Saturday, December 28, 2013

ice love, revisited

When we left Willacy 19 months ago we left the best fridge we have ever owned behind. It made ice and leaving it broke my heart.

Not really, but it was close.

Then we moved into this place which had an old crappy non ice making fridge and we felt like cavemen.

Well, no more. The man has replaced the fridge with something that makes ice. Real big cubes that stare at me from my glass and remind me of how good life can really be. Having ice made for me makes me the happiest princess in all the kingdom.

Last night I heard my ice maker making me ice and I felt the warm fuzzies I used to feel at Willacy when that fridge loved me like it did.

It reminded me of the ice love post I wrote about awhile ago and since it's the holiday season and all, I thought I'd re-post it here. There is a lot of love involved when it comes to properly shaped frozen water and me.

Like a lot of love.


Sunday, December 15, 2013

the dead man

Today, the Sabbath day. A day of rest.

I just have one question...

Rest for who?

First there's the church thing. Three hours of skirts and slips and jewelry. This is a tiring thing. And then there is the choir thing. I play the piano for the choir. This is also a tiring thing.

I tire, what can I say?

And then there was the getting ready for the very tiny piano recital at my house. I only have two students so when I say tiny I really mean it. For two students, though, it means a mom and a dad and two grandmas and a grandpa.

All in my house.

What I am trying to say is that we had company over and my house was not fit for such a thing.

When I got home from choir I cleaned and cleaned and cleaned and then took a break from cleaning to prepare dinner. Once that was in the oven I cleaned again and then again and then some more.

A comment made to me, by the man, at the end of the day gave me pause to reflect upon the happenings of the day. I decided to split it into two lists. His and hers. A she did, he did sort of thing.

My list looks like this:

race home mid-church to start a loaf of homemade bread and then race back to church again
after church, come home and tidy
which involved rehanging ornaments on tree that fell down and hasn't been forgiven yet
vacuum
dust
rearrange furniture
unload and load dishwasher (3 times. who is doing all the eating around here?)
make dinner for 13
make dessert for 16
clean bathroom
serve dinner
serve dessert
clean dinner and dessert

The man has his list too, for the man had things to do. His list looks like this:
play in garage for many hours
make veggie platter
eat dinner
eat dessert
tuck Amelia in

Then the comment was made. The very comment that made me pause for reflection. The comment that has brought us here today. He came into my hallowed kitchen, the kitchen I was preparing to tuck in for the night and said this very thing, "Well, that wasn't so hard, was it?"

Oh, yes he did.

And then I murdered him. But I'll have to wait until tomorrow to bury him because my back is killing me.

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

just do the homework and then write your letter

Yesterday I started writing a research paper that is due tomorrow. Not my greatest plan, I will admit. I have positively punished myself with this paper for 24 hours and I can't even really say it is all my fault. We didn't even get the topics for it until last week and then we had a final to study for and I also had a big class presentation I needed to do. How am I expected to get it all done? Don't they realize that I am very busy woman? And why don't they coordinate their homework expectations accordingly?

Sheesh!

It's all my fault.

That reminds me....last week the Professoress was asking us questions about the format of the course this semester and if we liked it better than courses past. I certainly liked it better. But I was definitely among the minority. For me it was less work because I did all the readings. I always do all the readings because that's what I am supposed to do. The prof's give you the syllabus and you do the readings. That's university, right?

Apparently not. Apparently you can not do the readings and then Wikipedia everything you need to know 5 minutes before class and get away with it.

Pfffft. Why doesn't anyone tell me this stuff?

As some students implied with their laments, you can get away this for a time. At least until you are expected to write about what you learned. And then all of a sudden....too hard!

Anyway, so I do the readings and then I do the essays based on them and I do very well in this class and the Professoress and I get along splendidly. However, as it came to light this particular day, if you don't do the readings, but instead rely on Wikipedia for basic information, the essays are "like really hard, y'know? And there's, like, lots of them and it's so much work and, like...."

The professoress stood in silence and disbelief. How could the children be so cruel and inconsiderate? How could they say such hurtful things? I wanted to hold her. Reassure her. "There there, little one, I do the readings. And I know that redhead in the corner does them too. All is not lost. We like the essays."

But I didn't, because.....weird.

Anyway, one dark long haired stallioness (what are those called) said this, out loud, for all to hear, "It's like you guys don't care that we have, like, other things to do as well. It's like you all think you're the only class we have. There's so much reading, it's so much work."

The professoress stood stunned, her frame raising to the peak of her 5 foot capacity. Speechless. All she could muster was a, "Paaaahhhh...."

At this point I felt the need, with all the gentle motherly chastising superpowers I could bring forth from the depths of my disbelieving soul, to raise my hand.

So I did.

When I was done speaking, I closed my book and the dark long haired stallioness put her infuriated head down and texted madly on her phone for the rest of the class. The professoress looked upon me kindly, smiled, and mouthed a "thank-you" as I exited the room.


Here is another gentle reminder. It is Giving Tuesday today and one of the best things in life, I have decided, is when the winter comes and people get all in the mood to give give give. In whatever way that is, I love to watch it and participate when I can. It is most warming unto my heart. This is best time of the year. Minus the blizzard and the Elf on the Shelf, but that's okay. We can all handle a little earth shaking wind every now and then. And millions of pictures of your weird Elf.

So, if you are looking for something to do that won't cost you anything but some time, please remember this great cause and consider it for yourself and maybe do it as a family. It's very humbling to be reminded that while I am home all snug in my house with my snug healthy kids and we are well as well can be that there are those whose Christmas looks quite different this year.

And thanks for coming here over and over. I appreciate you. All of you, even if you are as quiet as mice.

Happy Giving Tuesday, everyone!

Sunday, December 1, 2013

innuendo and the writing of letters

Well, here we are again on another Sunday night where I have filled my belly full right up and I can barely breathe.

Don't ask me why I do that. Because I don't know. But I made this cake. And this icing. And once said icing was on said cake it became positively irresistible.

And now I am stuffed right up. Again. On this here Sunday night.

So, anyway, I have decided Santa is super fun as an adult. But only for about 15 years, give or take. For 15 years, give or take, I have enjoyed the whole Santa is coming, hide your wrapping paper, separate your gifts from his, call him on the phone when the kids are naughty, wait in line for a 45 second please-bring-me-such-and-such, chimney, reindeer dust, milk and cookie shenanigans. But I feel sorta done.

Don't shoot me for being honest. For me, I just feel like it might be time to move on. But the little one is only 7 and she is deeply entrenched in the dark arts that are everything Santa Claus. I have decided that if she asks I will speak the truth but I'm not a monster, I won't just flat out tell her the truth about Santa.

Shhhhhh, it's a secret.

I will, however, buy you dinner and a KitKat if you tell her. By accident, of course.

I came here to tell you something and was completely side tracked.....

I don't even remember what side tracked me.

So I'll tell you about a party I went to last night. A girlie party. I love my friends, but seriously, at least one of them could use a quick 'how to' in the art of shopping for gift exchanges.

We had a gift exchange, as I previously mentioned. It was lovely. Until it came to my turn. By the time it got to my turn the vintage punch bowl had been stolen three times and was no longer in play. The beautiful homemade owl blanket had been stolen three times and was no longer in play. The cool stripey scarf and the homemade painting had both been stolen three times each and were no longer in play. The amazingly precious, much sought after, by me, ceramic owl had been stolen three times and was no longer in play.

BLASTED!!!! I wanted that owl, and that dang punch bowl. Basically, all things my heart desired had been stolen so many times I did not stand a chance. So I stole the adorable sunflower pyrex bowls knowing that some heartless fool would take them from my desperate hands the first chance she got. And I was right.

So I opened a new gift.

Sex magnets.

Yep, you heard me. Fridge poetry of the sexual innuendo kind.

I have teenagers, for crying out loud! What on earth am I going to do with fridge poetry of the sexual innuendo kind?

I'm pretty sure I am going to do nothing with fridge poetry of the sexual innuendo kind.

And surprise surprise, no one wanted to steal it from me either so I ended up with with sex magnets. This is not even something I can regift because I don't know a single person who would want sex magnets. I doubt even the person who brought them would want them.

I wish I knew who it was so I could say a special prayer on her behalf this very night. I threw those blasted sex magnets into the gag gift exchange pile and the person who got them refused to take them home!

No one wants sex magnets!!

No one, I say.

So I took a perfectly lovely gift and came home with nothing. How does that work?! Boo, hiss.

But wow, the food was amazing. It is pretty awesome what women can create when they cook for the ones they love.

Their friends.

And I truly love my friends. I would throw myself on a fire fueled by sex magnets for any one of them.

Moving on, did you know that December 3rd is the opening day for Giving Tuesday? A new global movement for giving and sharing. I think it's splendid.

Some of you may already know that I volunteer with a program called Art a la Carte. This is a volunteer run program that provides art at the bedside of cancer patients who are hospital bound. I am their creative writer and I am truly honoured to be associated with such an amazing group of volunteers. Go to this link and see what awesomeness they are up to as of December 3rd, 2013. 

If you feel so inclined, as I do on occasion, to give back then please click the link and write your letter. What a treat to be able to help in such a simple and unique way but to have it mean so much to someone in need.

Plus, it's Christmas.....and I know you are totally in the giving mood.




Friday, November 29, 2013

this is an essay. i dare you to tell me it's not...

Friday night. My family is at the church Christmas party. I stayed home to work on a research paper that is frighteningly closing in on it's due date. The wee one is still hacking up a lung so she stayed home too. I did not tell her Santa was going to be there. Actually, I don't even know if Santa is going to be there. I am workingworkingworking. Except when I'm not…. This is what I have learned on this very learned Friday:

-the LooneyTunes show is vicious. Like vicious to the point I worry about the future of the child watching it. That show is full of mean girls and weird ducks.

-I am not watching it. I am listening to it in the background of this here essayfest.

-gingersnaps are delicious but will give you a serious tummy ache if they are all you eat.

-I want turkey

-I have chin hairs that need to be dealt with. TMI? Possibly...

-I love my new slippers. They are rad

-the word 'rad' is rad. Youknow?

-I removed all video games with bad words from my house today. I am unpopular, to say the least. I did however replace them with new, more appropriate video games. I have been informed that I may as well return them since "they are for babies". I am returning them.

-kids are the worst.

-I feel really good about the fact that I had a class presentation this week and a final and both are done.

-I feel really bad that I am going to miss 2 of the 3 Christmas parties I have this weekend because of this paper I have neglected until today.

-On Wednesday I am technically done this semester and therefore I will celebrate with a movie.

-the Book Thief is out. Waaaaaaaaaaaahhhh. Did you read The Book Thief? Broke my heart. I love a good book. And THAT was a good book.

-I got my hair cut today and I don't like it. I even came home and took a shower to re-do it and I still don't like it. Oh bother…..

-I should be working.

-blogging is work, right?

-the phone has rung no less than 36 times today. I hate the phone.

-Amelia has sneezed no less than 306 times. I think her head might explode.

-I should be working. I am going back to work. What else can I tell you?

-What do you want for Christmas? I love Christmas. My kids will not be getting any video games for Christmas. Let's all feel good about this, shall we?

-My hairdresser yelled at Amelia today which was both crazy and fascinating to witness. She's from the UK. Nuff said.

-I am hungry. For turkey. I guess I'll eat a gingersnap….

Tuesday, November 26, 2013

sputum?

Yesterday I took Amelia to a walk in clinic to get her ears and throat checked. I have learned the hard way that when I ignore such aches and pains, accompanied by fever, the child gets violently ill.

One would think that being the fourth child, he or she would be smarter than to even bother getting ill because the odds are highly in their favour that he or she will be ignored by his or her mother who has "been there, done that" a few too many times and has lost all vigor for such shenanigans as going to the doctor and waiting for prescriptions to be filled.

Youknowwhatimean?

Well, clearly she doesn't knowwhatimean because she is sick. And because she is the sweetest lil thing in the history of sweet lil things she got a Beanie Boo out of the deal.

Safari, the Giraffe. She has lovely purple sparkly eyes and tiny little antlers atop her head.

Do giraffes have antlers? Or are they horns? Or what the heck are those things??

She also got a happy meal. Of which she ate exactly zero because she is so sick.

Soooo, anyway, this is the conversation between the walk in doctor and Amelia whilst I looked on, wanting to reach out and smack the clueless man and say things like, "You can see she's just a wee child, right? Talk to her as you would a wee child."  I was forced to act as interpreter since clearly, in med school, they do not teach young doctor wannabe's how to converse with the short and the literal.

Doc: does it hurt to pass water?

Amelia: well, sometimes when I drink water my throat burns and it feels like something is stuck in there and I don't like it.

Doc: oh. Well, I mean, does it, um, hurt to um, pass you-reeeeeen? (He is from a different land than I and has the accent to accompany it)

Amelia: ??? (She looks at me in sheer terror.)

Me: Does it hurt to pee, Amelia?

Amelia: oh, no.

Doctor: when you cough do you have phlegm?

Amelia: ?????

Doctor: sputum. Is there any sputum?

Amelia: Mommy....... (her eyes plead).

Me: (Nodding my head yes.)

Amelia: (nods her head yes, which to him means yes but to me means "I am not having fun anymore and you better get me outta here pronto!")

So I did. Poor kid.

And now, to all the doctor wannabe's around the world, I just want to say: I appreciate your inclination towards decorum and gentlemanly manners, but allow me to inform you of a very special language used by children. It's a real thing. And it involves words like pee and poop and greenish gunky goo from your lungs. And it's okay to say these things to little kids because otherwise they don't understand you and you scare the crap out of them with your hoighty toighty-ness.

Sputum?? Who says sputum?

Monday, November 25, 2013

olly obsidian

It's vlogging Monday! Which is still a thing, you know. Amelia is sick so it must be November. We went to the doctor and she has strep, or so we all suspect. Then we came home to vlog but she fell asleep on my bed waiting for me to get enough space on my phone to make the darn thing.

Finally, she's awake and she vlogged. She also let me be in it.

She's gracious like that.


Saturday, November 9, 2013

when we reevaluate. part two. also, the end.

I wasn't fine and I don't know who I was kidding.

Well, I thought I was kidding myself and I truly believe that with an extraordinary amount of dysfunction one can kid themselves into all kinds of nonsense believing.

It was like I tripped on a pile of my own insanity and fell face first into a crap load of......

Well, crap.

I felt nuts. Out of control. I felt like I did before. Before the little white pill entered my life. I was yelly and screamy and angry. I was consumed with just getting through the day without taking anyone's head off. Without losing it on the kids. Without running anyone over when they were taking too long crossing the road. Without ramming into the side of the nonstop cars that were trying to drive me mad with their lack of skills.

Everyone was annoying, aggravating, wrong. Everyone was trying to destroy me with their behaviour. Everyone else was the problem. Just like before. It wasn't me....

....it was YOU!

Well, the rational side of my brain, as tiny as it was, was telling me this could not possibly be. But the irrational side, the side in control, the side taking over, was telling me that everyone needed to die. I needed to be left alone on this earth so that everyone else would stop DRIVING ME CRAZY!

It is exhausting, being like that all the time. Just trying to calm down when every single person has crossed me to the point of rage every 32 seconds is exhausting. I would fall into my bed at the end of the day and ponder all the people I actually despised that day. Some of these people even included the man. And my children. And all those insane young adults at the university always talking, saying stupid things and walking in my way. It never ended. The level of aggravation made my heart pound all day long and my chest hurt all the time. There were times when I stopped breathing for what seemed like forever. The world was heavy and I felt like it was crushing me.

I was not fine. This was the most discouraging notion. And frustrating. I still, simply cannot understand why this is out of my control. But until I can understand it I need to save the people.

From me.

I filled the prescription. I took the new pill. And then we waited. Again.

Almost a month has passed. I feel human again. There is a lightness. I can breathe. I am not angry anymore. I can be talked to again. People don't see me and walk the other way. And by people I mean my family. And my fellow students at the university.

Wait....yes they do.

Anyway, I am still stuck in this place where understanding what "this" is and treating it with means that are not of my making is frustrating and confusing unto me. I am not sure I will ever really get it. Unless I decide to go to school forever and become a psychiatrist or a neurologist, which I have no plans to do. So I guess I'll pop the pills that disenrage me.

Apparently, these pills do not prevent me from making up words. Disenraged is a thing. It is the thing that happens to Catie when she medicates.

And the world is a better place for it.

The end.

Friday, November 8, 2013

when we reevaluate. part one

The best way to procrastinate on writing a paper, or two, is Netflix. And once you are through trying to watch one third of every show on there and you've decided that nothing is as good as Sons of Anarchy and The Killing, but you've watched all of the episodes, then you think maybe you should get to the paper, or two, that need writing. But, you simply don't think you've pushed it to the wire enough so what else can you do to fill that gap between Netflix and writing a paper, or two?

Blog, that's what.

So, since it's been forever since I really sat down to blog, let's do that, shall we?

We shall.

I mean, yesterday I blogged, so I guess it hasn't been forever. It sure feels like it though.

Feels like forever when you live in a bubble of your own chaos. I think the bubble has a leak and air and light are working their way into my peripheral. I think I am ready to surface again. Maybe this is premature. I don't know. I don't feel like I know much but I feel the urge to blog and that only happens when I'm feeling pretty good.

So I must be feeling okay or I wouldn't be here, right?

We might be talking about mental health here. Or, more specifically, my mental health. But I sure hate those two words. I avoid them like the plague they are. I don't want to use them. I don't feel like I should be using them, or that I should be allowed to use them because clearly I am sane.

Clearly.

The last 6 weeks have been a bevy of emotions. And most of them bad. It has been up and down and then down again and more and more down until I was so down that the only option left was to go up because going sideways is silly.

I don't even know what that means.

Anyway, it involved weaning off a little white pill that was no longer performing as it should and introducing a multicoloured one that "should help" with the anxiety.

"Should help," said the doctor. "But everyone's different so I guess we'll see."

Oh, joy.

But then I did that crazy person thing. That thing where you tell yourself you're fine, you don't need drugs, you made the whole thing up, surely you did because there isn't anything you can't do, and that has to include choosing to be well in the head. I must be able to make that choice for myself. Right? I mean, happiness is a choice. A choice I willingly make. So that's that, I choose it and so it shall be. And for a few days after I was completely weaned off the little white pill I told myself I was well in the head. I was happy. I was okay. And that was that.

So, I did not fill my new prescription. I was convinced I did not need it. I was all better, as determined, by me.

It took three weeks to wean and it was one of the top 5 most unpleasant experiences of my life. I shook and trembled. I was ill. For one week I had a rage I had never experienced before. I wanted to hurt someone. All the time. And then it passed, just as they said it would. But it was replaced by a zombie who felt nothing. I felt an apathy I had never experienced before. I didn't care if I lived or died. I didn't care if you lived or died. I missed some school. I didn't care. I watched movies, alone, in the dark. I didn't care. I was here, but not present. And I didn't care.

I didn't care about anything. Not a single thing. I never want to feel that again.

And then it passed. Thank the heavens. A few more days and I was declared weaned.

Why would I willingly put myself through anything like that again? Who chooses that? Not me. I never wanted to take a drug that caused me to feel hate and anger and apathy like that. So I declared myself whole.

I was well.

Until I wasn't.....

Thursday, November 7, 2013

a mad love affair


Remember when I wrote this?

And then I wrote this?

Well, now I am writing this. I love my Paisley so very much. Like I love her so much that I might die if she left me.

Just ask the man how much I love my weighted blanket. He'll probably tell you it has come between me and him. He'll tell you it weighs the comforter down and that I end up hogging the blankets. He'll tell you all sorts of malarkey, but what he won't tell you is that she and I are one in purpose. And that purpose is a good night's sleep. A sleep which is had when my Paisley in gingerly placed on top of me. And because I sleep better, I am more human when it comes to dealing with man things.

Like whiskers in the sink. And smelly bathrooms. And the grouchy.

Yes, the man can be grouchy. Just ask the children.

When I read I throw Paisley on my feet. When I study I do the same. She calms me, grounds me and comforts me.

I love her.

I think I mentioned that.

The lady who made this blanket for me is feelin' awful generous today and told me she is giving one away.

Huh, wha??

So that means you can own one too. For free. If for free so inclines you......

Go enter her giveaway and then cross your fingers. And toes. And I will cross all my things on your behalf because I really really really want everyone in the world to have one of these amazing blankets. They are helpful for all sorts of things, check out her website for a list of them.

Go enter now! And to you I say good luck!!

(Scroll down a bit to get to the giveaway, I can't figure this blogging stuff out.)


Hippo Hug Weighted Blanket Giveaway

Tuesday, October 29, 2013

a party? pour moi? why, yes please.

Every now and then you find yourself in a good place in life. It's the kind of place where all the other stuff, the stuff that sucks, is made okay because you're in a good place. And by good place I mean people. Because you are surrounded by good people, all the stuff that sucks is made better.

Youknowwhatimean?

You do, right? You totally know what I mean, because I explain things so succinctly that you instantly know what I mean.

If you don't, then allow me to paint you a picture.

I am struggling with my little friend Gemma right now. She has a bee in her bonnet about something and she won't divulge what.

Like how I incorporated part of the name of this blog just there?

I am a wordsmith.

Anyway, I am not here to talk about Gemma today. I will discuss her when I am feeling less like stabbing her in the eye.

Today we are talking about the good people that live on the periphery of all my crap and make it all bearable. It's actually pretty bearable anyway, don't get me wrong.

But these people, oh these people, how I love them so.

Over the last few years of my life I have found myself intertwined with some amazing women who have become my dearest friends, my entertainment, my sounding board, my complaints receiver, my antagonists and my happy place. The diversity would blow your mind. It blows mine, that's how I know.

These funny gals tried, and for awhile succeeded, in attempting to mastermind, behind my back, a surprise birthday party for my 40th. (As a belated birthday gift from me to you, I am giving you commas, because I don't care what they say, the comma is way underused and one of the most powerful grammatical tools of our lifetime. I use it freely here on my blog because at the university the jerks we call professors frown upon such awesomeness as the comma.)

Focus.

My friends. They tried to throw me a surprise party. A party whose plans I foiled by happening upon the man receiving a strange text, over his shoulder, bless him, he tries so hard, that had both my name and the initials SOA in it.

Well, this cannot be tolerated.

While the man slept that night I rummaged through his texts and screen-shotted the one in question and sent it to my friends. What is this? I cried. What could be happening here? I cried. Wouldn't you have it? They were the culprits behind it. I should have known better, but it didn't even occur to me.

Cover. Blown.

I could have gone along with it but Gemma would have none of it. I became a woman obsessed with knowing the truth. Silly girls tried to have the man in on it but we all know the man is incapable of keeping secrets from me.

It cannot be done. Trust me, he's tried.

So, my wonderful friends threw me a wonderful party. We all dressed up like biker chicks and piled on the makeup and hairspray and tattoos. They showered me with a day at the spa and for that I will be forever grateful because, well......because it's a day at the spa.

Duh.























If you are wondering where the pictures of me are....there are none. None that turned out even half way decent. But that's okay. Look at that cake!



Monday, October 28, 2013

lifelines

Life is so busy and exhausting and things are getting pushed to the wayside. Like this here bloggy blog.

Sorry bloggy blog, I don't mean to neglect. It's me, not you.

I promise.

Anyway, it's not like I'm not writing entirely. I write papers and tests and cheques. And then more cheques. Until I have no more money. But this is not the point.

I also write over here.

I usually get to write about the experiences the volunteers are having with those inflicted with the C word, but this time I got to write about a special patient and her unique experience. What a pleasure it was.

I would say 'enjoy' but that just doesn't seem like the right word.......

P.S. Also, please remember this is me writing on behalf of someone else. Don't be the smart alec who texts me asking if I have cancer.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

the 40's are lurking

Well, there is less than 24 hours left of my thirties. I honestly don't know how to feel about it. I mean, I don't feel bad about it. Or afraid, or anxious or upset. I just feel like I should be.....

feeling something? I don't know how to describe it. It seems pretty monumental to me. To be turning 40 and still feel like I am only 28 seems monumental to me.

No? Well, okay then...

Tomorrow I will be 40. I will not be in my 30's anymore. I feel like I've been in my thirties forever. I hope my 40's take forever too. Because to feel like I am 28 for 10 more years sounds pretty wicked, if you ask me.

And you should be asking me.

Because tomorrow is my 40th birthday.

This is HUGE!!!

I am still in the planning stages of my 40th birthday day. I want it to be a good day. It should be a good day but it doesn't have to be epic. I mean, it could be epic. Maybe it will be. Maybe tomorrow, as I run about doing all the things that didn't get the memo that it is my birthday and therefore did not declare themselves closed on what should obviously be a national holiday, something epic will happen. Like my hip won't hurt as I powerwalk on campus to class. Or I will be filled with vigor, which is the complete opposite of how I have been feeling lately. (I  know I said I still felt 28 but you should know I was very tired when I was 28. Very very sleepy) Or maybe dinner will make itself and the trip to Walmart I must take won't suck. Or maybe Crave cupcakes will move into my kitchen and make me delicious and rich, yet fat free and zero calorie cupcakes all day.

That would be amazing, wouldn't it?

I'm sure we can make the dinner making itself thing happen. In fact, let's make that happen, shall we?

So, two days ago, one of my dreams came true. Well, part one of one of my dreams came true. I received a juror summons in the mail.


Now, most people will tell you what a horrible thing this is but I am here to tell you how for the last 22 years of my life I have been waiting, ever so patiently, for this to happen to me. And thank heavens it happened in my 30's because can you imagine?? Nick of time, I tell you, nick of time.

Kidding. I will hold out hope it will happen again and it could easily have happened in my 20's. It may have been easier to accommodate in my 20's but right now? In my very early 40's? It can't happen now because who the heck has time for jury duty?

For my 40th birthday I would like someone to make time for me to be on jury duty so I can fulfill part two of one of my dreams. And that is to serve on a jury. And on a super cool jury too. One that gets sequestered and goes on and on and the case is something the movies are made of.

This sounds like heaven to me. Totally awesome, and this is not even remotely sarcastic. (Sometimes I feel the need to clarify when I am being sarcastic because people just assume that if my lips are moving then I must be being sarcastic, and I'm not. I am dead serious, people.)

Dead serious.

Oh well, I filled out the part of the form that asked why I thought I could not serve on a jury. It may have said something like "six kids" and "university student" and "you're on crack if you think I have time for this". I may have sealed the envelope with my tears and sent it back today.

Bucket lists can be harsh, cruel reminders of all your dreams not coming true.

So, in closing, I will tell you that this will be my last blog post of my 30's. I feel like it deserves a hot bath and a massage but it won't get one because I've been naughty. I have been too busy foiling surprise birthday party plans and offending siblings to draw a hot bath and book massages.

Shamefully naughty, I say.

Hmmmm, I wonder what kind of trouble I can get up to now. I do have about 8 hours left to roll out of this decade hard core.

Maybe I should go rob a bank before I am considered too mature for such a thing...

Fare thee well, thirties. You were good to me and I loved you very much. But now I need to move on, and I promise I will remember you fondly. And often.

Just like it was yesterday...

Monday, October 7, 2013

my siblings are teachers and so i am wrong.

I have four siblings. Four intelligent, highly educated siblings whom are extraordinarily opinionated. I am the least educated of all of them but it doesn't seem to affect my opinionation. Which is not a word and I am educated enough to know that, however, on this here blog I tend to make up words that I think should already be words and I also think that it's stupid they are not.

But that's just my opinionation talking.

But what do I know? I don't have a doctorate, or a masters in education or a law degree. Or any degree, for that matter. They like to remind me when I whine about being the dummy in the family that I have a diploma. Or as I like to call it, the "participation award for two years of working my bum off in a field I would never ever work in again".

Thanks for coming out.

Whatever, I am getting a degree now and that has got to mean something to someone somewhere sometime.

Anyway, I'm sure it's just me being oversensitive because I am not the fancy pants my sibs are with their hoity toity degrees and such but when we get together and debate things such as religion or parenting I often leave feeling frustrated and way under appreciated for my thoughts and opinions. I'm sure they do too.

Actually, I am sure of no such thing. 

To witness a debate amongst my siblings and /or spouses is fun, so says the man. But, to be a part of it can either leave you feeling exhilarated, like you just took part in something intellectual after you consumed too much food and pop, which is truly an astronomical feat. Or it can leave you feeling beaten and unheard and, well......just not very smart. Like when we talk about the infamous Calgary Board of Education.

Ooooooh, the heat is on. And this is why.

I have a brother who is an Assistant Principal for a school in the the CBE. I have a sister who also taught for the CBE for many many years. So to argue with them about the CBE is like arguing with them about whether it's okay or not to live. They say live this way. And you say I want to live, just not like that and maybe I would like something a little bit different. And they say too bad, you have to live this way or you're not living right.

They are both of the opinion that they are right. So, if they are right and you don't agree, then you must be wrong.

See how that works?

Yep, that's how it is in my family. We either agree or we don't and if we don't then someone is wrong, because heaven forbid someone should just be different, and if you're wrong then there is no ending to the letting you know that you are the one wearing the wrong shirt. 

Which is neon. 
And blinks.
And honks. 

WRONG WRONG WRONG. Honk honk honk.

Yesterday, at a fun filled family lunch we got into it over the fact that I refused to pay $40 last week for one field trip for my son who is in grade 9. He also never brought home the form so I am basing this off what he told me. And I said, in my head, I just paid $55 for two other ridiculously over priced field trips this week and because I feel like being a jerk I'm not paying for this one too. 

So he didn't go.

And now I am a bad parent, an unsupportive parent, and apparently a giant pain in the ass to every single CBE teacher that has ever taught in the history of the CBE school system.

Whatever, I don't buy it.

"You don't realize how hard teachers work to provide these super amazing teaching opportunities for your kids" So, because I didn't pay for one field trip I have no realization about what teachers do? Ummmm....

"You have 6 kids, it's your fault your life is so expensive." Right. So, I guess I missed the part in child birth classes where they tell you to start saving up for field trips. Again, my fault.

"I don't know what your problem is, you have no issues dropping $25 to see a movie whenever you want." Okay, so since I can afford the field trips I should be happy to pay for a $40 walk in the woods? No see, that's not how I operate. Just because the funds are in my bank account doesn't mean I have to be happy about the cost of field trips. It's the principle of the matter. It's too expensive. I didn't say it's too expensive for me, just that's it too expensive. 

I get that as teachers, they have a level of empathy and understanding for teachers and the crap they put up with I will never have. This is fair enough. They are both amazing educators so there is no question as to how hard they work to provide a quality education for their students and also their own kids.

Neither one of these siblings has a child over 8.

So, this is where I say I am entitled to my disdain for the over priced field trip by reminding myself that I have been doing this for twice as long as them. And that when my kids were their kids ages I was paying $6.50 for a field trip. I can remember when $12 was a really high end field trip.

Youknowwhatimean?

Well, you might knowwhatimean, but my brother and sister sure as heck don't. And they never will, because they are teachers. And parents who will have $40 field trips be their norm. It is not my norm and I don't like it and because I don't like it I am going to say it out loud every now and then and that does not make me wrong. It doesn't mean that I am never going to send my kids on field trips, because I am, and I do, but that also doesn't mean that I have to like it every single time. Also, not wrong. And while I applaud teachers and all they do and one hundred percent recognize I could never be one, I also am painfully aware of my siblings inability to understand the mentality of the sweepingly generalized "ignorant parent".

People like me. Unless I am the only one. In which case I am a total jerk. I accept that. 

I refuse to believe, much to their anguish and dismay, that if they weren't teachers, they'd be totally okay with the price of these trips. I also refuse to believe either one has spent as much as I have on any one of their kids trips this year thus far. They'll argue me to my death on that, because that's what they do, but it doesn't change the fact that I still don't believe it. And another thing I don't believe is that I am the only parent who cringes when their kids hand over field trip notices. 

Daily.

And also, when my siblings, or their spouses, accuse me of doing things I don't do my britches light aflame like no other. But I'll save that for another day.

For what it's worth, since I have written this post, I have happily paid another $48 for two field trips. That's a total of $145 in the past 11 school days for 5 field trips for 4 children. According to my teacher siblings I should be rejoicing in this glorious opportunity to spend money on an education I already spent money on, but apparently I didn't?, when I wrote those gigantic cheques not even 7 weeks ago.

Yesterday, at lunch, at my teacher brother's house, his wife shut this debate down with a well practiced evil eye and a pointer finger before I was even remotely near done and so I dedicate this post to her. And her wicked looks. And that wicked pointer finger. And her punctured uterus....which isn't supposed to be punctured......but is....because doctors are jerks and maybe this can be the topic of our next family debate.

The end.


Friday, October 4, 2013

walt whitman said what now?

One of the classes I am taking at the university is all about literature written mostly by dead white guys. There are some Chinese fellows in there and this semester there are even some African writers thrown in. But mostly it's white guys like Galileo and Locke. Hobbes and Thoreau. Goethe and Rousseau. Whitman. Who doesn't know Walt Whitman?? Someone has determined these writers to be awesome enough to have their writings compiled in a text book and studied by many many many a poor fool.

I pity the fool.

Actually, I seriously love this class and that is no word of a sarcastic lie. And, really, who am I to decide who is awesome enough to be studied billions of years later? I am thinking, though, that the criteria for being awesome is being confusing and really hard to understand, even though your native tongue is the same as mine.

Whatever, this is the class and I have to take it and I am okay with it. Even though it seriously cuts into my reading for pleasure time. Again, I love the class. I really love it.

I really do....

This week, we did a plethora of readings commonly referred to as poetry. I am super awesome at poetry. Poetry is my my jam.

Let me show you...

I will speak to you some poetry and whilst doing so I will offer up my interpretation of said poetry. My interpretation will be in italics. Here we go...

Two together!
Wind blows south, or winds blow north,
Day come white, or night come black,
Home, or rivers and mountains from home,
Singing all the time, minding no time,
While we two keep together.

Shoot, I forgot to make a grocery list for the way home. And I can't remember what I was planning for dinner.

Blow! blow! blow!
Blow up seas winds along Paumanok's shore;
I wait and I wait till you blow my mate to me.

Toilet paper!! I keep forgetting to buy some toilet paper. Dang it. Why do we go through toilet paper so fast? I do believe it is unreasonably fast...

Listen'd to keep, to sing, now translating the notes,
Following you my brother.

I'm hungry. I wish I had a banana with me. I sure do love bananas....

Low hangs the moon, it rose late,
It is lagging -- O I think it is heavy with love, with love.

I am so tired, I can't believe my life right now. Kids, so many kids, and all needing to be somewhere. It is making me tired.....Reallllll tireddddddd....

O night! I do not see my love fluttering out among the breakers?
What is that little black thing I see there in the white?

Speaking of love...I feel like I haven't seen mine in forever. Oooooh, we should go to a movie. I love the movies.....I wonder what's playing right now....

Death, death, death, death, death.
Which I do not forget,

That was a lot of deaths. 1-2-3-4-5 deaths, good grief....

That strong and delicious word which, creeping to my feet,
or like some old crone rocking the cradle, swathed in sweet garments, bending aside,
The sea whisper'd me.

Hmmmm, I do believe I just read a 20 page poem. I do believe I have no clue what just happened here. I am awesome at this book learning stuff. Banana. I reeeeeally want a banana. Right now. Where can I get a banana from?

And that, my friends, is how Catherine Dabels does poetry. I should do really well on the paper associated with that poem......

No?

Tuesday, October 1, 2013

things i learned at university, part 2. and my birthday month

Okay, all right. Okay, all right. Okay, here we go...

It's October!! I know, I know. October happens every year. But..... it isn't every year that I turn 40!!!

FORTY!!

In 9 days I will be FORTY years old. I simply can not believe it. I remember when 40 was old. In the olden days. My olden days. When 40 was old.

I know, I know, I don't look a day over 26. You're so kind.

Stop it!

I had so many plans for my life that included a due date of 40. Not all of them happened. It's okay.

It's gonna have to be, isn't it?

I don't think I'll spend too much time on this blog post since it's making me ponder my life and I don't really think I want to do that quite yet. It does make me feel a little anxious though thinking about all the things I still want to do and have. Or maybe that's just me coming off anxiety meds, which, by the way, turned me into a homicidal, apathetic maniac for about 10 days. I'm good now, though.

That's a different post entirely.

So, my 40's should include things I've never had before. Like a career. And maybe a few less kids. And maybe even a grandchild if Cicely follows the same road I did.

HOLY CRAP!!! Did I just say grand kids?? Whoaaaaaaa nelly.....this post is done. There are not enough anxiety drugs in the world to process that.

I wasn't even thinking about grand kids when I started this stupid post.

Talking about stupid, let's talk about university and some of the things I witness while I'm there. The other day I went to class. It was paper handing in day. So I handed in my paper and took a seat. Then a line of students formed to hand in their papers. A girl got to the front of the line, looked at the prof in the eyes and said this, "Do you have a stapler?"

Now, maybe it's just me and my abrasive personality (the man told me once that I have an abrasive personality. Nice) but "do you have a stapler?" Really?? Did you just ask the professoress if she was carrying a stapler around the university on her VERY OWN person?

I was agog. I was aghast. Could Marius be in love at last?

Whoa, I just went into Les Mis mode there for sec. Excuse me, I apologize.

Maybe my brother Paul can weigh in on this issue, since he is a university professor and probably sees all kinds of stupid on a regular basis. The issue is this: how ridiculous is it that a student would bring a paper to class NOT ALREADY FASTENED?

It's not just me, right? Surely this isn't just me.....

So, while I was giving my own head a shake because it's either that or smack some poor young adult for being generally not bright, the professoress began a lecture on why it is not her responsibility to provide the fasteners for our papers. She may have said things like "this is a 500 level course" and "it might be good practice for you to carry your own staplers" and "at some point you need to think about this stuff for yourselves. At home. Where your stapler is" and "how is it that your paper is not already stapled?"

All the things I was thinking as I was shaking my head. I felt closer to her in that moment.

Anyway, while she ranted away something happened. Something I, to this day, still can not believe. A young man reached the front of the line and when the professoress took a breath he chose that precise moment in time to ask a question.

"Excuse me, do you have a stapler?"

**this is a true story. The events of this story have not been altered in any way. And no, the professoress did not murder this brain dead child. And against every fibre of my being, neither did I.





Wednesday, September 18, 2013

gemma

Do you wanna know how many unfinished blog posts I have kicking around in my drafts from the last two weeks? Seven.

There are 7 unfinished blog posts kicking around in my drafts. I blame my phone. And my scattered, anxiety ridden thoughts. When I have a free minute between classes or while waiting to pick someone up I can't just sit and ponder life. I must be doing something, staying busy. The key to life is to never stop moving. You know?? So I start writing. And I write and I write and I write. Then it gets put on hold from all the pesky teaching I must endure. Or the driving.

I drive a lot.

By the time I get back to it I am over it. I don't care anymore. I have already moved on. I set a goal this week to finish one blog post.

Nothing like setting goals unreachably high, I always say. And why isn't unreachably a word?

Do you watch Sons of Anarchy? If you answered no, don't start. Or do start if you are into awesome. But don't start if you aren't into total addiction and the neglect of every good thing in your life, including sleep. If you do watch it then you will recognize the name of this post as the name of the matriarch of that most dysfunctional, yet completely awesome, biker gang.

Gemma.

Gemma is undeniably ferocious. She will not be messed with. She will rip your heart out and eat it for dinner if she thinks you are in her way. I love Gemma, she gets stuff done. I love her until she messes with something I don't want her to mess with then I want to hurt her. Gemma causes me much emotional distress.

So, naturally, I named my anxiety disorder Gemma. I did this because I believe in naming things. It makes them easier to refer to. It gives them life.

And anything as relentless as an anxiety disorder deserves a name. Am I right? You know I'm right.

For its name, I choose Gemma. Everyone now, go name your disorders!

Gemma was doing great. For almost a year I had her under control. She flamed up on occasion but I'd just tell her to back the heck off, take a few deep breaths, inhale some Clary Sage and she would retreat. Then, all of a sudden, a couple months ago, she stopped retreating. She gnaws at my insides trying to get out. She makes my heart race, my bowls churn. She takes my breath away.

Gemma, stop. I can't breathe. Please, back off.

I tried ignoring her, you know, not looking her in eye. I put her off and put her off until one day I said to the man, "I don't think my anxiety pills are working very well anymore."

And he gave me that chin tucked in, eyebrows raised, know it all look and said, "You think?"

Yeah, I think....

To my doctor I went. I hate this part. So badly do I want everything to just run as it's supposed to run. I told her as much.

"That's how we'd all like life to work, dear. Some of us just get to run on different operating systems. That's all."

She's right. Or maybe she's not. Who knows anymore. All I know is that sometimes I can't breathe and the name "they've" given it is anxiety. The name I give it is Gemma. But you know, sometimes I wonder if I'm not just making this stuff up. Did I make Gemma up? Did I create her in my life to add drama and chaos? There are days that are so good I have to wonder....

And then there are the days when I know, for a certainty, that Gemma is there, inside me, wreaking havoc on my thoughts and my actions, making me doubt my own sanity.

So, my doctor has decided that the meds I was on have lost their potency in my soul and we should try new ones. I hate the very idea of this. It means detoxing and trying something new. It means withdrawal. It means the unknown. She's cool beans about it and thinks I should be too.

But, if anyone knows me well then they know that I am cool beans about nothing.

And for that, I blame Gemma.

Saturday, August 31, 2013

premenstrual potato salad

So, the other night I went to a ladies only party for our church. Our church never ever partys and so when it does, gosh darnit, I will not miss it. I signed up to bring a salad and whilst perusing the grocery store trying to decide upon a salad that tickled my fancy I wondered why it was proving so difficult.

I have pms, I thought to myself. What I wanted was chocolate.

So I did the only logical thing. I googled Snickers salad. I had that once. And by george, I would have it again.

This is the ingredient list for said Snickers salad:
apples
snickers bars
cool whip
cream cheese
marshmallow creme

Now, if this doesn't scream salad, I do not know what does. Naturally, it only costs $25 to make this salad. And if you ask me, this amount of money on one salad is never worth it. Unless you need to eat salad. And that salad has to have Snickers bars in it.

The apples negate the marshmallow creme. I read that somewhere.

Okay, so I go home and whip together this vision of health and happiness. A snickers for you, a snickers for me. And on and on we go.

While at the party we played a game called  See How Many Women You Can Cram At An Outdoor Table During A Wind Storm.

Since I have PMS, I was sweaty and therefore enjoyed the slight breeze through my burgundy mane.

Yes, my hair is burgundy.

There was a woman at the table, 2 people away from me, eating away. When all of a sudden she says, "This is the most delicious potato salad I have ever had."

I looked over to see her eating the salad I brought and a giggle escaped me.

"Umm, there are no potatoes in that salad."

She peered down at her food, "huh? Well what is it then?"

"Sugar. And a couple apples." I said.

"Well, no wonder it is so delicious!"

And that, my friends, is how you make potato salad for the premenstrual and most certainly the menopausal.

Her, not me. Or maybe me too. Who's to know? And really, who cares when you can eat Snickers bars in your salad...

Monday, August 26, 2013

so as it turns out, people are good

Allow me to tell you a little story. This story will rock your world. And if it doesn't then just know that it rocked mine and that should suffice.

This is a story about loss, about prayer, about letting go and about moving on. This is a story you can tell your kids to show them that they can be good people who do good things, right things, when faced with the opportunity to do the opposite. Tell them this story as a way of teaching them integrity, that they can choose the right and live knowing that they have. This is the kind of story you start with "Now listen to what happened to a friend of mine..." And then watch their faces closely as they hear the ending. It'll be worth it, I promise.

Now, let's see, where do I start?

Yes, I know, it was a Tuesday. It was last Tuesday, in fact, and I sent the man a text that said "Please bring home $1000 cash tonight to pay for football and first aid training."

The man responded with a "K".

A few hours later I got a phone call. From the man. He told me he'd gone to the bank and taken out $1000. And then he'd gone to the tool store. And then he went to the convenience store. And then he noticed his wallet was missing. He lost his wallet.

He lost his wallet.

It was like someone kicked me in the gut. My husband lost his wallet. His wallet had $1000 cash in it. I didn't know what to say.

What can you say? What is there to do? He had already retraced his steps. He scoured both parking lots. He grilled cashiers, made phone calls. He did everything he could.

I went to the bank and withdrew another $1000 to pay for football and first aid. What a blow.

What a blow.

I said a prayer. All I asked for was comfort. All I wanted was to not have to think about it. It was making me ill.

Later that night we talked about it to death. The man was convinced the cashier at the store had taken it. I was convinced it fell out of his pocket in the parking lot and someone had found it and kept it. He was sure it was a drug addict, I was hoping it was a flood victim who thought it was manna from heaven. It didn't matter who found it, the money was gone. What could we do but move on?

The next day he called the tool store to see if he could watch their security footage, which they agreed to but had to go through a third party security company. After the store contacted the security company they contacted the man and told him this "the camera shows you paying for your items, putting the wallet in your left pocket and patting it. Did we still want to see it ourselves?"

No. We both knew the left pocket and the patting was Darcy to a T. It's what he does with his wallet every. single. time. We knew she wasn't making it up.

We knew the money was gone. It was hard to let go. So I said another prayer. This time I asked for comfort again, and what the heck, some integrity. I asked that whoever found the wallet would find the courage to mail it back.

What else did I have to lose at this point? Might as well ask for the stars. So I asked. And then I stopped thinking about it.

 I was moving on.

Until tonight. I was lying on my bed watching Netflix, the man was on driving duty. I was thinking about a book I had ordered online but hadn't received yet. I needed to go check the mail.

I went to the mailbox and low and behold, there was my book. But there was also something on top of it. A large package. But it had Darcy's name on it. I put it aside begrudgingly, it wasn't mine to open. Sometimes I am the patient wife.

And sometimes I am not.

I opened it.



The letter says, " Dear Mr. Dabels,

I found your wallet lying on the ground outside of Busy Bee Tools on August 20th. My initial intent was to leave it with the store staff but when I found that it contained a significant amount of money I decided to hold on to it. I admit the temptation to just keep the money was huge and I kept changing my mind as to what I should do. In the end I decided to do the right thing and return it to you.

I apologize for the inconvenience my indecision and procrastination has no doubt caused you. I hope this finds you well."

It was signed.

There are no words to describe my gratitude. This letter and the contents of this package speak for themselves, I believe.

People are good. As hard as it can be sometimes, people try, and they succeed at goodness. And also? Remember that people are good, and prayers get answered and they even sometimes get answered exactly the way you want them to.

Do me a favour? Pay something forward on behalf of the person who sent all this money back.

Please.

And thank you.

Wednesday, August 14, 2013

jumping jacks are for chumps

At 7:15 this the morning, the children were eating Nutella on toast, whole wheat toast no less, because we're healthy like that. Holden is complaining of being too cold. He is tired and mad that he has to be up so blinkin' early during summer holidays. Whatever, kid. This is my week. I have lived for this week. You will go to camp and I will bask gloriously in your absence, we all have our burdens to bear.

Holden: I am freezing cold!!!

Me: Why don't you do some jumping jacks and warm up?

Stunned looks all around.

Amelia: Jumping jacks are for chumps.

ChitChat: I saw you doing jumping jacks yesterday.

Amelia, all sassy-like: No you didn't, you liar.

Me: Jack does jumping jacks every night at football practice.

Amelia: Jack is a chump.

***************************************
So the kids are in camp all week, I may have mentioned something to that effect. And if not, let me tell you. All my kids are gone all day every day this week. There are no words to explain what this feels like in my soul. As soon as I drop that last three off this weird sound escapes my body as I walk to the truck. It sounds a little something like,

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

I'm sure it can be heard in all corners of the kingdom. 

I won't bother explaining to you how amazing and fantastic and super and amazing it is to not have to listen to bickering or x-box begging all day everyday. Or how much easier it is to run to the store without kids tagging along. 

The only problem with weeks like this is that they go by so quickly. Sad face.

Two more weeks until school starts. Two. More. Weeks. Oh glory day.

Can I have my Bad Mom plaque now, please? I already know where I'm going to hang it.

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

Soooooooo, I'm probably watching Sharknado while I write this post. Maybe. Probably. Okay, no I'm not. I am totally not watching Sharknado as I type this.

Ian Ziering is the worst actor of all time. And his name is Fin in this movie. Funny, no? And totally brilliant. And Tara Reid? Need I say more?

Wait....I said I wasn't watching it. Yeah, let's stick with that. Way less embarrassing.

I do believe Pride and Prejudice is up next.

"In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”  Man, I love that movie.

Oh, hold up!!!! Ian Ziering just chainsawed his way out of a shark that ate him in one bite. And the bimbo was with him and now she is dead. Oh, wait, no she's not. Phew, what a relief, now they can live happily ever after. Ewww gross, Tara Reid just wiped shark guts off Ian's face and kissed him. And now the bimbo loves Ian's son??? Huh?

Okay, it's over. I will move on to something somewhat more productive now. 

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

Amelia's hair has been in french braids for the last two days while she's been at swim camp. This morning we took them out and brushed out her long, golden, curly mane. 

Me: Your hair looks gorgeous, lovey.

Amelia, staring at herself in the mirror: I know, it looks amazing with my lips.

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

G'day.

Thursday, August 8, 2013

football mom

You can now add me to the ranks of "football mom". It is a deeply honoured title, one riddled with tradition and pride. Its prestige can't be topped. Its rewards grand. Its investment bottomless.

Why, it's an honour just to be nominated. But to be the winner of such a life altering highlight? There are no words...

Sometimes, people tell me it's hard to tell if I'm being sarcastic or not. 

What about now? Am I being sarcastic now?

Who, moi? Never. 

So what does a football mom do? Well, four nights a week (carpool? what's a carpool?? someone teach the child how to get phone numbers so this football mom can set up a carpool already!!! geesh) she drives her child to a field where there are many many other children dressed like giant metal heads on toothpicks, and she proceeds to play a rousing game of Candy Crush or read a book, if she isn't already dead tired blind from the day. 

She could, if she felt so inclined, go sit with some of the other parents who have obviously done this before and brought chairs with them. But this football mom? No, she has to stay in her vehicle because she has no chair. 

And probably no bra on either. 

This particular football mom is shameful. She would apologize if she wasn't so blasted tired. This football mom is tired. She isn't sure where these kids get their energy from. If she was, she'd rob them blind without remorse. 

And on average, one giant metal head on a toothpick throws up at least twice per two-hour practice.

So, the diehard football moms sit on chairs, with blankets and coffee, while this rookie football mom writes on her hand with a pen she found under the seat, "remember chair".

Remembering is hard. Especially after you have washed your hands for the 423rd time in one day. 

Football moms hear things being yelled to their sons, and a few daughters, that make her mama bear hairs stand up on her mama bear neck. Things like "be more aggressive!!" and "don't be lazy!!"

I mean, I'm trying to teach my son to be loving and kind. Not a terrorizing metal head on a toothpick who likes to hit and knock over other top-heavy giant metal heads on toothpicks. And if anyone gets to tell the child to be less lazy it's me!

Youknowwhatimean?

Be. Aggressive! 
Got. To be aggressive!
A-G-G-R-E-S-S-I-V-E.
Aggressive. 
Aggressive. 
Be. 
Be. 
Aggressive!!

Now excuse me, this football has to go locate some pom poms. 

P.S. How come the other moms aren't taking pictures? Clearly I am the only one taking this seriously. 




Monday, July 29, 2013

the fosters

Okay, let's talk about foster kids. Why? Because I said so. Foster kids kill me. I fret about "who we're gonna get" until I have the trots. And then we "get them" and it's like "oh, this isn't so bad" and then they start to settle in and I'm like "whoa, nelly. This business be crazy, yo."

Seriously though, they are great kids. Ten and thirteen year old brothers who have to share a room at my house, which apparently is the "worst thing evah" for the ten year old. 

Excuse me, sir. I have to share a room so why shouldn't you??

So, I've been pondering their nick names for the purposes of this here blog. It's obvious the little one will be forever known as Chill because never, in the history of relaxed people, has there been a more chill dude. In fact, sometimes he's so chill I wonder if he's still breathing. 

And then there is the big one. A brand new teenager. And man oh man, can this dude talk. He talks and talks and talks and when he's not talking I have to check if he's still breathing.  Because geez Louise, surely when you talk that much, and then stop talking, its because you are not breathing. 

So then I get the trots from checking everyone's pulse all the time. 

But, he hasn't talked himself to death yet. I do declare, though, he's working on it. 

And everything he says starts with, "What happens if..."

Him: what happens if I eat this?

Me: ummm, your tummy gets full??

Him: what happens if that guy falls?

Me: ummm, he might get hurt??

Him: what happens if....

Me: for the love!!! Nothing!! Nothing happens! The world still spins. The sun still shines. Life goes on, buddy. It's okay. 

We shall call him ChitChat. Because, mercy, the chitchatting. 

So, there you have it. A brief introduction to the two human beings who have flown into my life and given me the endless trots. 

My poor nerves. 

In conclusion, here is a convo I had with ChitChat about the necessity of diet Pepsi.

ChitChat: why do you drink so much diet Pepsi?

Me: the same reason you breathe so much air. 

ChitChat: I breathe air so I can live. 

Me: yep. 

Saturday, July 27, 2013

the foulest confession

I'm just going to say it. As awful as it may sound. As horrible as you might think I am. As ungrateful as it may sound. 

I'm just going to say it. I can't wait for September. 

There, I said it. 

I love my kids. I really do. And these foster kids who have hit their one month mark? I really really like them too. But the combination of my kids and these great foster kids is a cacophony of LOUD LOUD LOUD voices. This might be the loudest gaggle of kids in the history of gaggly kids. 

And there are reasons the noise is not sitting so well with me. But that's not the point. The point is the talking. There is endless talking. And between one 15 year old, two 13 year olds, two 10 years olds and a very enthusiastic 7 year old there is no end to the talking. 

Please, is it not possible to enjoy each other's company without all the loud chit chat? I mean, I think it's possible but the children strenuously object. 

Strenuously object? Yes, it is possible to strenuously object. And they do. Oh, trust me, they do!

Now I'm in the mood for some Tom Cruise and Demi Moore. Great...

Moving on. The children have passionately taken to a new driving game. I really enjoy it. And by that I mean I despise it with every fibre of my being. It goes a little something like this:

Child: Look, it's a Honda. No wait, Dodge. 

Another child: Hey look! It's a Dodge. Oh, nope, that's a Suburu. 

And still yet, another child: TOYOTA!!

Other child: yep! Good job. I hate Toyotas. HONDA!

Another child: no, that's a Lamborghini. 

Previous child: huh? No! That's a Honda! As if you saw a Lamborghini. Where did you see a Lamborghini? 

Other previous child: back there, you idiot. Geez, we're driving, the cars are moving. Idiot. 

Me: we don't say idiot in our family. 

Silence. 

Original child: VOLKSWAGON!!!!

Another child: FORD!!!! 

And still yet, another child: DODGE!! Wait, no, what is that?

Know-it-all child: It's a Suburu. 

Previous child: what's a Suburu anyway?

Know-it-all child: it's a car. Idiot. An ugly car. 

Me: hey!! What did I say about saying idiot?!?! 

Silence. 

Original child: HONDA!!!

So.....without further explanation or justification of my feelings, let's reiterate. 

I can't wait for September. 

Friday, July 26, 2013

it's still 3:30

For some bizarre reason, the idea of blogging has become completely daunting to me. I don't think I can do it, which is weird because I have been doing it for three years, with little to no effort.

I do believe they call this the inner workings of one's mind. My inner workings can sometimes be mean and confusing and lead me to believe I am not capable. Of anything. Plus, it's July. It seems every July I go through something where survival with all the children home from school becomes the number one priority, everything else withers away and almost dies.

Like the clean house. Where is the clean house?

So anyway, I just got back, well three days ago I just got back, from 9 days in the glorious Okanagan at my daddy's house. And my mummy's house. But it's my daddy that made me laugh. He was wearing a watch the entire time. And this watch possessed a battery that did not work.

It was always 3:30.

"Dad, what time is it?"

"It's 3:30."

"No, it's not 3:30."

"That's what my watch says."

"Yep."

This trip may have included our own private showing of The Lone Ranger. Nine people in the theatre and they all belonged to me. We spread out over three rows, we talked to each other. Loudly.

I played on my phone. The biggest theatre faux pas of all. And all without consequence.

Mwahahahaha. That's my evil breaking-the-rules laugh.

The new season of Honey Boo Boo came out, I think at 3:30, and the man would not let me buy the scratch and sniff magazine that accompanied the episode. I have no idea why not. I'm sure the whole episode smelled like peaches and rainbows. The man is such a party pooper.

Dinner time happened at 3:30. Every day. And so did breakfast and lunch and beach time and home time and bedtime and all the times happened at 3:30. My dad never took his watch off. He said it was a nice watch. He also said it was 3:30, when it wasn't.

And then, a few days into the trip, at around 3:30, the man left to run a few errands, in the United States of America. He left me in the Okanagan with 6 kids, which I was expecting but was secretly pleading with the Gods above that he wouldn't actually leave me there. When I tried to explain to the man that he owed me for what he was about to do he claimed he did not have a clue what I was speaking of. I gave him that look and he told me to ask you. So maybe I will.

Actually, I won't ask because I already know. You know how I know? Because I know, that's how. He owes me and I will collect. When I'm not so tired from all the vacationing.

Anyway, sometime around 3:30 on day 9 we packed up my truck to the ceiling and drove away. It was the longest day of my life. Not really, but it was close. I explained to the children that I did not want to stop, except for lunch. I wanted to drive and get home and end the madness.

Children don't listen well. We stopped once an hour for one child or another who simply could not hold it. This does not make me a happy driver. But, I'm sure I was being completely unreasonable. I was the one whining, "are we almost home yet?"

I was desperate.

It felt like time was standing still....

Like it was 3:30...
all.
day.
long.









Tuesday, July 2, 2013

hell's kitchen

I don't know what's going on here but it seems almost apocalyptic. First there is a flooding in all the land and then Satan turned up the heat. The heat has hit boiling point. You know how I know?

Because I am boiling.

Boiling freaking hot. I can hardly stand it. I want to hurt someone. I have reached curse mode. We are cursing here, people. It is that hot. The a/c in my truck doesn't work and I have never before been so deeply offended. How dare it!?!

The people of my kingdom asked, "what's for supper?" And I thought to myself, 'they are kidding right? No one wants to eat in this heat. This is what ice water is for.'

But no, they meant actual food. So I stood at the stove and cooked ground beef for taco salad, because that meant the oven could stay off and that is a good thing. But, would you know it? The burners on the stove get flipping hot too and that made me melt and by the time I had cooked half a cow I was dripping with sweat and hating the people of my kingdom. And then Amelia may have blurted out the proverbial straw that broke the proverbial camel's back. She may have said something to the effect of, "I don't like taco salad." Actually, that is exactly what she said. Word for word.

I may have thrown a bowl.

At her.

And then all the people may have eaten their body weights in taco salad while I pushed mine around my bowl.

Too hot to eat. That's a new one.

And then!!! And then!!! And then the wonderful mayor of our land told us to turn off all the stuff! The heat is sucking all the power and we need to cool it on the coolers. You know?

No! Nenshi! I don't know. What I do know is that you may be dealing with a homicidal housewife PDQ if you make me turn off the a/c that is blaring in my bedroom and keeping me sane.

Poor Nenshi, I hope he's not melting in his office where I'm sure the a/c is not on. It better not be on, Nenshi! You hear me?

So anyway...I am neglecting the people of this house as I study for this never ending spring course I am taking. It's July. It is July and I am studying for my psyc final. This spring class has just about done me in. Never again will I take an all day Saturday class. Especially during flood season where stuff gets postponed a couple of weeks and you end up having finals to study for when all the kids are off school and home ALL THE TIME. Remind me I said that when I get the hankering for an all day Saturday class. What a terrible idea that turned out to be. This class had been a thorn in my side, to say the least.

So anyway...I lead a glamorous life, where there is no end to the complaining about the weather. And stuff.

Last night I took a cold shower before bed because I was melting and whining and carrying on unlike anything one could ever imagine. I said to the man, "How much regret do you have in marrying me?"

He responded with, "None. Zero." And I thought, 'Awwwwww, he is the very best.' And then he said, "I do, however, wish you didn't complain so much."

Blergh. Let's hope he doesn't stop by my blog tonight....