poor old Bugs. I know how he feels.