Nappy New Year!

On New Year's Eve, I can't help but feel a little reflective over the past year.  And really, what choice do we have, when everywhere we turn, we are seeing blogs about "How to be a better person in 2014", "How to let go of mistakes you made in 2013", "13 foods that you were not eating in 2013 because they caused cancer that will now be cures for cancer in 2014". 

 

Ok, that one may be made up, but you get the idea.  And let's be honest, it's really not that far of a stretch.

 

Carcinogens, anyone?

 

Sometimes I think these bloggers are coming up with any old sappy "better yourself" and "what you're doing wrong" posts just in the hopes that their blog will go viral, making them famous for 5 minutes.  And though we aspire to the "15 minutes of fame", it's now harder than ever since it has been reduced to 7 seconds, thanks to vines.    I mean, perhaps on some level, we all have hopes of being the next big thing with a guest appearance on Ellen and some fancy blogging job for her after you return from your dream honeymoon that she will obviously send you on.  But I will not sell out my blog in an attempt to gain one-time viewers and a few shout-outs on more reputable blogs.

 

So on that note, I welcome you to my 2013 List of the cutest puppy pictures that will make you cry for sure, so grab some tissues, because you will need them.  I made sure that each picture has an inspirational little quote showing how you can make yourself a better person while making you quietly feel guilty for yelling at your kids and resolving to be a better parent and do volunteer work in 2014.

 

Um...yeah.  *cough*

 

That's probably not going to happen.  Although if you visit Pinterest, I'm sure you can compile your own list of bad-parent-shaming good-parent-empowering posts. 

 

2013 has made me more tolerant, slower to judge and quicker to help.  It was a year that has made me realize that there are bigger things in life than our #firstworldproblems.  Granted, I'm still awkward, and I'm really not good in social situations.  I'm still not organized, and I'm late for everything I've ever tried to attend.  I still have a very misplaced sense of personal style that I can't quite get right, and we still have very few friends that we socialize with on a regular basis.  I am not quite as patient as I'd like, and I still gossip now and then, although that is an area I've been working very hard on.  I'm still somewhat of a hypochondriac, and I say stupid things that I know are stupid, but my mouth and brain are not connected at times.  I'm still overweight, which is a goal of 2014 (, and 2013, 2012, 2011, 2010......1998....).  I still spend too much money and long for vacations on the beach and new boots, and new clothing....

 

But all of those are minor things.  I've learned so much more in 2013 that have taken me 30 years to figure out.  For one thing, planning for the future for ourselves and our children is much more important and being able to visit fancy restaurants and buy expensive clothing.  We have been working on education funds and retirement plans for a few years now, but I think this year it finally began to take it's place as a priority in my line of thinking.

 
I've realized that although I'm undoubtedly going to make errors in judgement in relationships and friendships, and those relationships help to make me who I am, they do not define me.  I can only be defined by the way I treat others and myself, and the way that I live those relationships.  Simply being a part of them is not enough, I have learned that I have to work at them, and make them something worthwhile.
 

Over this Christmas holiday, and leading up to it, I really learned how good it can make you feel to help someone, even when you can't actually see the people you are helping.  In previous years, we have given some boxes of Kraft Dinner to the food bank, and probably donated a thing or two to the Happy Tree to be distributed to needful families.  Every bit helps, and that was awesome.  This year, as a family, we decided  that we wanted to go a step further than we ever have.  It was important to us, and helped us grow together.  We felt that we could do more,  and it felt good.  What we donated or participated in is not important.  But to donate anonymously is an awesome feeling.  I realized that I don't need anyone to tell me "thanks" to make me feel good about what we were able to contribute, because you never know when it may be you accepting those donations. Life is funny that way.  Hopefully next year, we will still be in a position to help make other people's Christmas's, and even daily life, a bit easier in our own hometown.

 

I've also realized that sometimes there are areas in life where you will walk alone, and you may feel that you are not encouraged to share you thoughts on things.  I have been very judgemental in the past about certain issues, and I now see that being judgemental makes me no better than those who show intolerance in the things they say, post and share on social networking.  Bullying was a strong point in 2013, and sometimes those who are the first to speak up against bullying, use outlets such as religion to condemn others for things that are out of their control, which can also take the form of bullying.

 

I walked into a church this year, for the first time in far too long, and found that it meant something to me.  For a very long time, I've fought against religion on a personal level, always wanting to be something, anything, else.  I really held a strong discord against organized religion.  I studied Wicca, I thought I was perhaps an atheist, although I always knew that wasn't quite right.  I always felt there was something else out there, but never knowing what, I never belonged anywhere.  And it bothered me.  I always felt like I believed in a god, but disliked the messages that churches were sending, so strongly, that I knew I could never feel at home in a place that disregarding other humans as being sinners simply because of a sexual orientation, or something else that was equally out of their control.  My own strong opinions on certain matters just didn't mesh with those of organized religion. I could never feel at home in a house of hypocrites that preached that their saviour was the only judge, but yet, they judged other humans all the time.  When I stepped into the church back in May, it was not for myself.  It was not to find something I was missing, it was simply to give it a try to please others.  I went with a feeling of contempt and disregard.  It was never about finding myself or starting a journey.  But I surprised myself, and I found something that I didn't expect.  I found a place where tolerance was their motto and acceptance was their creed.  I found myself eager to learn and explore. I promise you that I am not going "all churchy" on you all, because it's a very personal thing which this is not the place to share, but I am just glad that I was able to find what I was missing, when I'm not sure I even realized I was missing it.

 

I've learned that you really never know how someone from your past can play a very important role in your future.  So you should be patient and kind, and try not to judge someone too quickly.  When I worked at Tim Horton's, one of the part time bakers there was very nice, although I didn't know him well. I knew he was going to be a minister and was waiting to get married.  9 years later, I walk into a church for the first time in too long, and find that very same guy, up at the front giving a sermon that would really reach me.

 

2013 was about many things to me and I can't wait to see what 2014 brings me.  I know this isn't a usual witty lighthearted blog post, and although certainly not worthy of viral re-posts and shares, I felt like there were some things that I just wanted to say.  I feel very blessed to have some regular readers, and I love it when I randomly hear that people follow my blog and love to read my posts.  Nearly every time I post something, I wonder if I have "jumped the shark" or completely missed the mark, which I undoubtedly will from time to time.  I think it's really cool to have a few following my thoughts, because as the blog name says, it really is everyday common nonsense, and I know that some days are more nonsensical than others, and some days I barely string sentences together to come up with something worthy of your time. 

 

So my resolutions for 2014 are this:

 

I will try to post more frequently on my blog.  So if some days are garbage, I apologize in advance!

 

I am going to work on my time-management and punctuality. 

 

I am going to lose weight.  Again.

 

I am going to try to make my family healthier in body, mind and spirit.

 

I am going to try to make myself healthier, in body, mind, and spirit.

 

I am going to house train that damn poodle.

 

I am going to get outside more, and spend quality time with my kids.

I am going to try to contribute to my community a little bit more.

I am going to cook more and eat less crap.

I am going to work on my business more, and set myself some realistic goals.  Then I am going to follow through on said goals.

So when the ball drops tonight and the fireworks light up the sky, and Auld Lang Sine rings out across the night air, I hope you all find someone that you love and place your hopes and dreams for 2014 together with theirs.  Every single one of us deserves our hearts desires, and may you all find it in yourselves this holiday season.  Happy New Year, may you have a wonderful, healthy, happy and prosperous 2014.

 

A new chapter, (but I'm not ready to turn the page!)

In two days, my 8 year old son heads off to grade 3.  And then my baby girl hits Kindergarten.  I imagine it is going to be much like the tasmanian devil charging it's way into a classroom. Don't get me wrong, she is not loud, rude, or overwhelming.  But believe me when I say that she, although sometimes quiet, has a strong personality, a huge sense of humor, and a challenging nature about her, wherein she does not take "just because" as a viable answer.  

For anything.

Believe me. I have tested it.

I guess we never really know what our children are going to be like when they are out of our sight.  I know that when I drop her off to her first day of Kindergarten, she will not be the child crying and clinging to me.  She will likely hug me tight, give me a kiss and tell me that everything will be ok.  My son will quickly hug me with one arm, but pretend he doesn't know me, and head off with his friends while I linger in the doorway of the classroom with the other mom's and dad's and their downtrodden eyes, wondering where the last 8 years have gone.

I've had discussions with my kids as of late, to try to prepare them for all the things that I hope to God they never have to encounter.  About some things that I know they will encounter, no matter how much I will against it, and other things that I thought they were way too young for.  

Things like people treating them inappropriately, both physically and mentally.  What abuse is. What bullying is.  How to recognize if someone is being bullied or if they are bullying someone.  What to do if they know that someone is being bullied, who to talk to, and what they can do to make a difference.

Discussions about drugs, and the various scary-as-shit ways that they are delivered now.  I have had to tell my children not to accept anything from sweet tarts to pop rocks for fear that they are not the fun childhood candy we all enjoyed, but rather something much more ominous.

I've already touched on how the internet is a wonderful tool that can be used for everything from knowledge to contact with friends, but how it can also be a very scary, different world than the playground, and things that happen online can have a very real impact on their lives.  They are still a little young for this, since their internet use is still closely monitored and they do not have phones yet, but this will be a re-occurring conversation, and each time we discuss it, it will be a little more in depth.

I have had to speak with them about treating their classmates with respect, and understanding that not everyone likes physical contact.  That everyone has personal space, and we should not invade it.  That is a tough one, because my son has no concept of personal space.  Like, none. Zip.  Nothing.  He is the kid standing two inches from your ass in the line up at the grocery store.  And no matter how many times I mention it and explain it to him, it's like a foreign concept every. single. time.

I've explained about hugs and kisses and although it kills me to have to even broach the subject, (because it is super cute) they will sooner or later reach the age where they have little boyfriends and girlfriends, they need to understand that school is not the place to explore those feelings.  

I don't ever want them to think that it is not ok for them to express themselves in a respectful, appropriate manner.  Having to warn them against public displays of affection at this age makes me a little sad.  Not only because in this day and age, getting kids together is not as easy as it used to me, and many times they do not get a chance to explore the natural feelings that they have, but also part of the innocence of a child is being able to show their love so easily.  And they do love so easily, which is what makes children so great.  We could learn from them sometimes. And let's face it, what harm is there to two 5 year olds holding hands at the playground?  Or giving each other a little kiss?  It isn't as if they are even at the age where they are even privy to knowing the process being making babies. They may know where babies come from, but they don't yet know where babies come from, if you catch my drift.

*cringe* Hopefully, that is still a ways down the road.  

I feel like that level of concern should be kept at the junior high level, where it could be a potential threat.  I know when I was young, the teachers would probably coo over the little kindergarteners who had boyfriends, and comment on how cute they were when they were in the staff room.  It wasn't until grade 7 where kissing in the hallway at recess would have your parents alerted at the next PTA night. Although I fiercely disagreed with it at that time, claiming it was not my teachers business, (yeah, we were all brats, move on.), I hope now that someone will tell me of my kid's behaviour, should that ever happen.  

*cringe* PleaseOHplease say that is still a ways down the road.  

I want my kids to be happy, healthy, strong and mindful of others.  I want them to respect their friends, their teachers and themselves.  I hope that they will go to the kid who's been pushed down, stand them up and brush them off, and say hi.  I hope they will have fun, and learn, and not worry about what others say about them as long as they are confident.  I want to build their self-esteem, and know that my husband and I are always there for them, 100%, all the time.  

But I also know that they will be brats sometimes.  They will be rude, they will disrespect. They will pick on and be picked on.  They'll be downright jerks.  They will hurt and be hurt sometimes, and they will come home from school and cry because life is unfair.  

But may they always, always remember that tomorrow is a brand-spanking new day and any day can start a new chapter.  You just have to be strong, and be ready for anything that comes your way.  

And you have to turn the page.

My eyes! My eyes!

I have to say that I am so over this week's unofficial blog topic.  

I am so done with the Miley Cyrus/Robin Thicke talk. 

I get it.  Their award show performance was distasteful, alarming and offensive.  The twerking (is that really a thing...?  Like, really?!) was too much.  Robin Thicke certainly came out looking like a dirty old man; Miley a skank sad, damaged girl, possibly headed toward some sort of a breakdown with her fuck-the-world-I'm-no-role-model attitude.

But let's move on, shall we?

Overall it was a lame attempt at entertainment, with poor dancing, poor singing, and really terrible wardrobes, that jacked people up and got them talking.  People like YOU.  And ME. And damnit, it's nearly a week later and we're still discussing it.  Hats off, then, Miley and Robin. Obviously, that is what you wanted.  

But I have read blog posts in the form of letters to daughters - Let Miley Cyrus Be A Lesson to You, and letters to sons - Don't Let Robin Thicke Be A Lesson to You.  

And while I understand the senitments, how about "Don't let Hollywood "Entertainment" be a Lesson to You"?  How about don't worry about what those morons on TV are doing?  You know if it's inappropriate behaviour to follow, right?

Your kids will only act that way if YOU show them that it's ok. Those lessons come from home, people, they need to learn to differentiate between reality and entertainment.  By writing our kids these types of letters and getting outraged over this, are we not showing them that this behaviour draws attention?  Are we not telling them that music and performances are there to teach us something?  That there are lessons to be learned by watching on-stage performances, music videos, and listening to the lyrics of songs?

Give your children some credit!  Teach them that TV  and radio messages are not always real! Teach them that real life lessons come from real people in real life, not songs and award shows. 

Miley and Thicke want you talking about this. I feel like I'm standing alone when I say I don't think it's a big deal.  I am not afraid to admit that I like the song Blurred Lines.  Don't judge me, I sing along and enjoy the upbeat song, but maybe because I don't take it too seriously.  I never even paid much attention to the lyrics, that are not that different from a lot of other songs out there right now, until I read an article about how it was the "Rape Anthem of 2013".   Really?  Is that really a label that you want to affix to anything?  

Come on now. 

Just by calling it a rape anthem, you are putting rape in the spotlight, but insinuating that a catchy tune on the radio sums it up.  Is that not counter productive?  The mind has a way of strongly associating memories with song.  So this tune that kids think is fun and catchy, that gets you bopping in your seat, now has a mental tie to a terrible human act.  

This is a song that all the kids are singing.

And you want to label it the rape anthem.

And you don't see anything wrong with that? 

It makes these same kids that are innocently singing along with a catchy tune on the radio, stop and really start to think about that song.  For God sakes, don't analyze the lyrics!  Are you kidding me?!  More music today has a negative message in it than a positive message, so for heavens sake, so don't open up that flood gate of analyzing and labeling every catchy new tune that comes out on the radio.  You are drawing more attention to a song that would be quickly over and forgotten about.

By over-analyzing lyrics and the behaviour of their singers,  you are telling your kids that songs are there to be analyzed.  That the messages in the songs are legit.  It gives the song a new meaning, and therefore a stronger presence in their mind.

Let it just be a catchy tune on the radio that you listen to and ignore at the same time. Indifference speaks louder than words. Don't dwell, don't talk about the lyrics of their songs, (both equally terrible when you read them), and don't let your kids feel that this is normal behaviour.  This is Hollywood staging.  No different than watching a movie; you know that it's not real life.  

Mainly, relax.  While it's true that a parents blatant dislike for something tends to make it more appealing for their children, it is also true that values and morals are instilled in them from their parents leading by subtle example and not focusing on the negative things in this life that will stick with them.  The greater the attention given to something, whether it be a good influence or bad, creates a greater memory in their minds.  If you pay too much attention to something outrageous, they may not always remember your point of view on the subject, but I can promise you that they will always remember the subject.

The itch to write

Ok, I'm not going to go on about being back from my hiatus, because this might last a day, and it might last a month.  So, I'll pretend like I hadn't checked out of my blog for all this time, and I will carry on as if I was normal.

Every since my first day of grade...9, yes, grade 9, I've known I wanted to be a writer.  On my very first day of Grade 9, our homeroom teacher, who was also vice principal of the school, was also our English teacher.  He asked us on that first day to write out a little index card of information about ourselves so that he could learn about us.

Now, this teacher, for whatever reason, was one of those people that a lot of people were a little intimidated by.  Everyone else disliked him.

We had no idea that we were going to be somehow judged by how those index cards were written.  I have no idea what I wrote.  Who knows.  Probably some boring dribble about my cat or something...

What I do remember, is when this teacher went on to announce, to the entire class, that my index card was the only card in the entire class that had no errors on it.  Not one.

From that moment on, I was in his good books.  And believe me when I say that even though I was not always the best behaved, and like any pre-teen girl I had a little, slight attitude.  (Shush, mom, it was only a little attitude).  But I could do no wrong in his class.  If I was talking to someone, it was the other students fault.  If my homework wasn't done, it was probably because I was doing something important like writing a thesis.

Ok, maybe not quite that extreme, but I was pretty awesome in Mr. Street's eyes.

I mean, finally  someone had recognized that.

And that is what peaked my interest towards writing.  I have always known that someday I would write something, even if it was a book that no one else would ever read.  I love to write, and if the opportunity presented itself to write for a living, then hells yah, I'd be all over that.

Well said, right?

So, about a year ago, I was thinking about the Harry Potter series.  I have not yet read the books, Chase and I are going to read them together, and we've started a couple of times, but that first book is so slow starting off.  But eventually we'll read them.

So I was thinking about the series, and how bloody brilliant that series is.  Appealing to a massive audience of both girls and boys, children that grew up along with Daniel Radcliff's character....ummm...what's his name again?  Henry..?  Harold?  Oh, right, Harry.

Brilliant.  But it is a great idea, bring in the boys with the action, magic, wizards and monsters or whatever it's all about.  Then bring in the girls by introducing a few other female characters into the mix, and of course appealing to their own sense of adventure with the magic, wizards and monsters.  Or whatever.

So I started thinking about writing a story idea that appeals primarily to girls in a way that is not so Disney-Princess (and for the record, I have no problem with Disney Princesses, I loved Ariel and Belle, and now my daughter loves that shit).  But girls should have a series like this, with an adventurer that is female, strong, brave and smart.  A good adventure series that of course is not "for girls" because I don't believe in that, but maybe aimed to include typical girlie-girls (like my own girlie-girl) while being appealing to all audiences.  Seems to me that stories that include princesses seem to be about falling in love and finding prince charming.  I wanted to write something that was not about that stuff, but more about adventure and exploring, and friendships.  More like Lord of the Rings for kids.  But less, like, evil.

So I sat down one night and I started writing this book.  I worked for about a week on his beautiful book, and it was turning into exactly what I was looking for.  It was a beautiful story of these little nymph's living in a field.  I won't give away too much, but there was going to be a big beautiful adventure and since nymph's are tiny (you knew that, of course, right?) it was going to be really cool with like, giant strawberries and mushroom toadstools, and fireflies, etc.

So I took a break from my book one night, and we went off to a movie with the kids.  I was feeling really good about my writing and I was excited to get back at it.  I forget the movie we were going to see.  Doesn't matter.  During the previews, I saw something that made me literally sick to my stomach in dread.

Honestly, I nearly cried in the theater.

It was heart wrenching.

This.

It was a preview for the movie Epic.

I thought I might vomit on the theater floor.

Darren very carefully (wisely) looked over at me to see me with my jaw set, my eyes dead, and probably a tear or two.

I couldn't believe it.  It was so much like my story, except mine was better!!!

Damn you, movie-making-big-shot-company-jerks.

Anyways.....I'll get back to my book eventually.  I'll change it from nymphs in a meadow to astronauts in the milkyway or something.  It won't be the same, but I'll make it work.

But I have not been able to watch Epic yet.  I can'y bring myself to, not even for research.

And Really?!  Who names a movie Epic.

Come on, Man.

Stop pretending that the sky is red.

That was a quote from "The Gay Athlete" (term coined in his coming-out article in Sports Illustrated this week), Jason Collins, the first American professional sports player to announce that he is gay.

Collins has finally come out and made a life changing announcement that takes a lot of courage for anyone, and maybe even more so for someone in the public eye, especially when no one before him has done it.

There was an outpouring for support for this man since his announcement.  Support, respect, and love has come from many on twitter, blogs, facebook.  But with that also comes rejection and fear.

Watching this all unfold, I feel a lot of respect and pride for someone who would respect themselves enough to finally show the world who they are and stop hiding their natural beauty.  It's wonderful that so many people have shown such support for him.

On the other hand, it also makes me absolutely sick to my stomach.

Wait, wait.  Let me finish.

Why should we all feel this pride, for someone we don't know and will never meet, because he is finally taking the step to live his life as he chooses?  Why should he feel blessed to have so many people stand behind him as if he did something wrong?  Why are we treating him different, or like some kind of athletic anomaly, as if he isn't "normal", but we are showing support that he was able to come out and tell us that he is somehow different than the rest of us?

Why, in this day and age, is it still such a big deal for someone to tell us he's gay?  Why does he still have to feel such anxiety leading up to telling us that he is gay, as if he has something to apologize for?  Why does he feel he even has to share it, much less in a front page article in Sports Illustrated?  Don't get me wrong, I admire that he did that, but what I'm saying is, isn't it sad that he has to go that route for something that should not be a big deal at all.

After all, straight people, at the age of realizing their sexuality, do not feel the need to announce, "Oh, mom and dad, I wanted to tell you that I think I am straight."

*gasp*

Now, don't get me wrong here.  I have nothing but love for what Jason Collins has done here.  He has opened the gates and paved the way, allowing more people, in professional sports or not, to come out and live their lives how they want without having to hide for fear of social and professional persecution.

But tell me this.  Why the hell should he have to feel as if he has a secret that he has to finally confess?

Things have definitely gotten better over the past few years.  This just being another step in reaching a place where there is no "different" because there is no "normal".

There has been an inherent fear for many athletes, in that by coming out openly about their sexuality, they are going to be alienated by sponsors, teammates, coaches.  It has been surmised that such a leap of faith as telling someone who you really are, in this most private aspect of ones life, can be career ending in professional sports.

Then there's the fear that other straight men feel about having the gays in the locker room with them.

Everyone walks around stark naked in a locker room with no shame, right? After all, it's just us just heterosexual men in here, right?  As long as no one looks at anyone else's junk, it's all good, right?

Who wants to smack someones bare ass in the locker room if they might perceive it to be more than a friendly, sportsman-like, platonic gesture.  Obvs it's ok if both parties are straight.  It's a completely heterosexual gesture.

Right?  I mean, everyone does that, right?

Larry Johnson, fellow athlete, tweeted " Ppl ! this is nothing against Jason or homosexual's,all I'm saying is this don't belong in a man's locker room.", " here's a man that say he's attracted to other men. Now he's walking around a locker room with naked man.", "I don't judge anyone!! I have fallen short of the grace of Allah myself, but stop trying to make this acceptable."

Let's just get something straight here.  (Bad pun?  Too soon?)

Jason Collins was in the locker room with you all last week.  Jason Collins was attracted to men last week.  Perhaps not all of you chest pounding, hairy ass, pompus meatballs, but men nonetheless.

So...what changed?  What's different now, compared to last week?  You are, Larry Johnson.  You are different now. You have changed, in your attitude towards him. Jason Collins is exactly the same person.  Liberated now, feeling free but still cautious, but still the same person as last week.

Stop trying to make this acceptable??  Seriously?  Actually, you need to stop trying to make this unacceptable.

When I am in a women's locker room, and there is a naked woman there, it makes me uncomfortable.  I don't like to change in front of anyone.  So do you know what I do?  I take my clothing and I change behind a curtain.  Because I have enough sense to realize that the lady who is naked is not the issue, I am.  She has every right to change that way in a change room if she wishes.  If I don't like it, then I need to take strides to remove myself from the situation and find a comfortable way for me to do my thing.  I'm not talking about someone being inappropriate or harassing, I am simply talking about normal change room behaviour.

But if I am in a locker room, I have literally no indication of who is gay or straight.  Unless someone is winking inappropriately at me across the room, how would I know?  And what does it matter if there is a gay person there?  If the thought makes me uncomfortable, then the problem is me, and I need to rectify it myself.

If those men don't like having a gay teammate in the locker room with them, then my suggestion is to wrap a towel around yourself, have some curtains installed, and change in privacy.

And just a heads up to all the small minded assholes like Larry Johnson, do you really think for one second that Jason Collins in the only gay person in your league, even possibly on your team?  They might not be out yet, they might not be farting rainbows for all to see, but that doesn't mean that they don't find men attractive.  So if you have a fear of a man checking you out, then you need to buy yourself a robe or stay in your house.

Jason Collins is a free agent right now, at 34 years old. He has had sponsorship offers already since his announcement, and he finally decided to "stop pretending the sky is red".

Good on you, Jason.

with a capital V

I am on Vacation now.  I capitalize the V because Vacation deserves a capital letter.

Actually, you know what?  It should be VACATION.

Much better.

So, I'm on VACATION now, as of 5:30 yesterday.  Should have been 5:00, or even 5 minutes to, but being the dedicated procrastinator that I am, I had forgotten to print my month-end reports, that were supposed to be printed at...well....month end.

Luckily, I have an amazing boss with a great sense of humor who I could talk into generously offered to finish processing the reports for me once I had printed them.  (She could read this, you know.)  After all, printing them is the hard part.  *cough*

I think that once your VACATION begins, and I mean the minute you are off the clock, there should be security there to escort you out, not to be let back in until the morning of your return.  Then, while being hauled away, I could shout out over my shoulder, "Jeeeze Donna, I'm sorry, I really wanted to finish that report but they are forcing me to leave!  Oh, and by the way, I left some things in my desk drawer, and there's a weeks' worth of unopened mail in there too that I had just started, but....sorry, but these durn security guards won't let me go..."

Ok, I'm not that bad.  I actually had everything ready to go at 4:30 and had mentally checked into the house in Florida and was suntanning on the deck, and when my boss came into my office, and said those dreaded words..."What about....(insert dreaded work task here)"

Uggggh.

Fiiiiine.

But now I'm on VACATION and so far all we have done is clean and pack and drink and clean and pack.

There are ten of us going to Florida.  My sweet little fam, my husbands parents, and his brother's sweet little fam.  Ten (10) of us.  In one house.  For ten days.  With four kids under 8.

Aren't we brave?  Crazy?  Hopefully it'll be like an awesome weekend at the cabin, wherein even if we drive each other absolutely, ridiculously bananas, at least we'll be able to put the kids to bed at an ungodly hour, and sit back and drink and work out our aggression by desperately trying to keep each other in the Asshole seat in a good old game of cards.

And of course there are a TON of things to do in Florida, both to amuse and distract.  My little fam will be visiting the Magic Kingdom, Animal Kingdom, Busch, Aquatica, Seaworld, and Legoland.  Just to name a few.  VACATION for us is always GOGOGOGOGOGOGO, relax for an hour and then GO again.  And I can't freaking wait.  When we get home, we have a nice looong 5 days off to wind down and relax before back to work, so relaxing in Florida, while on my agenda, is definitely not at the top of the list.  I have never been outside of Canada, and there is so much to do!  I want to hit the ground running!

So CHEERS to VACATION!  I wish I could take you all with me.  Well, maybe not all of you, not at once anyways, but I'll do my best to post some pics along the way, and then get back to my normal observational blogs, since that seems to be what everyone tuned in for, and I have been really lax in that department lately. I have another one brewing, maybe even later today.  We'll see how far I get with the cleaning and the packing.

So....see you in 20 minutes?!

If your entire cell system renews itself every 7 years....

Is that why some marriages suffer the seven year itch?  Does that mean that we should renew our vows every seven years just to make sure we're still on board, agreeing to the same things we agreed to at the first marriage?  

Wait, what?  When did I agree to that?  Oh, no you don't...take that out, and then we'll renew this contract...I mean vows.  Yes...our vows.

Does that mean that I have to wait another 5 years before my body hits another multiple of seven, and therein I might receive the hourglass figure I want, without having to work for it?  I don't care about my weight, I'll keep that, whatever.  Just move my spare tire to my hips and my chin to my boobs and I'll be all set.  Nothing else should move though.  I don't want cankles.

Or is a slow process that happens over the seven years?  Does that mean that my spare tire might be slowly migrating south as we speak to join my hips and butt?  What about my chin?  Does that mean that as it's moving, I'm going to have one of those floppy turkey gobbler neck thingys for a little while?  I don't mind a double chin, on second thought.  Have you ever looked at a turkey?  I mean really looked at one.  Those poor birds have got to be the most disturbing piece of work I've ever seen.  You think zombies are freaky?  Pah!  Whatever.  I'd take flesh eating zombies any day over a herd (herd?) of giant, non-flying, pecking, squawking, bat-shit crazy ugly birds chasing me around.

Any day.

So yesterday, the kids and I were sitting at our bar, drinking hot chocolate with whipped cream, and I asked them if they knew what zombies were.  It's always fun to hear their answers to this stuff, because you know they are hearing about this stuff in school.

Shaelin wasn't sure, but Chase said that he sort of knew.  He knew that they were green, and they walk around trying to eat brains.  Braaaaainz.

Shaelin interjected to say that she had seen something like that, on tv, except he was wrapped in toilet paper.

Chase said that that was a Mommy, but they were only from the pyramids, because when people died, their friends would wrap them in toilet paper, and stick them in the pyramids and that's where they would live, trying to find brains to eat.

Sounds legit.

The conversations I have with the kids are usually hilarious and insightful at the same time, and I often wonder what they take away from them.  I always try to be as honest as I can, and answer them in anything they ask me.  But only give them just enough information to answer it, and not offer any extra.  Especially with Shaelin, because that child will ask you questions, on top of questions, on top of questions.  Until eventually I hear myself saying, "Ok, mommy is done talking now.  Why don't you go play now.  Please.  Now."

She asked me a few weeks ago where babies come from.  

Da Da daaaaa.

We were sitting to the table, and Darren was sitting on the couch trying to activate all his super powers to make himself disappear into the sofa, or at least be invisible, and I had to field it myself.

So, being as honest as I could, I explained how babies grow inside their mother's belly.  Then she interjects, impatiently, and says, "Yes, but how to they get out of there?"

Which is thankfully the lesser of the two evil questions.   Much better than, how they got in there.

So I explained how when the baby is ready, they start trying to push their way out, and the mommy has to push them out of her vagina.  And it hurts.  A lot.  But it's worth it when the mommy sees the sweet little baby and she knows she loves her very much.

But, that's not how my kids were born.  So I have to explain about c-sections as well, and explain that the Doctor actually cut me open and hauled them out by their feet, into the cold, sterile room, and smacks them on the bum to make sure they are ok, and then staples mommy back up, and she has a lovely red scar to live with for the rest of her life.  And then maybe a second one, that's a little bit squish, causing the little belly overhanging the scar to hang a little lower on one side that the other, giving her a lopsided, goofy looking belly.

Oh, ok, I didn't say it quite like that.

But then I showed them my scars.  And the look on their faces was priceless when Shaelin, a little bit awe struck and a little bit horrified, said, "Umm, wait....we came out of there?"  

Priceless.

I'm back!

And damn, it feels good to be back and currently mostly pain free!

Still don't know what caused it all.  It may have been Parvo.  May have been viral.  May have been an allergy.  It may come back.  It may not.

Two weeks of short term disability, a pill bottle of Tordol, and a stomach flu thrown in there for good measure later, and I'm 100% again!

Ready to come back to blogging.  I missed it actually, but perhaps a little rusty!

So they caught the Boston Bomber last night.  We were watching CNN when they got him, and it felt good to be part of that.  We watched the crowd cheer as the police confirmed that it was the guy.  We watched as Anderson Cooper tried to talk over the rising sound of a mob of happy, relieved, proud Americans walked down the street toward him, cheering and chanting "USA".  We watched the President come out and talk about it, saying how as one Nation, under God, we must now pray for the families who have lost, the ones who were injured, everyone who helped, as well as the people of Texas who had the explosion this week as well with many deaths and injuries.  He named each of the Boston victims one by one, and emotion seemed to catch in his throat when he named little Martin Richard.  Then he sighed, and said, "Overall, it's been a tough week."  It's been tough to watch, too.  The world seemed to be holding it's breath, waiting for this 19 year old to be found.

This was a sickening event, to think that someone would do this.  While I will never, ever condone or offer any justification or even sympathy for this guy who did this, it makes me stop and think, that wow, he was only 19 years old, and he could show such hatred and inflict so much pain.  And they were even discussing capital punishment last night, if the guy survives.  We are not talking about an imbecile, here, this is a 19 year old who didn't make a mistake, he took a cold calculated risk, knowing the chances of getting caught, to injure people and injure a Nation.  He knew what he was doing, no doubt.  But damn, he was only 19 years old.

It was all in vain though, really, because as we have seen time and time again, these attacks on the USA do not injure the Nation, it makes them stronger.  It bonds them as one.

But it got me thinking about was the stupid shit I did at 19.  Things that now I look back on and cringe because I clearly didn't have a lick of sense.  Well, I had some.  But not a lot.  And of course, it all pales in comparison to this guy.  There really is no comparison, except that at 19, you think you are indestructible, and that the world owes you something. 

At 19, you have enough sense to know right from wrong, even if you think you can bend each side a little bit.

At 19, you think the world is your oyster, and everything revolves around you.  It is full of promise and opportunity, and you think you can't be touched.

At 19, you think that your friendships will never end, relationships will never die, and that you can always be forgiven, and given another chance.

At 19, you still think that your family are jerks. The whole lot of them.  Although they are getting better than they were three years ago, so you can keep quiet and put up with it.  What you don't realize at 19, is that your family members are not the jerks, you are, but you aren't as bad as you were at 16, so they put up with the eye rolling and attitude.  Frankly, you're a bit of an ass, at 19.

At 19, you are right on the brink of adulthood, where people expect you to start getting serious, fortheloveofGod get yourself a job, take a shower, and give up with the pot already.  (not me, just some 19 year olds in general).  And you resist that every step of the way.

Because at 19, you want to be considered an adult sometimes, but only at your convenience.  Here in Canada, you can buy beer and cigarettes and lottery Tickets at 19, and anyone who ID's you is a dumbass because CLEARLY you are of age.  So you are an adult when you are out drinking until 4 am, stumbling around and making a complete ass of yourself.  But you are still a child when someone tries to take advantage of your drunken, idiotic state, whether it be to fight, for sex, or for money. It's obviously not your fault that those things happen, you are just a child, afterall.  And you're also just a silly child when they try to wake you up in the morning, with your bloodshot eyes, and vodka morning breath, spins to knock you on your ass, and a jackhammer in your ears, to go to a family brunch at Gramma's house.  A poor pity-me child.

You're still a child when you do something wrong, and people are blaming you for something, and some of your best friends are done with putting up with your shit, (refer back to reason two, the world revolves around you), because of course, at 19, you are likely not going to take responsibility for anything that you did wrong.  You will find some lame-ass see-through escape plan, that will shift the blame off of you, and make you the innocent victim.  Or so you think.

But at 19, even with no friends, and no sense, and a boat load of ego, you are entering into adulthood, and you - only you -  are responsible for the things you do.  Some of those things will not affect you for the rest of your life.  Some of it will.  Some of those things, you will be able to forget, move past, and create a new identity for yourself.  You might have a little baggage, because as you get into your 20's, the bigger mistakes will stay with you and you won't let yourself forget them.  But you will eventually forgive yourself for some of the stupid shit you did.  You'll eventually come to terms with the fact that if you lost some friends over these idiotic 19-year-old mistakes you made, well, they may not come back.  Eventually, you can put any embarrassment behind you.

But at least you are only doing stupid shit that you can come back from, not like this Boston Bomber.  If he survives, he will (hopefully) never walk free to make the same mistakes that your average 19 year old will make.  Because at 19, he knew the consequences, and he is most definitely not a child.  He is most definitely adult enough to may the price for what he has done.

So yes, 19 means you are an adult.  Wake up and get a job.  But you are also still a child.  You are selfish, and arrogant, and self-righteous.  You're still learning life, and making mistakes.  Those are mistakes that you need to make, sometimes, in order to get the rest of your life on track.  Hopefully the mistakes that you make at 19 are ones that you won't repeat as you get over.  And, of course, at 19, you are still an ass of the finest kind, at times.

But you'll get over it.

I did.

I give Parvo the finger....

The one-finger-typing, to be exact.

It's baaaaack.

Last March I had a terrible outbreak of human Parvo, and couldn't do shit with my hands or feet.  It seems to be back with a vengeance  and getting worse.  I don't think I'll be blogging for a few days at least, but in the meantime, let me give you a link to a great article I stumbled across this morning.  Some of the comments were hilarious too, if you have a ton of time to kill because you can't really do anything else.  Like me.

Maybe they weren't that funny, it just struck me funny how random some people can be.

http://www.xojane.com/clothes/i-know-the-line-between-straight-and-plus-size-is-fictional-but-crossing-it-feels-super-real

This is a good one for all us ladies who are on the cusp between "normal" sizes and "plus" sizes.  Her third last paragraph opened my eyes to something, and I think instead of fighting against men for women's equality, we should be fighting against fashion designers for size equality.

It's called fashionism, and it's a thing now.  I just started it.

And we're all fashionistas.

Welcome to the movement.

Cheers!  Hope I'm back with you all soon!!

Finally! They wrote a song about it...

Any compliment that anyone has ever given me on my clothing has been followed by a comment from me on how much it cost and where I bought it. 

Finally my mom and my best friend intervened, and said, "Why do you do that?" 

I guess I'm just proud of my findings.

We were recently at a show, my best friend Lori, and I.  And we ran into some of her work friends.  One of the girl was only 22, and she had on a pair of killer heels.  When we complimented her, she said "Thanks!  They were only "60!"  Then she went on to say that she only tells people the price when they are cheap.

*gulp* $60 on a pair of shoes is a deal??  Well, I don't know, I think I would only wear them around my house so they wouldn't get dirty. 

So here's the thing, although her comment and my history of those remarks are very similar, there is one big difference.

She was excited to let us know that she got a good deal on a new pair of shoes in a retail store, that were on sale.  Normal, right?

I, on the other hand, am quick to let people know that I got a good deal on used clothing at a thrift shop or yard sale.  I've been known to say things like, when Lori complimented me on a pair of earrings, "Thanks!  I got them at a yard sale for 50 cents!"  Score, right?! 

The phrase "the tags were still on it!" is maybe not something that I need to brag about.

Especially when it comes in this sentence:  "It was a bit more than I planned on spending, but since the tags were still on it, I didn't mind spending the $12 bucks."

Now, don't get me wrong, I am not ashamed of my thrift shopping habits.  I live and breathe the lyrics to Maclamore's song, Thrift Shop.  (Except that I usually don't wear your granddad's clothes...they were my own grandad's clothes, and I don't have them anymore).

I think it all started for me, back in junior high.  We owned a grocery store, which, before my time, had been a store with a little bit of everything.

I used to spend hours in the basement of that store going through old boxes, finding vintage treasures before I knew vintage was even a thing.  In the 90's, the bellbottoms came back with a vengance, and I was able to pull out the real thing when it came to platform shoes.  So who the hell cared if they smelled a little moth-bally.  I was loving my shoes.

Then it happened. I found a box of my pops old bell bottom pants.  Blue bell bottom dress pants, light brown courdroy bell bottoms, I mean, holy crap.  Talk about your gold mine of vintage clothing!  I loved that stuff, and I felt like it made a statement. 

Then again, my florescent yellow jeans also made a statement, but we don't need to go there today.

That's when I discovered thrift shopping, and I think that is when I became hooked.  Then, as if that wasn't enough, my nan opened a full-time flea market when I was in grade 9, and I worked there in the spare time, furthering my love for second hand items. 

Now, my thrift shopping has totally spoiled me.  At one time it was about saving money, getting a little bit of new clothing when I couldn't really afford to go out shopping. 

Now, it's about bang for my buck.  If I go to a regular store shopping, I am still a huge bargain shopper, and try to never pay full price.  That really limits the things available to me, because of course, all the nice stuff in the good sizes are gone long before they hit the sale rack.

If I spend $100 at a regular store, I might get a couple of tops and a pair of pants. 

At the thrift shop, I walk out with 7 shirts, a dress, a pair of jeans for myself, two dresses and a top for my daughter, a couple of hoodies and a pair of PJ's for my son, a polo for my husband, a couple of scarves for myself, and a pair of rubber boots for the boy, all for $97.38.

And that's a bit of a slow day.

So I suppose I'm a little spoiled.

So Lori and my mom have told me, and they are right, to stop telling people the price of the things I buy, and instead be sercretly proud of my finds.  Good call.

So now, if you compliment me on an outfit, and I smile and look like I'm bursting to tell you something, change the subject, comment on the weather, and make a mental note to go shopping with me some day.

You're just a 8 dressed up as a 9....

My husband manages a business where he spends a lot of time by himself, serving customers.

As a result, he spends a lot of time either on the internet, finding more interesting, but mostly useless information, to store in his brain-bank.  When we first started dating, one thing that I distinctly remember, is how much random information he knew.  He knows a little bit about everything.  No matter where we were, or what we were doing, he could pull facts out of no where relating to whatever we were looking at.

My brain, on the other hand, retains next to nothing.  I only ever remember useless shit.  And then, at times when some of that useless shit might actually be relevant, even helpful, to a conversation, you can bet your ass that I'm going to get the facts backwards.

I read MacLeans magazine every week (a week after they publish, because my father-in-law gets them and then gives them to me when he's done with them).  So I learn about a lot of relevant Canadian events, science discoveries, big news-makers, and celeb information from the magazines.  But if I don't manage to somehow work that information into a conversation before the next publication comes out, it's just as well to forget about it.  Because even if I do tell a story of something I read, I will get it wrong.  Every fucking time.

So much so, that it's laughable.  Or I'll do something like this:

Darren: I read online this morning that they discovered a bunch of new planets.
Me: Yeah, I saw that in MacLeans.  Pretty cool.
Darren:  Aparently, they are only about 500 light years away [or something like that, because again, I remember jackshit, so that number is probably wrong.]
Me: (not to be outdone) Yeah, I also read that there's a guy who is trying to get a bunch of people together to fly them all to one of the planets to start a colony.
Darren:  Well actually, that guy wants to start a colony on Mars.  And it was me that told you that, yesterday.
Me: Hmph. Yeah, well, I do know that they found a planet that is made entirely of diamond.
Darren: You would remember that.

Smartass.

His newest thing is sizing up coins, looking for ones that might be worth something.

He recently acquired a Zimbabwe bill that is worth $5 billion dollars, or some ridiculous amount like that.

Or worth nothing, actually, since there was an international warning issued that says that Zimbabwe dollars will not be honoured for anything, anywhere, even in Zimbabwe, making the bill absolutely worthless, but pretty damn cool, nonetheless.

He has also found lots of coins that are full or half silver content, which he as been keeping, since the price of silver is ever rising, the value of the coins also rises.  Again, it's just kinda cool to know these things.  Well, ok, cool might be a slight exaggeration, but it is definitely interesting.

So yesterday he starts to tell me about this really awesome coin.  Well, in coin terms, it's as awesome as coins can be, really.  Apparently back in 1969, they changed the font of the date on the Canadian Dime to be smaller.  But, for the first 30 or so coins that they made, they forgot to actually change it.  So there are about 30 (estimated) large date dimes out there from 1969.  Only 20 of them have known whereabouts.  Mint, they sell for upwards of $25,000, decent condition, $10,000.

And he had one.

It was rough, but it was clearly a large date dime.  You compare it to the 1968, and the font is the same size.  Compare it to the 1969, and there is a definite, unmistakable difference.  So here we were thinking that even though it's rough, it may still be worth a couple grand, right?  Apparently there was one found that the front, with the date, was almost worn off, and the guy was getting crazy offers on this coin that was hardly readable.  Turns out it wasn't the real coin, but it still shows what people are willing to pay for this coin.

So Darren was on forums, trying to get as much info on this as possible, and we were looking for someone to be able to verify it's authenticity for us.

That's when he took a picture of his large font 1969 coin.

And the coin that, to the human eye is 1969, suddenly turned out to be 1968.

Estimated value:

Approximately ten cents.

Pillow for you...pillow for me...

I can feel myself getting a cold, but I think I might be giving it the good fight.  I am at home, getting up to clean for five minutes, sitting down for ten.

So I'm trying to make my house look like grown ups live here, instead of a bunch of college kids living here having keggers on the weekend.

Ok, maybe the kegger thing isn't too far from the truth at times, but it doesn't have to look that way.

It needs to look like it's a family house, with nice things.  I'm so tired of mismatched furniture, some left over from when we bought our first house and we were flat out broke.  For example, I just got a beautiful new coffee table set.  A nice wooden set, three pieces that ACTUALLY MATCH!  I was finally able to throw out the old end table we had, (the only one left from a set we bought some 8 or 9 years ago at Walmart) that had loose screws, and that bad plastic-fake wooden covering.

In the past, even when we have bought new furniture, we haven't always had much luck in getting nice things that stand the test of time.  We bought a new couch, loveseat and sofa chair about 4 years ago.  It's a tan coloured microfiber.  We went with microfiber, because the salesman told us that our sweet, lovely little cat, Silver, would not scratch it.  Told us that she would not scratch it because it heats up and feels sort of like carpet burn on their paws, so they won't do it again.

Man, he was full of shit.

Even as I am writing this, she is doing her crazy sideways exorcist crawl moves across the bottom of that chair.

Idiot.

Not only has our demon cat shredded the bottom of my sofa chair, (The same sofa chair that boasts my children's artwork all over the back of it from when my kids were small), but the damn thing is so hard to keep clean.  Maybe it was never scotch-guarded   Maybe it wasn't meant for people with kids.  Maybe it wasn't made for grown ups like us who eat most of our meals sitting on it.  (Ok, edit: The last three nights that we have eaten a meal together in this house, it has been at the table.  We're not [always] savages.)

Even a big black-hole powered super wet vac with the strongest upholstery cleaner can't take out some of these stains.

And to top it all off, the cushions are not actually attached to the couch, so every time you stand up, it gets sucked into your butt cheeks, pulling them out.  Every time.

So tonight I was fluffing the new throw pillows I have, and putting them on my couch.  They are nice and big, so as to cover as much of this shit couch as possible.  And I have a thought.

It is amazing what some nice throw pillows can do.

So that sounds so, uninspiring.  That is, until you really stop and think about it.

The house itself is like my family.  Everything that you really need.  The walls for support.  The roof to keep us safe from the storms that may rage outside.  The heat to keep us cozy.  All you ever really need in life.

It's not about the throw pillows, it's never about that stuff.  That is just that - stuff.  It's not the throw pillows that are important, it's all about the structure of the house.

But it's when you add the throw pillows and the pictures on the walls, and the nice new wooden matching coffee table sets, that life gets interesting.  That's when life gets a little prettier.

The throw pillows are the picnics in the back of our SUV with the kids.  They are the marshmallow roasts in the backyard.  They are the ice cream dates at Dairy Queen.

Ok, wait.  That all included food.

Let me try that again.

The throw pillows are umm...ok, wait, I got this.

They are the tickle fights on our bed.  They are movie dates on the couch.  They are reading Harry Potter together.  They are tossing a football in our cul-de-sac.  And they are cuddling, four people deep, on the loveseat before bed.

Have I mentioned that I just love the new throw pillows?

Till death do us part....

That translates into, until we kill each other, right?  That's the modern day take on our wedding vows?

As I mentioned in an earlier post, we had two of our apartments become vacant in the house we used to live in.  So as a result, we have been spending quite a bit of time in that house over the past month.

We're in the home stretch, almost done, thanks to an awful lot of help from my husbands parents.

The thing is, even though I couldn't be more thankful to have them, I can't help but feel guilty every time they are working on the house.  They watch our daughter all day, and then pick our son up from school, feed them, and bring them to their various activities (ballet, tae kwon do, etc), and I know if it were me, I'd have cracked by now.

But as I said, we're in the home stretch.  And not a minute too soon.  Cause I'm about to crack.

But being in our old house, where we started our family and lived for 6 years, makes me think about where we came from.  And not just the memories from that house, but from when we met, and what we've gone through together.

I was 16 when we met, he was 20 (almost 21, but I'm pretty sure I probably rounded it down when I told my mom about him).  He was such a nice, genuine guy, and I couldn't help but fall for him right away.

He had this cute little mustache (ok, it was cute then, but God help me if he decided to wear it that way now.), and his hair was longer and his cowlick over his forehead more prominent.  He lived 4 hours away from me at the time, so ours started as a long distance relationship, which when you are 16, is not easy.  Maybe that's why mom didn't mind me dating him, because I only saw him twice a month, at best.

One weekend when he came out, he surprised me with a coolerbag, full of ice, and packed inside of it was my favourite chocolate frozen yogurt, that you could only get in his hometown.  It was mostly melted from the drive, but it was, barr none, the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me.  To be honest, I think that was really made me realize that I would marry this man.

We had a couple of rough patches, but then, who the hell doesn't?  We persevered, we struggled, but we fought for it, and we won.  We have a wonderful life together.  Where I am weak, he is strong.  And we have fun, and we are each others biggest supporters.

I drive him nuts sometimes.  Sometimes because we're so different.  Other times, just for the fun of it.  He has been known to be a little anal when it comes to things like, well, lets say painting a wall, for example.  Where as I, could not be less anal.  When rolling on a dark paint, someone like me may get a little paint on the blinds, on the wires, on the floor, in my hair, in my eyes.  I'm not saying that this has happened, or anything, of course.  Just a rhetorical scenario.  Someone like him might make some teasing, sarcastic remarks to the affect of "I can't believe that you got paint all over the blinds.  Way to go."  To which, someone, not me obviously, may respond, "Shaddap or I'll stab you."  See how fast this stuff escalates?

My point is that, you knew this when you married me.  You knew that I can't paint a patio without trying to schoo away a wasp, leaving a huge paint stroke up my leg, and falling off the ladder and knocking a gallon of paint into the driveway.  (True story).  You knew it's impossible to fold every load of laundry as it comes out of the dryer.  You knew I would never win awards for housewife of the year (Hence why I work outside the home for a living).  And you still put up with me.  Imagine that.

So, thanks for that.  ;)

Que the shark attack music...

So...I have 24 days left of my 20's.

Dum, dum duuuum.

I'm not gonna lie, man, that stings.

That stings worse than hitting the bars with your girlfriends and having the same bouncer who ID's ALL of your friends, wave you through without a second glance, and mutter, "you're fine".  And try as I might, and believe me, I tried, I know deep down that he didn't really mean, "Girl, you so fiiine".

That stings worse than shopping in a clothing store in town, and overhearing two girls, who are roughly 15 years younger than me, looking at the same boots that I'm currently wearing, and saying, "No, I don't want to get those boots, I think I'm too old for them.  I don't want it to look like I'm trying too hard."

That stings worse than going to a hipster coffee shop and being called ma'am, loud enough for everyone to hear through their beanies.  And not knowing if it's pronounced "Grand" or "Grande".  And accidently almost tipping him $20 on my debit, before trying to quietly fix it, only to have the big red "CANCELLED" slip print, with the amount on it, tip included, that I cancelled out of.

Yep.  Damn, that stings.

So when I turned 27, I clearly remember telling my co-workers that I was going to lose weight, because there was no way I was going to turn 30 like this, overweight and mad at myself.  Life is too short, I said.

Then 28 hit, and I gained back a little bit of the weight I had lost, but vowed it would be gone before 30.  I still had two years, afterall.

29 came along pretty damn quick.  I mean, what the hell happened there, anyways?  I blame it on cell phones.  They make spare time pass so quickly, that the next thing we know a whole year has passed while we're playing Angry Birds.  Those friggin' pigs.

So now it's crunch time.  I should be eating raw celery and drinking a ton of water.  Because my deadline is almost here, and I still have about 20lbs to lose.

Yet here I am, eating a jumbo sized peanut butter cookie, and drinking coffee at 10pm.  And I say screw it.  Because damnit, this cookie is Ah-mazing.

Last year, we had a friend of ours pass away, and she was only 42.  She was like a barbie doll.  Beautiful, slim, everything I have always wished I could be, physically speaking.  I thought she was beautiful.  She could eat anything she wanted, and never gain an ounce.  And I was immensely jealous of that.  But then she died of stomach cancer, with three week's warning.  How's that for a wake up call.  This woman, who I would have given my right leg to look like, was not going to see her 43rd birthday.  And buddy, I tell ya, that really shook me up.

I had a very hard time dealing with that.  It wasn't even that we were particularly close.  We were friends, through my husband's work, and we had spent some time together.  But I didn't even have her on facebook. I never really thought about it, until I found out that she was dying, and then, for some stupid reason I can't explain, it didn't feel right adding her.

So in light of her passing, I decided to change some things about myself.

Instead of wasting my time being miserable that I have a bit of a double chin, and a body that will never showcase a bikini, at least not well, I say fuck it.

Of course, I want to be healthy.  And of course it would be nice to lose a little weight so my jeans fit a little better, and I can shop anywhere I please, with ease.  But isn't part of being healthy, also being happy?  Can I make myself happy with myself, as I am, and let go of the rest?  Enjoy a jumbo peanut butter cookie every now and then, in moderation of course, without making myself feel guilty over my choices later?  I think I can.  But maybe it's the feel-good endorphines from this fantastically, almost raw in the middle cookie that is telling me that it's all good and I won't hate myself tomorrow for eating this.

Most of all, I want to set an example for my children that says that you can be happy and healthy and enjoy life 100%, no matter what.  And of course, every day I don't necessarily showcase that to the best of my ability, but I will try harder.  Afterall, they can find skinny role models anywhere.

So have a cookie.  Or a bowlful of chips.

I usually only snack on weekends, but tonight I say fuck it.

Life is too short, afterall.

Hear me roar...

So, today on my way to work, driving along, trying to get around the little electric car in front of me that governs out at 50km/hr, I notice that on the back bumper, there is a ribbon magnet.  You know the type, first they were Breast Cancer Awareness, then Support our Troops, then everything down to, get this, I Love My Blood Hounds (Really?  Come on, man.)

Well this one is actually from our friendly local provincial government, and it says www.respectwomen.ca.  It is the purple ribbon event, in support of Violence Against Women in our province.

So....ok.... here's the thing. I'm just going to come right out and say this, and I'm sure that some people would eat me for it.   Obviously, I have no problem with trying to prevent violence against women.  I think that goes without saying.  And I am sure that there is a lot of evidence to support the fact that the percentage of women battered by men far outweighs the opposite.  But this really gives off the wrong message.

First of all, it's like the Principal coming out into the schoolyard to point a finger at the bully and tell him to play nice.  It makes women appear weak and helpless, and men appear like big old meanies.  No one wants to be that kid that the Principal is trying to protect, even if the right intentions are there.

The campaign says "Show him how to respect women".

How about, "Show him how to respect others".

In a world that is very focused lately on mental health awareness and bullying, wouldn't it be more productive to give the message that we are all on equal ground?  That violence is not acceptable, no matter who the target is?

Instead, how about equality for all? I believe that we should be able to see past gender, see past race, see past religion, and recognize that the person sitting next to us is absolutely no better and no worst than we ourselves.

I feel that feminism segregates women further, by saying "I am different, therefore you must treat me the same".  The idea is to be included, but the message is saying that I should be included simply because I am different.

Our government is stepping in with really good intentions, but getting it all wrong.  For an example, which is off the topic of violence against women, but still not too far off the message sent, If I apply for a job that I am not qualified for, and there are people there who deserve it more than me, then they had damn well better get that job over me.  I don't care if they are male, female or bovine, makes no difference.  The best qualified person gets the job.  I certainly don't want the government to step in and tell that employer, "Hang on now.  You had a woman apply for this job, so she must get it because she is female."  For one thing, it brings about inequality, which is exactly what is being fought against, giving us an unfair advantage to compensate for the wrongdoings in the past.  For another, it can create hostility and lack of respect in the workplace, when others feel that one employee has the road paved in gold for them.

It is no longer about feminism.  We have reached a point were we don't need to fight for women's rights any more, we need to continue to fight for equal rights for all.  That means gender, race, age, sexual preference, religion, and the list goes on.  We're all in this together, afterall.  But I don't think I'll be burning my bra any time soon.

The Princess and the lifeguard

So, my daughter wants to be a lifeguard when she grows up.

Actually, she is quite ambitious.  She has decided that she will be a lifeguard during the day, and a princess otherwise.  I mean, as a mother, of course I want her to be successful.  I just think that working two jobs like this might wear her out.  But she's only young, so she has the energy for it, I suppose.

I read an article that someone had posted a while ago on facebook that said that you should not tell your little girl that she's pretty.  You should focus on things like her brain and tell her how smart and clever she is instead, as this will give her more value in her life.

Well, I have since deleted this person from facebook.  You see, I have a small habit of not being able to shut the hell up whenever I feel strongly about something, (hence, the blog).  One thing lead to another, I gave my opinion, she showed her ignorance, which by the way, was enough to make me want to go through the computer at her.  So, to put it nicely....

I call bullshit on that.  Almost every little girl loves to hear that she is beautiful.  I really don't think that this makes her feel any less smart.  I doubt that at the ripe old age of four, she assumes that if she's pretty than she needs nothing else.  That she's set for life.  I also don't think that by telling her that she is beautiful I'm setting her up for a lifetime of Chanel lipglosses and lap dogs in an oversized purse.

How about the little girl that no one ever told that she is pretty?  No matter how you try to avoid it, physicality plays a large role in the lives of  little girls everyone these days.   If my husband never, ever complimented me, eventually it would really start to bother me.  It is irrelevant than I have a personality flaw that ensures that I cannot accept a compliment to save my damn life.  (Those conversations usually go, "You look nice today", to which I respond, "Shut up, I do not.")  Ok, so I usually don't believe him, and sometimes take his comments to mean that he wants something, but nevertheless, it is nice to hear.  Even though I know it doesn't matter what I look like, I know he will love me, it still makes me feel good to know that he can admire me.  Sometimes it's all I need to hear.

But if he never, ever said anything like that to me, except to comment on how smart and clever I am, after a while I think my self esteem would start to take a beating.

My little girl knows that she's beautiful.  She also knows that she is smart, clever, and that she can be anything she wants in the world, even a lifeguard by day and a princess by night.  (I think it's safe to keep that dream alive for a few more years).  She also knows what makes you beautiful.  Go ahead, ask her.  She'll tell you every single time, "My heart".  

Holy smokes

So, we had a few tenants move out of the house that we rent, over the years.  We've owned the house since 2004, we lived there until 2010, and only rented the basement apartment.

Let me tell you, living in a basement apartment is one thing.  It's unpleasant.  Yes, it's a sometimes damp, sometimes cold, sometimes dark basement where you get very little daylight and nothing grows except mildew in the tub because of poor ventilation. Yes, you have to put up with the landlord being there, stomping around upstairs, acting like they own the place.  No, the place is not your own, and you have to treat it that way.  Yes, the landlords 9 year old daughter may knock on your door at 12 am, when you may or may not be sleeping, and in a very horror-movie creepy kind of way, offer you a large jug of strawberry milk that she had made for you after her mom went to sleep.  You may or may not have to pour strawberry milk down your drain at 12:02am, just as a precaution.

Seriously, you can't make this shit up.

But living in your own house, above a rented basement apartment is quite another thing.

You will have to put up with hard-of-hearing old men who rant on the phone in their kitchen, at 7am, which of course is below your master bedroom, and is not at all soundproofed, because the house is 35 years old.

You will have hoarders that move out and leave you with a living room of neatly folded stacks of newspapers, four cupboards of empty Cheerio boxes, a leaning pile of empty, washed, chip bags on the counter, and two drawers of empty prescription pill containers.

You will have tenants calling and asking you to come down and put eyedrops in their eyes because they just keep missing their eye.

And that was just the first tenant.

You will have people who swear they are not smoking in the basement, even though you can smell something somewhat questionable through the vents, and all of a sudden you are craving Zesty Doritos and Pineapple Crush.  (sidenote: if you are not from Newfoundland, Canada, yes, we have Pineapple Crush here.  It's like Orange Crush, or Grape Crush.  That's right.)

You'll have the yellers.  You'll have the barking dogs.  You'll have Frank, the guy that breaks his brothers nose across his kitchen table while you are upstairs on the phone with 911, and the 911 operator says "Is that Frank Donn and his brother fighting?"

Wait.  What?

You'll have the serial-movers who move every 6 months because their funds run out, and in order to keep themselves in ciggarettes, and a step ahead of welfare, they will continue to move out every 6 months and stiff you with a month's rent.

Or even worse than that, you'll have the serial movers who wait two years, until the place is just so damn dirty that they can't stand it any longer, and they will move out in the middle of the night, leaving you with a $500 damage deposit to cover 18 hours of manual cleaning labour, the cost of replacing all the carpets in the bedrooms, a fridge that is so clogged it won't cool, 27 bags of garbage, and a toilet seat that is so much easier to just rip off and replace.

We have had two groups that go down in my books of the dirtiest, smelliest, downright Dis.Gust.Ing.  More on that later, perhaps, because I can't get into that today.

Because this blog post is actually about something much sadder than a little boy living in a house with floors you have to wash three times to remove the layer of grime, more disturbing that finding a black banana on the floor in the laundry room, and harder to deal with for me than cat-piss stained walls where we actually have to change the gyproc.

This shit is about to get real.  Because this blog post is about the fighters.  The punchers.  The abusers.

Today we went into the apartment in my basement that is recently vacant.  Coming off of cleaning an apartment that was so dirty I didn't want to even hang my coat in the hallway, it was a relief to walk into the apartment, and see that the place wasn't in too bad of shape.  There was no smell.  The tub needed to be re-caulked, which always makes for lots of good jokes, funny and sometimes awkward remarks throughout the process.  The oven needed to be sprayed, and the baseboards touched up with some white paint.  But none of that is anything beyond the normal process when a tenant moves out of an apartment.

What was beyond the norm, and beyond anything I can understand, were the holes in the walls.  Upon entering the apartment, we could immediately see 3 holes in the walls around the entryway.  Fist sized holes. Further down the hall was another, next to one of the bedroom walls.  When you turn the corner into the bedroom, you realize that the hallway hole was met with yet another hole in the bedroom wall, so that you can see straight though.  Then there were two others nearby.  The spare bedroom greeted us with 3 more, one of which was in the ceiling.

And the bathroom door has a small indentation in it.  The apartment has been painted multiple times, so it's really no surprise to see imperfections and dents, but this particular dent in the door, was at the level of a persons head.  It was also cracked, as if it was a force that hit it.  And there were a couple of strands of head hair in it.

So the guy that was living there was a big, tattooed (not that that means anything, because I love a guy with tattoos normally), mean looking brute of a guy with a temper to match.  He had been seen at various times, by neighbors, screaming at his male roommate and at his girlfriend.

And she is the sweetest, most level headed, kind person to speak to.  She even moved across the country to be with this winner.

I don't know much about this couple. And I sure don't know much about abusive relationships. I know that is can be very easy to stand back and judge someone else when you are not in a particular situation, whether it be an abusive relationship with a partner, an addiction, a weight problem (be it large or small), or whatever the case may be.  It is easy enough to stand back and make decisions about what someone else should be doing with their life.  When you are not in that type of a situation, it can be so plainly obvious what the outcome should be.  Unfortunately, sometimes it seems obvious what the outcome will be as well.

This girl is a smart girl.  She seems like she has her shit together.  But in her words, her boyfriend is a 'hot head' and has a 'quick temper'.  In my words, her boyfriend is an asshole.

But you never really know.  They have now moved back to his hometown.  And while I am left, patching up the walls of the apartment, I wonder how much time in her life she will spend covering black eyes with concealer, and patching up the holes in her life.  And I feel bad for her, although I know she would probably not want pity.  And I feel like if I ever saw that son-of-a-bitch, why I'd....

And I wonder if it were my little girl, what would I do?  And if it were me in that situation?  I say now that if my husband punched a hole in the wall, even one damn time, I'd take my kids and I would be out of there so fucking fast that he couldn't even mutter the first apology.  I'd like to think that if any man ever tried to hurt me, I would be able to defend myself.  I would even trade a few punches with him, if that's what it took.  But that is just what I think I would do.  No one ever says to themselves when they are growing up, "I think I'll fall in love with a womanizer and marry a man that'll ring my bell now and then to keep me in line."  I'd like to think that if it ever came down to it, that I would have the strength to stand up for myself, and to walk away.

But when it comes right down to it, I don't judge her.  But I hope that son-of-a-bitch wakes up some day, when she is long gone, and realizes that she was better than he could have ever hoped for, and he blew it.  And I hope he can find some help.