Wednesday, February 29, 2012

wordless wednesday in 51 words

See Jack. See Jack wear pink. See Jack take a stand on something he sees almost daily and is not okay with. A 12 year old boy who willingly wears pink to fight in a battle that is terrifying unto me as a parent explodes my heart.


I love you Jack.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

art centered psychosis

My oldest wants to go into the Art Centered Learning Program at our local high school. In order to do that she had to fill out an application and wait for her audition. For her audition she prepared two piano pieces. I insisted one be classical and being the agreeable child she is...... she agreed.


The kids were going to be performing their talents not only in front of each other but also some of the grade 11's and 12's that are currently in the program. In fact, the grade 12's were the ones in charge of the night and the program.

And, by far, the most silly people I have ever encountered.

They split the grade 9's up into groups and asked them questions. Questions like "what colour headband are you?" And "what kind of cat would you be if you could be any cat in the whole wide world?" And "what super hero are you"?

You know, important questions that make the parents of these grade 9's confident in our decision that this might be a good place for our children to go and receive their high school educations.

I don't know about the other parents but I'm sure feeling confident.

I am confident. I am confident. I am confident.

No.....I'm not.

There is an improv program at this school and so three kids did an improv skit about pickles. It was so beyond ridiculous I had to laugh because.......what else was I going to do?

Pickle improv. High school pickle improv.

Then the kids started presenting their talents in this coffee house type talent show. They included things such as electric guitar death metal, girl teens crying through a borderline operatic rendition of Mad World from the most nervous teen I've ever seen, to the box of abuse.

The box of abuse.

An actual box. That looked like a mini fridge but wasn't a mini fridge. Nor was it the box that a mini fridge comes in, like the man thought it was when I attempted an explanation of the box of abuse.

It was a big white box with a door on the front. And on that door was a collage of pictures of happy people. When you open the door there were pictures taped all over of crying people and gothic people and people who had sad faces. Abused people, so the child explained.

Hence the box of abuse.


Of course Cicely performed her pieces and as she walked to the front my stomach dropped and I remembered all the things I have auditioned for and I wanted to grab her and run for the hills. No one wants to deal with those kinds of nerves and what kind of parent forces their child to experience that?

Mercy, I felt sick. And she looked sick. She was fuchsia. She performed from memory and she did great.

But then.... there was the science song. Two girls sang about how a cell works to the tune of Thriller. And these girls are already in the program.

All I have to say is......

No thank you. Songs about cells? Michael Jackson songs of cells? No. No thank you.

The YouTube video. The ceramic shoe. The mask of the wart hog.

I don't know what to say. Except, songs about cells? No. Thank you.

Cicely told me after that "artists are arrogant." And "abuse boxes are weird."

The teacher told me that Cicely had been accepted into the program and we will be getting an acceptance letter in the mail next week.

When we got home I fed her pumpkin pie and ice cream because........well........artists are arrogant.

And abuse boxes are weird.

Welcome to Crazytown, kiddo.

Monday, February 27, 2012

grand plans

New project under way over here which will be explained better in a couple weeks time. Along with the rundown of last years resolutions. Remember I made a bunch of those and never re-evaluated on this here bloggy??

Well, I remembered that I forgot to break it down and confess that I can not run a 10K in under an hour. But neither can Cicely so it's all good.

Actually she probably can but she's not here to prove it so my word stands for all that is right and true.

Anyway, the gist of this new project is health and exercise.

This weeks goal was to workout first and computer time second.

So....if you count cracking open my first can of Diet Pepsi at 7:45 this morning (4 hours of sleep leaves one wanting for the black nectar of the Gods) as working out then I'm all done for the day.

So far, failing miserably is what I'm excelling in.

I am a master at my art.

Sunday, February 26, 2012

lizzie sunday

Miss Lizzie would like you to know that as soon as you settle in to do something relaxing she's gonna get all up in yo bidness.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

can i take your order?

Last night I had a dream that I went to a restaurant for dinner and Tim Riggins was my waiter.

Really now, what more needs to be said?

Except I bought a new iPhone off a friend to replace the old one I smashed to smithereens but I need to unlock it. So I bought the instructions online to do that.

In true Catie form though, we get it to a certain spot in the unlocking process and then things go to crap. I spent hours yesterday trying to figure it out and then the man spent a couple more trying the same things I had already tried.

Surprisingly, it didn't work. Strangely though, I am NOT surprised. Weird how that goes, no?

Getting in touch with them is proving to be a whole other set of surprises. And still, I'm not surprised.

Yesterday was a long day. But finally, after cleaning up poop, making frozen pizza for dinner because that's all my anxiety would allow, reading 130 pages of a book that is borderline torture, which is to be finished for book club tonight and still isn't done, and getting owned by about 7 people in Words With Friends, I decided to hit the sack.

And Tim Riggins graced me with his presence. Bless his heart. Even if he was merely a waiter. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I mean, the world needs waiters too, right?

Making memories, we are. But still.......come on. Between the dog having diarrhea all over the floor and this stupid unlock-able iPhone....... I'm about ready to pack it in.



So..... I have choices to make. I can continue on this path to lunaticville that I have been on where I am cranky with everyone. Or.....I can breathe deep and decide to ignore the barking, clean the poop with a happy heart knowing that the end is somewhere within the next 14 years (do labs really live that long?), be patient with the children and loving towards the man who leaves his itty bitty whiskers lying around and make a dinner that does not come out of the freezer.

Let the experiment begin. I am heading toward my happy place now. And in making this decision to remain cheerful in these frustrating and trying times I am hereby choosing to take the advice of one wise and noble football superstar:

"Keep your guard up. Stay angry." ~ Tim Riggins

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

am i right? or am i right?

Welcome to another rousing rendition of.....

Am I right? or.....

Am I right?

I wanted the man to participate. Actually, physically participate in this and gave him ample opportunity to write out his side of the story but alas, he did not. Just between you and me, I think it's because he knows that, once again, he's wrong

Or at the very least, I'm right.

See, I wanted him to feel heard. He tends to think that when I present the argument via the interwebs I sway the argument to make me look right.

For shame, I would never do that.

Never. Ever.

And I resent the accusation.

Since he didn't do up his side I will present it to you as unbiased as I possibly can.

Yeah, right.

He can retort later if he wants to. I will tell my side. Then I will write what he said to me. Then you decide.



When he shaves in the bathroom and trims up his beard he usually, not always but usually, leaves his little itty bitty whiskers all over the counter. Okay, not ALL OVER, but pretty much............. all over.

It's better now since I started to make him clean it up but it's still there. In places. On the counter.

And it's gross.

My argument:

This makes me unhappy and I've let him know how unhappy it makes me. This past Sunday I asked him if he'd cleaned it up and he said "what's the point? The bathroom needs to be cleaned anyway."

And here is the issue. That bathroom always needs to be cleaned, a lot of people use that bathroom and why shouldn't they? It's beautiful. I designed it and we all love it. The point being, just because it's in need of cleaning isn't any reason to leave it worse than you find it.


Especially when he knows it's not him who is going to be cleaning it. I mean, if he was the cleaner of the bathroom then I
I'd say "have at 'er big guy. Make all the mess you want. What do I care? I'm not the one cleaning it."

But that's not how it goes around these here parts. I am the cleaner. And when I clean I scrub the shower, the floor, baseboards, counters, sink, faucet, mirror, toilet and cupboard fronts. So all I ask is that he cleans up his whiskers once a week.

His argument:

He says he picks up my hair ball in the shower.

So we're even.

I'd like to stop here, but I won't in the name of good, healthy debate.

He does pick up my hair ball. I could pick it up but I know he will so what would I bother? Which is exactly the same mentality he has about the whiskers. I realize that. But we're not even. Not even close. If we were there'd be no blog post today.

It's a little like a slap in the face to assume we're even. He picks up the hair ball and I clean his whiskers. Even if that's all it was we're still not even.

Bending over, picking up hair, flush in toilet. Not the same as pulling out a cloth or disposable wipe and wiping an entire counter.

Tit for tat. But it's not, you see?

Okay it's close.

Let us not forget though all the other extra cleaning I do that goes unnoticed, obviously. I do all the laundry and the housework. All I ask is that he cleans up his whiskers once a week.

Now that I've written this all out I'd be shocked if he even remotely had an argument to make.

Sorry babe, I declare it


Unless, of course the interwebs feel differently. Let's see what the people have to say.

Shall we?

Tuesday, February 21, 2012

things i learned this weekend

1.This past weekend the kids were home for 5 days straight. It's the most days they've been home consecutively since we got the new puppy.

Whom I love. Whom I love. Whom I love.

That's me talking myself into feeling the love for this pup whom I swear is deaf.

Anyway, it was long, hard and tiring. More than anything I just want this puppy trained so I can move forward. I was so done with babies. I know there is a light somewhere, a silver lining of sorts, but it's been dimmed by my dismay at puppy whining and the occasional bark.

The children are more in love than ever so it's all worth it.

2. I have 4 siblings and I have decided that two of them are the biggest nay sayers I know personally. Everything I do gets criticized and corrected. I love them but heaven help me.....CORK it already.

Like I'm going to give the puppy back AFTER I already bought her.

Honestly, keep it to yourself.

3. The man has a truck. I like to tell him the truck is dying a slow death. For whatever reason the man takes personal offence to this. Like I'm insulting this 14 year old truck and all the amazing things it's done for him. This truck even ran the man over once and didn't kill him.

Now that's an amazing truck.

The man has been spending an awful lot of time fixing this dying truck lately which leads me to two conclusions. One, it's dying a quicker death than it was before. And two, the man is so insanely handy it frightens me.

Is there anything he can't do?

4. Yesterday I took the family to Old Navy for a big Family Day event. I was terrified because first, I steer away from events that are loud and full of excited children. And second, clothes shopping gives me the shakes.

This weekend I learned that I can do hard things.

I am totally kidding. It wasn't bad at all. I even bought clothes that fit. The only bad thing came when I told Amelia I wasn't standing in an hour long line up for an amazing balloon animal that would probably look like the Princess Ariel.

That guy had some mad skills.

This made her cry. A wailing of devastation that could only be comforted with the promise of popcorn. I know I made the right decision bribing her when we got to Kernels and found a 20 dollar bill lying on the floor.

Popcorn for everyone!

5. 6 people in one house all weekend makes for tons of dirty dishes and a crap load of laundry that seems to be on a mission destroy me.

Where did all this laundry come from?

6. The weather is to die for. I don't know what's going on with the universe where we can wear a sweater out most days and not see a mitten or toque anywhere in this arctic winter city. I know this weather isn't good for farmers but it is so terribly soothing to my soul that I hate to wish for anything else.

This winter has been delicious.

7. While we were at the Old Navy event and then my sisters house for dinner I had to think of what to do with the puppy. She couldn't be locked in her kennel that entire time. So I put her kennel in the back bedroom, open. I laid out newspaper EVERYWHERE. I made a potty for her. We left her her lunch. I took everything out she might be able to damage and closed the door. I was fully expecting a mess when I returned and a mess I found. She had torn all the paper to smithereens. She hadn't used her potty but peed on the one spot of floor that had no paper. I found two poopy footprints but, as hard as I tried, there was no poop anywhere.

I'll let you imagine the rest.

8. It is deafeningly quiet in here right now. Shhhhh, don't move a muscle. For the next 7 hours.


Friday, February 17, 2012

random friday facts

Yesterday I picked up my new laptop. It isn't a Mac so i have to get used to this new keyboard. You may find random \ or other things that make no sense sporadically placed through this well thought out article.

Plus I use the wrong side for making something a capitol (what the heck is that key called) and it is tiny so I mess up a lot.\\


Why is the space bar so tiny?
Moving on.

Oh also, I'm in bed. And this would be why I needed a laptop. Because, as a woman, mother and hormonal vessel of feminine awesomeness I feel the need to take to my bed on occasion. I can't do that if i want to also be on the computer. Best of both worlds. Youknowwhatimean?

Lizzie is whining from her kennel as per usual. \Sweetest dog ever but.........bless her heart she is driving me. She peed twice on the floor yesterday. She was doing so great. She even rang the bell once this week to go out to pee. Just as soon as \i think we are "getting there" she does something so deeply aggravating. If you ask the boys if puppy ownership is everything they thought it would be they would say YES! If you ask me if puppy ownership is everything I thought it would be I would say, sadly, YES!!!!

I don't know how to turn spell check on on this thing. I need to figure it out. Also, where is the volume control?

I am going out for dinner tonight with grown ups. This is amazing news. Also, I will not wear sweatpants.
I attended my first twitter party last night. It was bananas. Chaos. I won stuff and that is the purpose of my being lately.

This is a stupid post. I apologize.

I think the man and I need a few nights away. I can just tell, our relationship needs some recharging, rejuicing, regenerating. I keep thinking life will get 'normal' for us and we can take care of anything broken due to prolonged stress then but waiting for 'normal' is like waiting for the dog to stop whining, or pigs to fly, or hell to freeze over. Although with this bizarro winter we're having I'm wondering about the state of hell, temperature-wise.

The point is, if I could, I would whisk him away and smother him with love and hope that he would perk up a bit and return to me. He and stress do not go well and I miss him. He hates his job and when he hates something this much he starts planning. His wheels start turning and the grandiose ideas come flooding out. His plans are never easy. It scares me when he starts planning.

See also: our current predicament and the reason we are in it. See also: he hated his job and wanted to try something new. See also: we are re-listing our house. Again. Soon. See also: hate it

Typing that gave me a belly ache.

I told him he was in charge of date night tomorrow. I think I broke his think bone. It was overwhelming.

I think we have been black listed in the fostering community. My paranoid (I typed paranormal there and had to delete it. what is up with that?) senses are tingling and it's getting harder to get a hold of people.

I am completely weaned off sleeping pills. Actually there was no weaning, I quit cold turkey. I had three bad nights but then I started sleeping great. You know something is off kilter when your sleeping pills don't make you sleep. So I quit the pills and started sleeping with Spiderman. It's been torrid and amazing and I'll tell you all about it in another post.

I have the most fantastic dreams now. The downfall of the sleeping pill is there is no dreaming. Now I dream the most amazing, vivid, motion picturesque dreams ever. I wish I could bottle them up and share them with you. They provide me hours of entertainment in the day.

Today I am going to finish Mildred Pierce. Has anyone watched that? I am simply not getting what the big fuss was about. It's kinda boring and Mildred is just not likeable.

Okay, so, I can't think of anything else to bore you with so I'll sign off now. The dog is quiet and I'm stressed wondering how long it will be before she starts to sing her long sad song. Plus, I should feed the poor dear.

Oh....and the children.

Ahh, there is the singing. See also: whining in a high pitched irritating manner.

And yes, I know 'kinda' is not a real word.

Wednesday, February 15, 2012

lamenting: the female teenager

This morning was a roller coaster of emotion. Female emotion. It caused within me a swelling. A desire to lament out loud. A song of unfairness at my station in life.

If I was a songwriter I would sing to you a song about how undeserved the harshness I received this morning was. How I didn't ask for it. I didn't deserve it. I didn't want it and I certainly didn't like it.

Use your imagination if you will. Imagine me being the loving mother, my soul purpose in life to guide the chicks into the world and give them the best chance for success I can. I am the mother hen. I know things. Listen to me young one.

I am the bold. She is the italic. Because I am bold. And she is over dramatic.

Mom, can I have left over Chinese food for breakfast?







Because you aren't a 26 year old bachelor. Make yourself something a little healthier.

Later, as she was sitting to eat her pancake that she made for herself and no one else, I made a statement more to myself than to anyone else.

I have no idea what I'm going to make for your lunches today.

Can I have leftover Chinese food?

You want cold Chinese food for lunch?

We have microwaves.

Now, imagine that last sentence said with a note of disdain and a certain roll of the eyes that leaves one wondering first, if it hurts to roll ones eyes 360 degrees and second, how anything so simple as a question about cold Chinese food could illicit such snark and offence.

Why are you talking to me like that?

(Lesson one, don't ever ask that question after an eye roll)

Because you're talking to me like that.

The snark now is so thick I could have poured syrup on it and eaten it for breakfast.

I am not talking to you like anything. I asked a simple question.

(Lesson two, don't engage the beast. Walk away. Just walk way)

And I gave you a simple answer.

Her tone an octave higher than it normally is. Also, totally out of left field.

You can make your own damn lunch.

(Lesson three, one might be more inclined to swear after the beast has been engaged. I knew this but yet.......)

The child promptly got up and put every remnant of left over Chinese food into a rubbermaid container and put it in her back pack.

I hope she gets a belly ache.

Tuesday, February 14, 2012

be mine

Valentine's Day. I could take it or leave it. There seems to be an abnormal amount of haters for the holiday of lovers, however. What's with all the hating? And don't say "The day is so commercialized," and "I don't need a holiday to tell people I love them." It's cliche. Just buy some treats and enjoy it. It's not big deal.

I think, and I'm usually right, that people pretend to hate it so that when nothing great happens they can be all "Yeah, I hate Valentine's Day anyway so it's good that my husband didn't buy a $40 bouquet of flowers that are just going to die in a couple of days anyway."

Come on now people, it's not that bad.

The man and I decided years ago that we do enough nice things together that we don't need to spend money on that day specifically. Plus, I'm always on a diet so he was told never to bring me chocolate.

The kids make it fun though. I always do something special for them. They are my little Valentines.

Last night as I was fading out I told the man that it would be really sweet if he would fill my truck up this morning. See, I hate filling my truck up.

Hate it.

Not only did he fill it up but he drove to and fro from seminary this morning so I didn't have to go out. Which was really sweet. Except he didn't tell me so I got up and got dressed and put my shoes on and went to the door and.........

Oh well, it's the thought. Or something like that.

For my Valentine gift I decided I wasn't making supper. Because I love me so much I figure I shouldn't have to do any work.

I am the best.

Happy Valentine's Day. Especially to the haters. It seems as though they need extra loving today.

Monday, February 13, 2012

the spank debate

All right. So we're changing the channel around here for a moment. Bear with me. Or is bare with me? I can never remember.....

Today I am going to express my opinions on what I would consider to be a controversial issue. I think it will be short, I have no intention of getting anyone off their wagon, but knowing me it will go on and on and on........

It is one of those issues that few people, once they've chosen a side, sway from. It's like hunting. I despise hunting and my opinions on the matter are offensive. I will not debate it with anyone because I know better. And because I know you'll never get me off my point so, therefore, I am assuming you're just as stuck to yours.

Already, off topic.

The debate?

Spanking. This past weekend a debate popped up on Twitter and for whatever reason I found myself involved. I was asked, along with some others, to express my opinions and perspective via my blog.

Babble on my blog? Sure. I can do that.

And here we go.

My opinions are short. Too the point. And have molded my parenting ideals in regards to this one point.

I grew up in a house where, from the the age of three, my parents took in foster children. My parents had 5 children of their own and they fostered up to 5 at any given time. Mostly it was 2 or 3. Foster parents are not allowed to hit foster children. So, it doesn't make any sense to discipline two groups of children in two different ways. It only makes sense to discipline everyone the same. So we were not spanked, or hit, or physically manipulated in any way.

I don't know if my parents would have spanked us if foster children were not involved but when I think about it, I doubt very much they would have. I just can't see it.

When I started to date my husband we got to talking one day about spanking. He was disciplined, on occasion, with spanking, or the belt or the spoon or whatever you want to call it. He was all for it. He thought it worked and he intended to use it.

I was ill. I wondered, that day, if it was the end for us. In that moment I knew that spanking was going to be a deal breaker for me. I had never even given it thought before, how I would discipline future children, but I did know I was not going to hit them.

I told him this. And I told him that I could not be married to someone who thought it was okay to hit our children. For me, it was a scary day. I doubt he even remembers that conversation. I'll have to ask him.

We went to my house and chatted with my mum about it. I wanted him to see that a couple can raise 5 children successfully and play a major role in 65+ foster children's lives without ever laying a hand on them.

My mum convinced the man with one quote.

To this day her quote, and one other quote I heard the one time I watched Little Women, have completely shaped how I feel about the hitting of children.

My mum said: "When you hit a child all you are showing them is that you are bigger and stronger than they are."

That's it. That's all she said. The rest of it was just common sense.

I am 5 foot 4 (and three quarters). I knew I wasn't going to be bigger and stronger than my kids for very long and odds are, that when they needed the beating (i.e., punk teenager) they were going to be bigger, and stronger, than me.

No brainer.

The second quote came from Little Women. Now, I think it it was Little Women but I could be wrong. Regardless, I swear Susan Sarandon said it in a movie I watched at a very young age. It has always stuck with me.

When you hit and humiliate a child, the only thing you are teaching them is how to hit and humiliate.

I have no intention of raising my children by bullying them into submission. I don't want them to look back on their childhood and have any feelings of humiliation at my hands. I want to teach them to respect me and not because they are afraid of me. I want them to know that despite having let me down on occasion I love them. I do not need to raise my fist to do that.

As they enter their teenage years I have not had to change the way I discipline them. It seems counterproductive to me to spank them as small children only to have to find a different way to encourage good behaviour or discourage bad behaviour just because they are older. And bigger. And stronger than me.

Not interested.

Here's the interesting turn of events. The man has never spanked our children. They are good, kind, loving people who are obedient and respectful. I believe that people who hit their children are after the same things. Our methods are different but the outcome is the same, hopefully, so why all the hitting?

Does this mean I have never been angry enough to hit my child? Does it mean that they have never deserved a good beating? No it doesn't. I will admit here that all four of my children have had their butts smacked by their mother. One time. One time each. Was it a spanking? I don't know. As a society we have a very distorted view about hitting our children. Who gets to define it? From the waist down? Open handed? Whatever. I made physical contact with my child in a moment of anger.

Every time it happened I almost gagged over the toilet. Four times. The feelings it invoked in me were disgust and shame. I can't even imagine what it did to them.

I do not read articles or listen to broadcasts that are either pro or against spanking. It riles me up and I choose to spend my emotions in more productive places.

Shortly after the man and I were married we started fostering. This sealed the deal for us. We were not spanking parents. It doesn't make sense to raise two groups of children two different ways. Remember?

So my perspective, in a really big nutshell, is this. If you stuck me in a room with 100 other people my age who all exhibit behaviours related to kindness, compassion, empathy, altruism, and good will towards men, you would not be able to tell by looking at us who was spanked as a child and who wasn't. If you asked us who was spanked some of us would raise our hands. If you asked us who spank our children now some of us would raise our hands. If you asked us ALL what our hopes were for our children the answers would be very similar. We want them to grow to be kind, compassionate, empathic, altruistic and show good will towards all men. We want them to be successful and self reliant. We want them to love and to be loved. Some of us will succeed and some of us won't. I do not believe, for one minute, that success will stem from anything even remotely close to physical violence passed down from parent to child.

I just don't.

Should spanking be illegal? In my opinion yes. It might be a good deterrent for some parents. It may be all they need. It may force them to find more meaningful ways to rear their children.

Would making spanking illegal solve the problem? Nope. No problems are ever solved for everyone permanently.

I believe it would make the world better. And I'm all for making the world a better place.

So... like I predicted, there was nothing short about this. I've said my piece. I stand behind it. And I hope that as a society we can see that there are other, better, ways to bring up the next generation. If you were spanked and you think you turned out just fine then that's great. But don't let it be the one determining factor in how you choose to raise your children. Times have changed. We are an educated society. Do we want to be taking these types of chances with our children? It's a slippery slope. I believe it's a slope that doesn't need to be traversed.

There are other ways. Let's explore them.

Feel free to weigh in here in the comments. All I ask is that you be respectful. This is a conversation that should be had but we withhold judgement. If you are on twitter and want to follow #thespankdebate have at 'er.

This is a blog hop so go and see what others are saying on the issue.

Thursday, February 9, 2012

the typo

The typo. What is there to say really? Other than the typo is annoying and obnoxious and really hard to find. Especially when you are the one who created it.

It's like the Where's Waldo of your own personal blogging universe.

Usually, every day, okay not everyday but very very often, when I read something written by someone else I find a typo. Even in novels that were edited by professionals (ahem) I find them and I will admit, right here, right now, it brings me relief.

If there can be a typo in a Timothy Findley book then I'm not going to worry so much about the fact that they are all over my blog.

On average I read my posts 734,982 times before I post them. I'm not the best typist so I feel there needs to be a level of devotion to the proof reading.

And I am nothing if not devoted.

Yet, more often than not, I'm sure, I miss something. It's hiding there. The word to instead of you. Or form instead of from. Or, heaven forbid, there instead of it's best buddy their. Buy and not by.

All of these travesties I am guilty of. But just remember that you probably are too. And if you're not then I bow down to your amazing abilities in regards to the keyboard.

Yeah I could probably name ten bloggers who NEVER have typos but for every ten there are at least 100 who do, on occasion.

I think it shows our perfect imperfections. And I like it. I respect the fact that others, too, struggle with the editing unbeknownst to them. It unites us. Brings us closer. Like a family. A family of bad spellers. A forgiving family of bad spellers.

Or bad proof readers. Whatever. We're a family.

Sometimes I have people point out my typos and I like that. Don't get me wrong. I don't want an inbox full of emails from people thinking they're doing me a huge favour by pointing out my incessant flaws. But as one loyal friend put it, "Its like pointing out the broccoli in your teeth. That's what friends are for."

Yes, ma'am, that is exactly what friends are for.

I mean, really, do I want to be walking around with broccoli in my teeth? No, sir, I do not. And I love broccoli, so.................

Sometimes I go back and read posts I've written months and months ago and see the typo that hundreds of others have seen. Hundreds. And not me. Until now. How is that even possible?

Well it is. I am proof of that.

It got me to thinking. I figure, why shouldn't something awesome come out of all this disappointment? So to you, I issue a challenge of sorts. The next time you see a typo in my writing do me a favour. Go to the bathroom mirror and say three put-ups to your reflection. Affirmations, if you will.

Something along the lines of this.

And consider it my gift to you. Something good out of something so horrific.

The typo.

Again, you're welcome.

Tuesday, February 7, 2012


I've been burgled. And yes, it's a word. Look it up.

This morning when I got into my truck I was wondering why the glove box was open. And then I wondered why the centre console was open. And then I started to wonder what the man was looking for in his haste this morning.

And then I started to wonder why my burned cd's were all over the place. And then I wondered why the contents of the centre console were all over the seat. And then I wondered why the ash tray was open and hanging on by a thread.

Oh what? Don't act like you are all put together and super sleuthy in the morning. My wheels needed time to start turning. I have a head cold remember?

It was when I saw the sunglass holders in the roof of my truck open that I knew it was not the man rummaging for something but a stranger digging through my truck looking for something to steal from me.

Burgled. I was.

I tried to muster feelings of violation and dismay. Who would do such a thing? And in this neighbourhood where people are old and how did the burglar know I wasn't old and who would rob an old person?

I couldn't find the strength to get any further than that in my realization that I had been pillaged and plundered. That was as much alarm as I could assemble.

And this is why.

I have nothing of value in my vehicle. I barely have anything of value in my house. So if you want to rob me this is the list of things you can expect to steal from my truck:

One sugarplum lipgloss that may or may not be 7 years old.
Seven mix CD's that may or may not play because they, too, are old and scratched and unloved.
One Mamma Mia soundtrack. It doesn't have Chiquitita on it so........
One pair of sunglasses with one broken arm.
A plate. I don't know.........
Three dirty socks that don't match each other.
One flip flop. Yes, just one. Where is the other one? Again, I don't know.
A colouring book and 3 broken crayons from Boston Pizza.
Many many many sucker sticks and/or candy wrappers.
No pop cans because I cleaned them out yesterday.

A day late you burgling punk. Could have had at least 75 cents for that.

It helps to be a little bit trashy. And by a little bit I mean a lot trashy. Because the only thing of value I had in the truck was the loonie I keep in the ashtray for Superstore.

He stole my Superstore loonie.

So, my fair burgling friend, I hope you spend that loonie wisely and not all in one place. And next time? Just knock and I'll give you one of the children to sell on the black market.

I'm sure you'd get more than a buck for any one of them.

Monday, February 6, 2012

the snow angel update

My community newspaper showed up in the mail today. As I was perusing through it I found this article:

Low and behold, it's our snow angel. On his little green and yellow go-go machine.

The article talks about what he does for the community during the winter season and what their family receives in return, usually around the holidays.

The third paragraph says this, "This year, however, Mitch and his family got a special treat. Night after night, usually around 7 o'clock, there would be a knock at the door. By the time the Fulmeks could get up to answer the swift footed gift-givers were gone.

The Fulmeks were treated to a gift on each of the 12 days of Christmas, each more interesting than the last.

The anonymous gifts were a delightful part of the Fulmek holiday season." interesting. No?

There's even a little picture of the tag that accompanied the Five Golden Rings (glazed donuts).

This is truly the gift that just keeps on giving.

Sunday, February 5, 2012

lizzie sunday

Miss Lizzie would like you to know that she had two poops today and only one was on the hardwood.

Saturday, February 4, 2012

a saturday catch up

People, I have a cold. And no one cares.

It's not a bad cold. I did that once and it was horrible so I haven't done it since. I am deeply saddened, however, that this mini, one nostril plugged, headache/sinus ache, sore throat inducing cold has broken my 6 year streak of not getting sick.

It is a sad day to concede such a thing.

I think my pup might care. She'd be the only one though. She is whining a sad, haunting aria from her kennel. I am kennel training her and she is forced to stay there against her sad pathetic will. Poor little thing.

But I am forced to listen to her whine. Poor little me.

With a tiny sneezy, pressurized cold in my head.

And to boot. I have PMS. You know what? I haven't talked about PMS in a long time. Wanna talk about it?


All right, then.

The man is cranky and unbearable. And the female teenager infuriated my PMS last night right before I went to bed. I was thinking about getting her a little gift for doing me such a solid. Maybe a bag of dog poop, lit on fire, right outside her bedroom door. I could knock and run away. That would learn her, right? And I have a dog now so getting poop is easy.

If I had a million dollars, or in this day and age it would have to be more like a billion dollars, I would build a place, a spa-like place, where women with severe PMS could go to get away from the morons, I mean people, who live in her house.

Doesn't that sound amazing? And all the women there would know that all the other women there are cranky and unreasonable and borderline insane so we would all stay away from each other. Sit in silence and read or sleep or smash stuff.

If I was rich I would give this to the world.

I'm nice like that.

Wait. Was I just talking about PMS?

So sorry. I do apologize.

Last night, the man came home from work and I was like "I'm so sick. I need you to take care of me." And he was all "Mmm hmm." And I was like "I'm hungry, make me dinner." I mean, after all, I make him dinner every night. And when he's sick I ignore him but at least I take care of his basic needs. And he was all........... He was all nothing. He did nothing. I had to make the kids macaroni for dinner while he watched tv. And then he went and made himself gourmet toast and I was like "HELLO!!! WHAT ABOUT ME? I'M SICK REMEMBER? I HAVE A COLD!!!!!"

And then he was rude to me so I made nachos and watched tv by myself. Which was probably for the best anyway.

And then the whole teenager thing happened and I was thinking to myself: Why is everyone in this house out to get me?

And then I started planning my spa. And developing a plan to raise a billion dollars. So I can ditch this joint for 6 days a month.

And now you are all caught up.

You're welcome.

Thursday, February 2, 2012

the little things

I'm up to my eyeballs in puppy training books and emails from people who want to help me train this little black goddess. I'll take all the help I can get.

She's doing great.

That being said after a giant poop and a puddle of pee at me feet. She's a sweet pup and clearly she thinks I am the gate keeper.

Because I am the gatekeeper. Maybe not Zuul quality but I'm working on the wardrobe now. And the moves.

Moving on. Some fun things have happened around here. Besides getting the dog. Other things. Other things do happen on occasion.

Numero uno. I won a ticket to BlogWest. And this is awesome because I just so happened to want to go to BlogWest and then kaboom.....I am going. Because it's free. Well, I would have gone anyway but now it's free. I love free.

I also need someone to dress me for this event. Where do chubby girls shop for cool clothes? And don't say Addition-Elle or I'll hunt you down and stab you.

Here's the slightly kooky story. Last week (I think), I was on the twitter. Twittering. As I so love to do in the evenings when my focus on the tv wanes and I find I'm need of distraction from my distraction.

I saw @blogwest2012 asked a question. Who is your favourite West Coast Blogger?

And me, in all my vain glory tweeted "ME! ME! ME!" Unknowingly entering myself into a contest to win a ticket to the conference.

And then I got a congrats tweet which prompted a quick 'whattheheckisgoingonintwitterland' timeline search. And low and behold.....I won a ticket!

Three hours after I bought one.

But they refunded the bought one because they are that awesome.

And then I couldn't sleep because I never win anything and I felt all 'look at me! I won something!' which is not conducive to sleep in the least.

The moral of that story? Toot your own horn. When applicable.

Then we got Lizzie and that has just been one super treat after another.

Feel free to read between the lines on that one.

But then.........

This morning, I sat down to read my fave blogs with my Diet Pepsi which, by the way, I only drink 2 a day of now, but this is not the point. I came across the newest posting of one of my top 5 favourite bloggers of all time. The one and only Ms. C Jane

She wrote, today, about making goals and achieving goals and how sometimes it's hard and that it doesn't matter the size of the goal. Goals achieved are goals achieved and that's worth their weight in goal'd.

Get it? Goal'd?

Anyway, she so graciously mentioned my sweet boys and their goal to get a dog. It took three years to get to that 100 days but they did it.

That mention blew up my blog today. We are talking thousands of hits. Thousands. The most blogging fun I've ever had in my brief blogging history. And I think it was probably a wee glimpse into the life of a 'world famous blogger'.

*Wink wink* C Jane.

Thanks for the fun Courtney. And remember......making your bed cleans up your room by at least 75%. I read that somewhere. I swear it.

It's the little things, people.

The little things.