Make A Wish....

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because I am thoughtful like that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cat on Hot Tin Roof

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pass the Puns, Please

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Look Me In The Eye....

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Right????

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Deceptive Proposal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I'm not bitter or anything.

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

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

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

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

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

I feel so liberated.

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


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

Of Mice And Men

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

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

I was educated. But not in rodent control.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BWHAHAHAHAHA

Ghostly Encounter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Pass the Puns, Please

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

Hee hee.

Cheap and Easy: A Husband's Delight

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poor Boo. Hee hee.

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

Only one problem with Boo being home.

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

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

Otherwise, we'd all starve around here.

It's the Thought That Counts

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

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

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

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

Wasn't I a charming child?

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

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

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

Classy.

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

Crazy bitch.

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

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

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

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

Wow, sometimes I even amaze myself with my thoughtfulness.

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

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

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

Spread the Delusion...I mean Love

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

Life is good.

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

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

Snicker, snicker.

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

Still giggling over that.

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

You won't regret it. I promise.

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

New Definition of a Hot Dog

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

Hee hee.

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

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

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

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

To find my damn dog spitting all over me.

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

Aren't I sexy.

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

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

Pass the Puns, Please

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

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

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

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

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


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

A Pyrrhic Victory and Pickle Soup

***UPDATED AT BOTTOM OF POST***

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

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

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

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

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

I will not apologize for that.

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

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

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

Good times, dear internet. Good times.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

The Cost of Womanhood

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

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

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

I love being a woman. Not.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate being a woman.

Pass the Puns, Please

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

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

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

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

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

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

Enjoy!


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

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

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

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

I Feel So Honored...

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

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

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

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

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

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

Get this, for the Most Inspirational blog.

Quit laughing.

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

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

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

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

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

An Embarrassing Confession

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thank goodness this was before camera cell phones.

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

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

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

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

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

Did I mention there was a large snow bank nearby?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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