return of the extra long post: don't look back in anger (oh heck, why not)

We have been at my parent's house since last Wednesday.  Whenever I come back, I dig through the old albums.  I want to ship them all to Toronto but it would be one more huge pile of stuff that would become more of a burden than a joy since I have no where to keep them in our tiny apartment.  So here they stay in my parent's basement until I can give them a proper home.  Let's hope my mom doesn't realize they are still here and go all purgy on me.

Anyhow, I tripped across The Boomtown Rats' I Don't like Mondays.  Way back in 1979 this was the best intro I had ever heard for a song (soon to be dethroned by Train in Vain) and I was instantly hooked at the wee age of ten.

*sigh* I wish I had a turntable to spin all my 45s on, just so I could go back in time for two minute increments.  Two minutes is better than none.

But that's not what I set out to talk about tonight.  I came to talk about strong emotions.  In this case: anger.

Some things shouldn't be done when I'm angry.  For instance, I have a personal rule that as a couple, SB and I should not go to bed angry.  I read that pithy statement in some relationship counselling guide and it stuck.  Why would I be reading guides and tomes on relationship counselling? Is my marriage suffering?  No, not one lick or cuddle - my marriage is great but thank you for your concern.  But why would I be reading marriage counselling 101 books?  Well one does these things when toying with training to be a relationship counsellor.

Hilarious, I know: Imagine me being a counsellor.  But ten years ago, it was one of the avenues my education offered so I looked into it.  So yes, imagine me as a marriage counsellor.

Hell, I'd drive the divorce rate up, that much I know.  Relationships can be so unhealthy, so full of malignancy that I'm sure I'd advise more than average, to cut the cancer out and be done with it.  I'd be all pronounce-y and say something like "why not loose that [insert spousal weight here] pound tumour you have attached to you by a piece a paper, and start fresh?"

Actually, I wish people had to do more for a marriage license than declare they are single and not Charles Manson.  I think there should be a test.  Something akin to being dropped into Jurassic Park while chained together, slathered in steak sauce, and the only way you can survive is with a little thing called cooperation and brains.  If you die, well one less marriage or divorce for the courts to process.

You wouldn't want to live in my world, would you?

ANYHOW - I'm once again off topic - sorta.

Back up to not going to bed angry.  Another thing I know I should not do when angry, is blog.  So I've been quiet lately and that has been a good thing for everyone involved.  And don't worry, I'm not mad at you (like you were worried gentle reader), it's just I've been angry at myself for regressing in my personal pledges.

[cue violins]

You see, years ago I felt miserable most of the time because I surrounded myself with unhealthy relationships - I can't bare to call them friendships.  Then I had a V8 moment and realized that these people had no respect for me, so I obviously had no respect for myself and I cut the fat and quickly felt better about everything, including myself.  It's not really rocket science, yet it took way too long to figure out.  I swore it wouldn't happen again.  But obviously it did.

So this past weekend, after talking with friends who I love, respect, and adore, I found my focus again, and started to trim the fat and purge the unhealthy relationships of my life.  And the reason I felt the need to blog about this seemingly self-centred and boring topic, is this: I geniunely like 99.6% of my readers (all four of you that aren't family, though I must admit I kept the family members in that statistic to boost the percentages, something my stats profs would curse me out for doing because OMG I'm skewing the stats.  Did I ever tell you that stats make me kind of horny?  Seriously I love statistics and rocked them in university like an air guitar. I'm a sick, sick woman.  And truthfully, my prof from stats 2080 for medical professionals would probably high-five my skewing of the stats because that's how you get a job at the major corporations, don'tcha know).

Oh I'm so off topic now... backing up... horny, stats, reader love *screech* yes that's where I was:

I like you and may I be so bold to suggest you do the same kind of relationship purge if you are feeling bogged down.  Examine those you allow to orbit in your universe.  Are they using you? Do they respect you? Why are they part of your life?  And then pull yourself up and say I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and... oh screw that crap: respect me or get the hell out.

That felt good.

Back to regular programming soon.

no cigar

I came this close to writing a post tonight.  This. Close.

But it didn't happen.

Ever feel allergic to your own blog?

napodone

While I posted in two other places yesterday (my other baby Binkywood and my parenting outlet Toronto Savvy Source), I didn't make time for here and as the evening slipped away I didn't notice until after midnight that I'd missed doing anything here.

And you know what? It felt liberating.  It's one less stress this week.  Your rss readers can thank me later.

Today I have my first Christmas themed review up at motherbumper's lab: Minted personalized cards for the holidays.  Go on over and check it out and I'll be back... sometime.

the magic show

Hey, remember how my daughter likes to test the limits in local language laws and find out what words can be said, and which ones shouldn't be said - ever - even when the parental units crack a quick giggle smirk before handing out a warning or a reprimand?  Yes, well, one must find the humour and love the mouth on three, because three be a wily one.

Picture it, just after dinner, Gigi plans a magic show for her dad, allowing mom to sneak off and do some laundry (oh to have my own washer and dryer... and dishwasher... and maid but if I had to choose one, I'll take the washer and never return to the building's basement laundry ever again).

ANYHOW, if you are still awake after reading my boring lifestyle challenges:  Gigi planned a magic show and even set up chairs for her audience (stage: her bed).  She put on many shows, turning every thing (or so it seemed) in her room into something else, it was apparently an amazing show (I missed it but did hear the dialogue - which was also an amazing show and YES I'm getting there).

At one point during the show, apparently during the audience interaction segment (she's really organized folks), SB decided to ask G about the doll she was holding on stage.  She told him it was her daughter, so he inquired as to her daughter's name.


Gigi gave a sly look and softly said "As*y".  SB asked for clairification, to which she decided to not risk a warning and replied "Bassy".  She then proceeded to laugh and laugh and laugh.  And so did her dad.

I really hope she doesn't pull these stunts at nursery school.  I really, really hope she doesn't (oh you know she does but the denial ain't just a river in Eygpt ya' know).

two years ago today

This was two years ago? I'm beginning to think I black out a lot because I swear I just took this photo.

BTW - today is the last day to enter the draw for THREE FREE DS GAMES over at motherbumper's lab - contest closes at midnight tonight.

morning agreement

This morning, SB and I woke up at 5:55 am to a scraping noise coming from the living room.  And when I say scraping, I mean furniture being pushed around in a very very noisy way.  It quickly dawned on me that both the 'furniture moving'-sized folks that lived in our home were laying in this very bed, so who the F*%# was moving furniture in our living room?

Cat or Kid?

I put my money on the kid.  Those cats are lazier than me.

The kid hunch made me bound out bed and down the hall to see what was going on.  I'm kind of surprised at that energetic reaction considering (a) you guessed it - I'm lazy and (b) I'm sick.  But no, I bound out of bed knowing full well who was making that noise.  Because she isn't the type to redecorate our place as a thank-you for wiping my butt surprise, I knew she had to be going for something hidden and forbidden.

I came out to find Gigi moving a chair from the table.  She was pushing it through the kitchen towards the fridge.

As I stood there, sort of realizing how crappy I actually felt and sort of confused, I asked her what she was doing.  She explained that she wanted to get her stuff out of the freezie.  Stuff in the "freezie"?  Hey, remember the great nutella incident of Thursday past?  Yes well, in the frenzied rush to get her to the bathroom for cleaning before nutella suddenly appeared everywhere, I tossed the jar into the freezer.  It is the last frontier of places in the kitchen that she couldn't reach - until now.  I'm kinda surprised Gigi remembered the stuff was in there.

Obviously I put a stop to it, explained we were all supposed to be still sleeping and for the love of peaches, let's all go back to bed.  She cried a little, and then in one non-stop statement explained that she didn't want to sleep anymore, and asked who puked on the couch.  The last part caught me off guard.  Five years ago I would have assumed it was me but these days, "it's all fun and games until..." nights are few and far between.

Anyhow, it was one of the cats that puked.  What else is new.  The fact that he did it on the couch upsets me greatly, but what upsets me more, is the fact that I now need to clear out new Gigi-Proof hiding spots for food things, and institute a no furniture moving clause into our morning agreement.

In case you are wondering, our morning agreement has been completely ignored by one party for the last three years, one month, and fifteen days (plus eight hours and forty minutes, but who's counting).  Some days I can't wait until she a surly teen who wants to sleep in.  I'm going to eat those words - big time.

tgif

For the first time since I don't know when, I played hooky this afternoon.

Oh yes I did.

I took off in a flash like my last name was Cullen as soon as my beloved Edward SB came through the door.

And yes, in my afternoon of well coordinated freedom, I caught a matinee of Twilight.

Because I am a Twilight cougar, here me roar.

Damn Edward is hot.

BTW: I give it a thumbs up because it doesn't try to be anything but what it is: a teen movie based on a hot book.  And when I say hot, I mean the hottest thing without sex that I've read since I don't know what.  Sure there is canned cheese, but like I said, it's a teen movie and if I was fifteen I'd eat it up with a spoon.  Since I am not fifteen, I just enjoy the intense eye candy and the daydreams of what I'd do if I was Bella.  And trust me, I'd do lots if I was Bella (rawr) - but you know, if I could but wouldn't because HELLO: vampire.  But you know - a cougar girl can dream, can't she?

Oh yes, and look up, look way up, right up there in the address box of your browser.  Yup, I finally set up my own domain.  Only took two years.  DAMN I'M LAZY.

I swear it's chocolate, I swear

We are really working on Gigi's independence in these here parts. 

On school nights we are now planning the next day's clothing so there are no fights in the morning (how I dread the clothing fights).  If she approves a totally weather-suitable outfit, dressing seems to go way more smoothly for everyone involved (translation: me).

For a child who is more interested in being starkers than dressed, I'm pleasantly surprised that Gigi has also begun to exert independence in the actual dressing process.  She is putting on the under things, socks, and shirts like a pro but she still holds onto her hatred for leg covers of all kinds.  She loathes anything that confines her, so unfortunately a dressing method that requires me pretty much sitting on her or downright bribing her usually gets her adequately covered for the elements.

How I've dreaded these first snowy days of the season.

Anyhow, she's also really into doing food prep herself. Independence in the kitchen has taken hold and it threatens to make meal prep both more comedic and death-defying than it ever was.  So we've started slow: pouring cereal, pouring milk on cereal (which requires 100% supervision and perhaps some stealth guidance or we have a dairy-related disaster on our hands that would make a grown cow cry), but now she wants to butter and jam her own toast.

So being insane, I found these plastic knives that wouldn't be considered dangerous by school officials if say a child who likes to sneak stuff to school, took one to school to pull on the teacher when she least expected it.  You know, because some kids are really sneaky and end up sitting in class with dolls that were specifically denied entry to the school on prior occasions.  And yet, even after searching her gear, STILL these toys somehow show up on her person at school, during class.  And trust me, the teacher lets her mom know every single time it happens.  Yes, so these knives won't cause a panic or even cut water so I gave one to Gigi so she could learn to spread jam on toast.  They really are pathetic in the realm of knives, perhaps I should just call them spreading sticks.

ANYHOW, today the jam was nutella and the bread was graham crackers.  It was mid morning snack time and we'd had a good day, so why not break out the chocolate spread that makes me feel like I'm trapped in an annoying overdubbed european commercial.

I think I'll stop telling the story here because pictures work waaaaay better than words so let me leave it at: I swear that I only left the room for two minutes.

And yes, I really felt the need to explain that it was hazelnut spread before anyone jumped to the wrong conclusion.

wordless wednesday

Two was a cake walk compared to three but I remember distinctly that a year ago today Gigi went to get her hair cut and switched chairs on the poor hairdresser three times during the six minute trim.

She started on Nemo, moved to the fire truck, and then settled on the motorcycle because it provided a better view to the non-stop Barney show that made my ears and eyes bleed uncontrollably all over the floor.  And can you believe they made me clean it up?  People just don't understand when you are deathly allergic to creepy, oversized, purple dinasours that are trying to eat your child's brains.

It took me three hours to get her off this horse and I lost four pounds in sweat wrestling her back to the subway.  These days I'd have to pay her to leave.  Oh how she's grown.

And once again I can't shut my gob on wordless wednesday.

confessional

I have a horrible confession to make: I kind of like it when my child has a cold.  WAIT! Don't call social services and start screamin' "WITCH, MUNCHAUSEN, no WITCH, definitely witch... wait, no... would it Munchausen by proxy?  Ack, screw it, she's just a witch".  Seriously don't do it because I hate seeing Gigi in any stage of discomfort or pain and duuuuuude, I'd never make her sick on purpose.  That would require a lot of work and planning and I'm too lazy to do actual work.  Let's not even talk about planning stuff, I'm already making excuses to get out of the plans and work that don't even exist.

Anyhow, yes, my horrible confession of liking when my child has an uncomplicated, totally straight-forward cold.

You see, we just endured the week from hell.  I know, I know, join the club but seriously, I haven't received official notice that it's over yet and I'm probably tempting the fates and gods with this post, so have no fear, someone will strike me down and my work will go officially from hell to a double order of hell, upsized, with chili-cheese fries on the side.  But no drink and the chili is made of poo.  And to think, I just added to your torture by making you read that last sentence.  You're welcome.

Anyhow (how many times can I say that word - lots more than you deserve to read), the most current week from hell showcased a brutal cold that included all of the usual suspects: hacking cough, snot - actually, it was littered with assorted bodily fluids, take your pick, extreme fevers, crankiness, loss of appetite, and my favourite: listlessness.  It was during this limp phase that I realized I didn't fully mind this particular cold because... well because of a truly selfish reasons on my part:  my daughter morphed into the most compliant, cuddly kid ever in the history of her existence on this planet.

Yes, yes, I realize it was probably in part due to the horrible fevers and maybe some fever-induced delirium but oh my holy fish, she just wanted to be snuggled up by my side and have books read to her, and watch movies, or just plain sleep.  We'd attempt to play with her dolls or colour but those activities required too much energy.  Oh and the NAPS, glorious NAPS.  Which of course were filled with doing things that didn't get done because she wanted to cuddle every waking hour.  But then I would be totally nervous when she was sleeping while so sickly, so I'd generally cuddle up right next to her.

Oh and before I forget, a warning to all my fellow lazy speed readers: When I was researching fevers online in order to learn the warning signs for potential doc office trips, I accidentally clicked on a link for Dengue fever.  After reading about 10 lines in I totally felt my own internal organs melt into a puddle of fear.  Then I immediately thought, "geeeez how the f' did Denguy get a fever named after him?"  Seriously, how do you get some brutal monkey-bite ebola-like disease named after you and where do I sign up?  That sure beats getting a star named after you, it's like HOLY CRAP, that entire city was wiped out by Denguy fever and you don't get that kind of publicity as a star, unless that star happens to fall out of the sky and destroy a city and you know, in that case you still got ripped off because DUDE your star totally fell out of the sky.  And to think, once your star fell out of the sky, your star is gone, but a thing like Denguy fever, well that's the fever that keeps on taking and taking for generations to come.

Then I realized it said Dengue.  The end.

Totally made you forget about my horrible confession, eh? d'oh

UPDATE: So apparently I'm far from alone on this sentiment. Backpacking Dad wrote about the same thing last week and said it a hell of a lot more eloquently because he one of those philosophical dudes. Isn't it wonderful how plagues bring out the prose in parents?  Also it makes me feel a hell of lot less guilty, thanks Shawn :)

esperanza

How lazy am I?  I'm so lazy that I've owned some domains for years and done nothing with them.  And if anything has taught me to stay lazy, then trying to do something with those domains proves once and for all, I should remain lazy in these situations.

Get this:  When I tried to actually do something with the domains, it turns out the company that I bought these domains from require a static IP to point to and there is no static IP to point it to, so why can't they use a DNS and blah blah blah and OMG my head hit the desk and caused a dent called frustration.

Then I got attacked by lazy again and forgot about it.  But a few months later (translation: last week) I thought I found a solution to the problem and was confident that I would have it completed within seventy-two hours.

I giggled in anticipation and salivated and did all sorts of nerdy things.  Domains would be updated, domains would be used. But that seventy-two hour deadline was up twenty-four hours ago and approximately twenty-four hours ago I lost it.  Coincedence, I think not:  it was a proverbial straw on that stinkin' paciderms back that even stand alone, far away from the other injustices in my world, this straw was worthy of an exquiste temper tantrum.

Thankfully I had another burst of unlaziness and am confident I am on the road to fixing the issue.  I think.  Or I might just melt down completely.

Anyhow, this is my long winded excuse as to why another lame post.  May I offer you my favourite fish?  I like to call her Esperanza and she loves Friedrich Nietzsche.

lame but free

I'm giving away stuff over at my review blog.  I know this is a lame post for a Sunday but I'm having a bad day and you can win stuff so what's there to complain about?  Leave the complaining to me, and go win some free stuff from motherbumper's lab.

hello barbie, let's go party

and so it begins...

This unrealistic role model hussy vixen harlot mass-marketed-hysteria maker classic toy has made her way into my daughter's heart and there is nothing I can do to stop her.  She has Gigi by the sub cockles of her heart, and there is no letting go.

I know, I know, the problem is all mine. She's just a doll and we didn't need to let her in the house.  Hell, most of the population doesn't have a beef with her like I do (right? or do you all dread her too?)  I dunno, I'm just a little shocked that her fascination started this early.

On a related note but without the benefit of a segue: Barbie seems to have had a breast reduction but made up for it by having a butt lift.  Hey ladies, what another word for pirate treasure? That's right folks, this girl has booty.  Sadly, the anatomically clean nether regions have been replaced with disturbing unremovable flesh-tone fishnet panties.

I told you she was a hussy.  Where did she get the money for the body work?  She never does anything but lounge around in her PJs and listen to her iPod and watch TV all day (yes, she came with an iPod AND big screen tv).  Plus who wears fishnet panties? Hussies - that's who.  Sure, I can't remove them but I bet she can!

I need to get out more *smacks self in head*

dallas star

Today I actually chiselled away at my reader and made a dent of some significance.  Instantaneous stress reduction that was further helped by answer a few overdue emails.  Mmmm, the weight is coming off my shoulders.

You see that right there - that last line? That line is the one the gods are going to taunt me with when they smote me with a few lightening bolts, unexpected bills, or bad-blasts-from-the-past for admitting that my stress levels have reduced.

Can't wait to see what they throw at me this time.

Anyhow, Amy inspired me today.  You see, Rudy recently lost his balls, and his room mate Farley likes to pretend he's the reason CSI was invented.

And coincidently, our cat Dallas likes to pretend he's been shot, so I bet he'd have some good times with Farley.  Dallas was also upset that he wasn't featured solo on this blog so far in NaBloPoMo so I'm doing this post to avoid pootastic pucker-prints left by pucker-points on my pillows.

Some days I think I should have been that woman with one hundred cats, bad fashion sense, who prefers to eat spaghettios straight from the can.  No offence to my readers who actually qualify for all of the above.

lost

After preparing yesterday's meme, I cruised through the old photos.  It's hard to resist the lure of memories in technicolor.

If you've known me a while, this was my original avatar.  I love this photo.  Gigi was such a serious baby 67% of the time.  The other thirty-three were spent making me swoon or go insane in the membrane.

There is a distinct memory of being impatient for the appearance of more hair but trying not to let it get to me because it seemed too superficial.  Which it was because all I wanted to do was force her into cute little hairstyles before she started to tell me to back off.  For the record, she started to tell me to back off the moment she started to talk.

Anyhow, now it's screw superficial - it's all about being practical.  These days, I wish she had short hair because taming her locks is damn near f'ing impossible with the hand twirled dreadlocks that form on a daily basis.  And don't even get me started on her bangs which are in her eyes all the time - oh wait - so are mine, so maybe I'd better let that one slide.

So the knot-filled hair means basically I'm paying for that one superficial wish.   Karma can be a bitch.  Cripes, I wonder what would happen if I wished for lots of money?  I'd probably get robbed by a bunch of freak clowns right after receiving the cash.

Oh sorry, I bet you thought I was going to talk about Lost (finally, they announced when it's back) but no, I was just talking about how I got lost in the photos last night.  Boring I know, but you cannot tell me you don't do it too.  Seriously, doesn't everyone fall head first into their photo folders?

route 66

Kyla said "tag, you're it" so I'm running with it.  Here's the deal:

• Go to your Sixth Picture Folder then pick your Sixth Picture.
• Pray that you remember the details.
• Tag 5 others.

Now my photos are set up not so much as in folders, as they are in something fun I like to call chaos. So instead, I selected the sixth event in my iPhoto collection that is in a woeful mess.  Same same but different, ya here?

When I found photos six of event six it turns out this photo is part of a sequence taken maybe five years ago - the dates are screwed up in the early events on my laptop which drives me bonkers.

Anyhow, I do believe my then boyfriend, now husband captured this particular moment in order to use as proof of my insanity in a court of law.  Not that I'm legally recognized as insane.

Before the unrecognised, not even realized gap in our lives was filled with Gigi, before marriage and hard core commitment, oh hell, before the disappearance of peace, being selfish, and laziness, we had a couple of kids known as the cats.

Sure, they still live with us, and they are still family.  And yes, one of them may possibly be trying to drive me insane, but what child hasn't tried to send a parent to the looney bin?  Hand down in the back, Goody Two Shoes.  But back in our betrothed days, they were our kids without us realizing it.  These days I feel bad for those cats; old age mixed with a human little sister just hasn't panned out as planned.  At least I assume they had a plan and this wasn't it.  I'm just grateful all my kids tolerate each other.  Gigi's relationship borders on love, but the cats definitely just tolerate.  OMG, I'm getting so off track...

ANYWAY, I have always loved a deep warm bubble bath to end the day and almost every time I ran my bath in the "world's ugliest bathroom that I still use daily", Emmett would come running in to watch the water flow from the tap.  Then after my serenity had been drawn, he would either sit on the edge of the tub or up on the counter and tolerate my company with a smile.  OMG, AND he totally used to dip his tail in the water sometimes and which would FREAK ME OUT.

It would freak me out because not only is that insanely cute, it's also akin to him sticking his nasty dirty parts in my bubble bath.  But like I said, it was also insanely cute so I'd let him do it.  He loved to do the dip and I thought these tail dips were his attempts at solidifying our relationship.

These days when he does it, I wonder if he is just measuring up my reflex reactions to say, a plugged in appliance being pushed into the water.

So yes, Emmett and I share a love of the bubble baths.  I think the most mindnumbingly adorable things he did around bath time was to come running and then stand like a small child at the ledge.  Which brings us to photos six of folder six:

Who's in denial that this was my furry child? I can't deny how guilty I look.

Yes... so now I'm responsible for tagging five folks so I'll pick NaBloPoMo'rs to give them a night off from trying to think of a post topic.  You're welcome.

Jezer
daysgoby
Cynical Dad
cool zebras
YOU (seriously, tell me if you are doing it)

I'm apologizing in advance if you have already done this meme, I'm so far behind in my reading I hyperventilate when I open my reader.  Seriously, I do.

cross this one off the list

Sometime a gazillion-umpteen months ago, I muttered to myself,

"self, you must remember to do one of those search engine posts during NaBloPoMo this November because OMG there are a lot of strange people out there, and some of them read your blog." 

I said it to myself in my best Holly Hunter in Broadcast News voice because that just makes life more interesting.

And please note that I did NOT say that all my readers are strange people.  Many of you are totally normal *cough*closet weirdos *cough* and productive members of society.

Anyhow, it's completely fascinating to read some of the absolutely odd things people type into search engines.

I love that this person got here when they typed in biker chick travel mug because yes my kid is cute but OMG do I have the travel mug for you.  Though this travel mug is less of a biker chick and more like the town bike, if you catch my drift.  But biker chick travel mug was pretty low down on the list of seach engine wackiness and no where near as entertaining as today's top five list:


(5) steve mcqueen 1:18 #20 - I had not idea that Steve McQueen had his own book in the bible.  Must be the Chuck Norris edition.  Not surprised really, I mean it is Steve McQueen after all.

(4) what is the smell in liquid paper - I sat behind you in homeroom, right? Yah, you definetely shaved a few years off your life using it as a teeth whitner.  You really should have stuck with using it for nail polish - like me.

(3) can a border guard look through my pictures on my camera - YES for the love of gravy - YES.


(2) nyquil twitching - So sorry, just lay back and try to enjoy the green wave. Your mantra is Capital N - small y - GIANT F**KING Q!  High five for all that got that, I think that was the last time Denis Leary was funny.

and number one (drum roll please):


(1) my fucking neighbour got a mustang before I could - My daughter totally gets this man, totally totally gets this.

The Wall

I can't even count that high so what the h-e-double hockey sticks is this 1000+ all about?

I signed up for NaBloPoMo because I figure I'll sleep when I'm dead and this is what happens - over 1000 unread posts in mah poor old bloated reader? 

Google can't even be bothered to tell me exactly how many I have in there because they figure at this point "f*ck you motherbumper, there ain't a snowballs chance in hell that you are going to find the time to read all this stuff so why should we bother to tally it up (bitch)".  Seriously - I think google calls me names and is verbally abusive every single freakin' chance it gets.  I have no proof, but I can feel it in my bones, IN MY BONES I SAY.

For the record, I didn't get enough caffeine today and our alcohol supplies have run dry.  All work and no something something makes motherbumper a dull blogger.

like totally

The summer I turned fourteen was spent horsebacking, obsessing about boys, and spending time in my friend's attic watching endless videos on the VCR, taped from Samantha Taylor's Video Hits and Much Music. This was one of our favourites. Squeeze could do no wrong in my childhood.

I remember so many of the videos on my friend's favourte tape, a tape that was held with sacred reverence since the timing of each and every song was done with such skill.  Her pause and record prowess was legendary among the teen video-junkie set.

To this day, whenever I hear any of these songs, I think of the lazy afternoons spent in the attic, after a full day of riding or swimming or putting dreadlocks in our hair.  Black Coffee in Bed was preceded by XTC's Senses Working Overtime and followed by Echo and the Bunnymen's The Killing Moon. How do I remember something like that? No idea.  But I'd give my last bar of chocolate to watch that tape again.

And yes, in case you are wondering, I'm still in complete denial at how bad everyone's hair looked back then. COMPLETE AND UTTER DENIAL.

gigli

May I be so bold to offer some parenting advice?

Yes... well for those who have continued to read, despite the high probability that I will be dispensing some a*svice, may I recommend that under no circumstances should you ever condone or allow your parent-in-crime to teach the three year old sponge child to scream"THIS IS NOT IN MY CONTRACT" as loud as possible when being forced to do something as horrific as getting dressed, having the teeth brushed, or god forbid, having the knots in her hair worked on.

No, this is not cool at all.

A three year old with contact, yes that's all I need.  Can you imagine the rider?

All I need is for her to demand I pluck all the orange m&ms out of the mix, that I must provide a totally white playroom with white orchids and lilies changed daily, with non-stop Treehouse, ice cream, dolls and ride-on cars plus an endless selection of princess costumes for her to try on.

This is the stuff that haunts me.

apple sauce

I should file under stuff that makes me question parenting skills before coming to my senses:

Lately Gigi has returned to adding a bad word into her random monologues and doing it just for effect.  She loves to see if we are really paying attention so she peppers it with butt, a*s (?!!), or *sigh* sh*t.

As far as I know, we always catch it.  Keeping a straight face is sometimes difficult, especially when she uses it correctly, but we always give a warning, that leads to more serious consequences if ignored.

She knows it's bad, and this knowledge is written all over her face when she's doing it.

Tonight when I was putting her to bed, she had jumped on the edge of the bed and I heard her say a*sy a*s a*s - her own little taunt she came up with (OMG, she totally made it up herself, I swear - the kid is a natural poet) - so she got a warning.

This made her laugh.

Then she saddled up next to me and said knock, knock

[ me, hesitant and dreading what she was going to say ] who's there?

[ her, with a half smile on her face ] orange

[ me, completely dreading what she was going to say next ] orange who?

[ her, taking a pause for effect]  orange you glad I didn't say aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa - aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaapplesauce?  Followed by a longer than necessary laugh.


This kid really should be in show business.  Or the mob.

this is how I roll

Yesterday I opened a flyer and saw the bedside lamps I had been eyeing last month had been marked down.  If that isn't a sign that they are meant to be mine, I don't know what one would be.  I mean, doesn't that mean it was meant to be?  Oh I know those lamps and I were meant to be together, because why else would I take the time to read a sale flyer from my favourite store?  Don't shatter my delusional thinking please.  My methods of rationalization keep me happy.

Now for something completely different, yet not completely unrelated, I have a new addiction.

I love buying in bulk.

When fulfilling my new addiction, I must always keep in mind that we live in a very small three room space.  Buying in bulk must be done with restraint and realism, but still: it's so much fun and it makes my cheap side just squeal like a school girl seeing Chuck Bass.  OMG why am I so into that show?  Holy cow, I just can't get enough.  But back to my other addiction.

I cannot get enough of getting something in bulk.  I swear it makes me all giggly when I score.  Sweet juju, I'm a warehouse shopping junkie.

Currently, I have a drum of peanut butter, a mega block of cheese, and fifteen pounds of butter in the fridge.

I create functional furniture out of crates of diapers, which sadly is coming to an end with this blasted potty training.  That drop of product from our shopping may possibly force us into finding real dressers.

And now I'm trying to build a new couch out of palettes of toilet paper but so far I've only made a foot stool.

But next time I make it to Costco, I'm totally finishing that project.  I'm thinking that I should reenforce the couch bottom with KD and paper towel.  Those longer rolls make for better support don'tcha think?

And this is the kind of stuff that you find in my brain.

And if you are interested in stuff that makes me laugh, head on over to Mrs. Chicky's and Oh The Joys to see the winners of the October ROLFs. My nomination almost made me electrocute myself while reading, that's how hard I cried.  Tears on the keyboard is dangerous stuff, but if asked to read it again, I would if only to hear the word Qbert just one more time.  Totally worth risking death.

bam!

I took this photo while in Chicago during the summer of '07, at BlogHer.

At the time I wished it would be true.  Now it is and I can't wipe the smile off my face.

us

 

it's rare to find a photos of us together

so I'm going to file this under stuff I love

burnt bun boy and the intangible stuff

During the summer of 2001 while in South Korea, Burnt Bun Boy became a part of my life. Burnt Bun Boy's path crossed mine many times in the days leading up to our actual meeting.

I'd catch glimpses of him while strolling through the open markets on the side streets in Busan. Children would whip by sporting backpacks with his moon face staring forlornly into nothing.  He wasn't the usual kind of anime character that attracted kids.  He was plain, bland, and sad. And obviously burnt.

The pack of wild ankle-biters that made up my friend's class at the local English school tackled me each day after class and many of them carried notebooks, pencil cases, and other assorted stationary covered in this strange looking brown character.

Each day the students would first rush then pile on me, screaming at my face in English, throwing around random words like hippopotamus or automobile and other funny words their six year old minds could retain.  And while I tossed and shooed them away like the rabid butterflies they were, that little brown guy would call out to me.  He appeared to be the Pokeman of the moment.  He was everywhere I went.

That summer was hot and we were soon leaving for Bangkok, so I knew a good old-fashion hand-powered fan was in order.  I had purchased a Mary is my Homegirl fan before leaving Toronto, but had forgotten to pack it.  What that says about me trying to being blasphemous, I don't know.  Regardless, a new fan was on the top of my shopping list and finding one with this mysterious Kogepan on it would be perfection.

That was Burnt Bun Boy's real name: Kogepan.  It took for-EV-er to get his name straight - you can only imagine me in a local teenage internet cafe trying to decipher what the teenagers were trying to tell me, all while hopped up on fruit flavoured caffeine drinks.  Meaning we all were hopped up except the kids had the added jitter layer of playing Quake for 20 hours straight on top of the fruit-flavoured speed.

Finally I got his name and set out in the underground malls to find a fan.  It took me all of twelve seconds to find store dedicated to his ilk and he was mine.  I guess I didn't really need to interrupt those strobing kids back at the internet lair.  Anyhow, when I got home I found out more about Kogepan/Burnt Bun Boy and it's totally trippy man.

Short of long: Kogepan is an overcooked redbean bun who was rejected by his creators and peers, only to turn to smoking and drinking milk as beer to blot out the pain. The depth of his character and history made my childhood comic books seem very sterile and homogenous.  Perhaps because they were.

My Burnt Bun Boy hand-powered fan recently broke.  The pink handle split in two, and it was reduced to a thin Frisbee of plastic which looks pretty pathetic.  I know it's not like an heirloom or something of monetary value, but I wish I had taken better care of that fan, maybe storing it away from curious hands.  That particular trip is full of memories that extend far beyond any of the photos that turned out.  Burnt Bun Boy was part of that, and I can't see his sad little face without remembering so much freakin' stuff.

full metal locker

Each time I smell noxema or ten-o-six cleanser, I'm immediately taken back to junior high. Bonnie Bell, Love's Baby Soft, and Coty provided a scented soundtrack to those years wedged between being a kid and a full fledged teen. The word tween did not exist when I entered grade seven at the unripe age of twelve.

Each August, Shoppers would put out a teen pack full of all the things one needed to go back to school.  Full size bottles of Gee, your hair smells terrific shampoo, Listerine mouth wash, Close-up toothpaste - always in cinnamon - plus some other stuff all for five bucks.  Armed with that and an at-least-thrice-read copy of latest Seventeen magazine, I knew I was ready to face the school halls in September.  And the locker rooms.  At least I didn't have to go to school with stinky boys, but girls - girls can be the worst critics and one would not want to be labelled grungy.

They say that the sense of smell is the strongest trigger between your brain and memories.  Makes me wish I could have somehow rigged up my studying to scratch and sniff stickers back in school.  Who knows, I may have done a bit better.  Dealing with locker room critics coupled with not exactly stellar grades made for interesting times.

Noxema and all that other stuff, scented the period before the teenage years exploded into a massacre of black nail polish, hair dye, and Anais-Anais.

I love the smell of Noxema in the morning.

again

It's November again which means NaBloPoMo and yes, I'm going to clog up your rss readers for the month... or at least die trying.  I'll keep the majority of it painless and short, I swear.  Most days I'll just be putting out those little things that I just don't take the time to put to paper, so to speak.  Stuff I find that makes me laugh, stuff I like, stuff I do, stuff, and maybe some stuff on the side.  You know, stuff. 

For instance, stuff like my latest online service addiction: picnik.

Don't get me wrong, I love my Photoshop but when it comes to photo editing, why turn on the memory-beast of PS when I can do it all online.  I've got a premium membership which allows me all sorts of inexplicable doohickeys and I spend far too much time playing with photos, especially those not quite right photos and making them more oomphy.

 dull as dishwater

boost it babycakes

And these are the kind of things that make me happy.  No one asked me to write this.  I just like the convenience and thought I'd share.

Oh hell, I just wrote this post because I wanted to try out the word oomphy.  Ooooommmphy.  I like saying it in my head.  ooooomphy oooooomphy ooooooomphy.

Hey, did I mention I've been eating copious amounts of my daughters Hallowe'en haul in order to keep it out of her hyperactive paws?  She turns wild when she has the stuff.  Anyhow, I've made a sacrifice and decided to eat the candy to save it from the landfill and denting our dental insurance plan.

I don't think it's very noticeable that I ate too much sugar before writing this post.  Oh and this would be a weird place to mention I reviewed the new Epson Aritisan 800 All-in-One printer over at my review site.  Awkward segue is my middle name.

Anyhow, I'm in.   You hear that Chag, Jessica, and Kyla?  Count me in.  I'm NaBloPoMoing again.