Figuring out what I wanna be when I grow up.
Oop..I AM grown up...

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

Cautiously Optimistic

If you haven't been reading me for a while, or if you're brand spanking new to Ow, my angst land (thanks and welcome), then you may not know that my 7 year old son, Jack, is HORRENDOUS TO FEED. 

In case you are a parent, who also has a BATTLE TO GET YOUR KID TO EAT, or have a child with behavioural/developmental issues, who also has restricted eating, or need to know that someone else knows just how you feel when it comes to anything related to your kid and food, I've whined in a few posts on this, so you can look for some solace in the following:

* Picky? Picky?!? You haven't Met Jack
* Food, Food, and whether you like it or not--More Food

* Life On The Autism Spectrum - 2008
* Life On The Autism Spectrum: For God's Sake JUST EAT

Some of those articles are a little older, which means that things Jack used to enjoy had long since died and gone to the food graveyard; a place of once loved foods almost never to be revisited. 

Things of course, had been getting worse.  This means that Jack's day of food was looking like this:

* Breakfast:  chocolate milk, packet of instant oatmeal, multivitamin (* with zinc), acidophilus supplement and Omega 3 supplement

* snack:  chocolate pudding

* Lunch:  two pieces of cinnamon raisin toast, two glasses of chocolate milk, 3 cinnamon cookies, vitamin D supplement

* Afternoon snack:  glass of chocolate milk

* Dinner:  two pieces of cinnamon raisin toast, one or two glasses of chocolate milk, cinnamon cookies

* Bedtime snack:  two pieces of cinnamon toast, chocolate milk


Oh, on weekends Jack's nana would have a box of "After Eight" chocolate mints waiting for him until The Man and I put the kibosh on that, because we didn't think ANY kid needed a box of chocolates all to himself each and every week, even if he does hate food. 

So, how do I feel about this diet?  I FREAKING HATE IT.  But what do you do?  I remember, a few years ago, my Mom told me that when you become a parent, and you have a really picky child, you're thrilled if the kid eats a hot dog, even though technically that hot dog is garbage.  Oh how right she was. 

I've tried all the right things, and I've tried all the wrong things.  I've put a half teaspoon of a new food in front of him at every meal.  I've gone for days and days of just letting him lick said new food.  I've tried to employ the "just one bite" rule.  I've put new things in front of him casually and said nothing, pretended to be completely blasé over whether he even tried it or not.  I've chased him around the room to try to get him to just lick the food on the end of the fork.  I've bribed.  I've threatened.  I praised, I cheered.  I empathised.  I got angry.  Then I backed away for ages.  Then I got back on the horse.  Then I backed away again, because the panic, outrage, screaming and crying were turning the dinner table into a battlefield. 

I don't believe Jack could ever be forced to eat.  I truly believe that he would starve himself if confronted with a food he couldn't tolerate rather than eat it.  I know that doctors and parents of kids who are only a little bit fussy would laugh at me, but I believe this. 

Jack is extremely sensitive to smells. This means that when I was baking up a MASTERFUL homemade mac and cheese recently, he was nearly hurling from revulsion over the savoury smell wafting out of the oven. 

So, what to do?  Who wants their kid to have an entire diet filled with sugar/sweet carbohydrate-laden foods???  Sugar is just not good for us.  Too much sugar actually depletes the body of magnesium.  I have wondered if some days when Jack has a lot of bodily tics and twitches if it's because he's actually showing a magnesium deficiency. 

Yeah, it gets to me.

It REALLY got to me the day I had a little convo with the kid, in which he alluded to CONSTIPATION.  Go figure--he eats NO fruit or vegetables!  Fibre!?  What fibre??? 

Then, one day, I had an idea. 

The kid loves books.  He's also very excited when an author crafts up a whole COLLECTION of books, starring the same character.  Every week when he'd go visit my inlaws, he'd immediately hit granddad up for a new book.  Hell--grandparents can't refuse a kid anything, right? 

From this notion the FOOD CHART was born.  I told Jack one day, when he was going on about wanting a certain new book, that I was going to make him a food chart.  Every time he tried a different or new food, I was going to put a sticker on the chart.  When he gets FIVE STICKERS, he gets to buy whatever he wants.  Thus, if he wants that shiny new book, he has to earn it. 

And something amazing happened:  he started trying foods WILLINGLY.  As you can see from the chart, he actually ate a few thin slices of apple.  What--you thought the kid ate the whole apple?  If that were true, I wouldn't be able to clack this little story out, because I'd be DEAD FROM SHOCK. 

Little slices of apple...a few decent-sized carrot sticks...1/2 a yogurt!!!!!  He hasn't eaten yogurt in MONTHS.  1/2 a small peanut butter sandwich (MAGNESIUM, YO).  And then one day, he asked casually "what does [white] milk taste like?"  I said; "try it and see."  He DID. 

These little things may seem small and insignificant, but for this kid, who is MONSTROUSLY AFRAID OF FOOD, they are HUGE.  He's even had a couple of glasses of apple juice in the past week.  He drank applejuice to DEATH until the age of 3, and then dropped it altogether. 

The 5th sticker is the challenge:  it has to be the whole piece of whatever he chooses.  So he got a pretty big piece of carrot for that.  He wasn't thrilled, but he did it.  And that golden 5th sticker went up on the chart. 

Then Jack immediately got his shoes on.  And marched to The Man's car, hopped in, and buckled up.  And started hollering:

"DAD!!! LET'S GO!!!!!" 

They drove to the bookstore and he claimed his reward.  Thank god it wasn't another STUPID, ASININE, IDIOTIC
Mélanie Watt "Scaredy Squirrel" book. 

I f*cking hate those. 

I f*cking hate those with dripping, green, slimy, toxic letters spelling the word HATE. 

I f*cking hate those books to the point of wanting to stomp on them, pee on them and then burn them. 

But, the kids seem to like them--tedious, horrid monstrosity books that they are.

So what happens when Jack runs out of books he wants to buy???   SSSSSHHHHhhh.....let's not think about that just yet. 

Sunday, June 26, 2011

Lousy Teenagers


Blah, blah, blah.

Another blah weekend, with a blah grey sky and some blah dank temperature. 

As if all this weren't bad enough, I'm totally freaking tired.  Some stupid jerk idiot teeangers were having some dumb noisy giggle-filled teenager party last night.  Late into the wee, black hours of the morning (or maybe just 1:30, which seems really late to me now that I'm a grown up loser).  You know--the kind of parties I used to enjoy when I was a freaking teenager, and my hoots were smaller and higher, and my stomach had nary a stretchmark? 

Suck it, teenagers.  Take your total disregard for the people around you, the world in general, for any kind of gravitas and GET STUFFED. 

Was it the giggling that woke me up, or the sound of flip flops tearing across the pavement.  Did it not sound EXACTLY like some kid was running down my driveway?  Beside my freaking bedroom window? 

Oh what--you children think I don't remember what it's like to be at a teen party?  SURE I DO!   I can see it all:  the room is dark so people can either "hook up" or "make out" or cry in a corner, because yeah, your life of no obligation is so HARD, isn't it, TEENAGE TWIT. 

ooop...where was I...

Oh yeah, so while all the kids are in the dark room, and they're drinking their sh*tty cocktails made with all the scrounged booze or whatever quickly-grabbed-and-bought-by-that-friend-who-can-grow-a-beard was procured.  You know the cocktails I'm talking about:  fuzzy navels.  Screwdrivers.  Basically anything called SCHNAPPS.  These are the drinks made with the dusty bottles from the back of the liquor cabinet that are never missed.  Perhaps there's some terrible homemade wine in there as well. 

But wait--buddy went to the liquor store and didn't get CARDED.  He grabbed a big bottle of purple berry cooler.  At first it's good, because it kinda tastes like juice, and juice is good because essentially you're still a FREAKING KID.  But berry coolers do not taste good when they come back UP.  No, not good at all.  In fact, all of these sweet, sweet concoctions all become so terrible when yarked back up, that I'm willing to bet nearly everyone has that one special alcoholic beverage that they still can't even SMELL all these years later because it makes them want to HURK.  Sambuca, Peach Schnapps, Rockaberry cooler, Peppermint Schnapps, Drambuie--pick your poison.

So, all the teenagers are there, and some are making out even though they can't feel their own drunk face anymore, so that can't possibly be quality kissing.  Some of them are throwing up in the kitchen sink, because Sally is upstairs in the can, and has been there alternately ka-karking and passing out for the past couple of hours.  And one of you is sitting on the swing in the back yard crying, because that guy you're in LURV with is inside making out with Brittney, and it's the END OF THE WORLD. 

Maybe there's been some skinny dipping, or swimming in underwear (scandalous).  Maybe there's been some drunk dancing.  Maybe there's been some hand holding with someone who only thinks of you as a friend.  There's probably been a lot of laughing.  Cackling even.  Loud, raucous, obnoxious screaming with laughter. 

Oh crap.  Your shirt has little holes in it from sitting too close to the flying embers of the bonfire. 

F*ck you, teenagers.  I was young once. 

But now I'm old, and tired from WEEDING MY GARDEN, and FERTILIZING MY PLANTS, and TURNING THE COMPOST, and making lunches and dinners and giving angry children baths, and I need my sleep because one of my kids might--JUST MIGHT want to get up at 6 in the morning. 

If I'm lucky. 


Friday, June 24, 2011

Let's Hope This Never Happens

Here are

The Top Two Professions I would Be Most Disappointed If My Children Were To Choose Them

from Here

"Aw, thanks for punchin' me in the head, buddy!  Yer da best!"


come ON wimmens!  Start aspiring to MORE for crap's sake! (image from Here)

Let's all join hands, and hope this NEVER happens.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011


Tomorrow, my little girlie is graduating from nursery school.  It's kind of sad..well, a bit more than kind of...that now I'll no longer have any really little people in my house. 

Have more babies, karen!  you say.

To this I would have to ask if you are HIGH.  Yes, I love the little people to pieces, but if I were ever to have another child (which will never happen), I'm fairly certain I'd be carrying him/her on the OUTSIDE of my body, because I'm fairly certain my UTERUS would just drop right out, since I IMAGINE it's only hanging on by a thread now anyway.

But I digress...

I LOVE the nursery school.  The ladies who run it are WONDERFUL.  They are kind, patient, and lovely--you know; all the things I inspire to be, but fall JUST SHORT OF???  Har har har!  I just adore them. 

Also, nursery school is a lovely time in a kid's life, unless he/she is a ridiculously shy, self-conscious kid with a great genetic lack of self confidence, and everything--I MEAN EVERYTHING new makes them highly moi, for example.  Now, however, I'm either relatively RIGHT ON, or I no longer care.  They both pretty much add up to the same result.

Every other day, when I'd bring Ella into her little classroom, all the charming little crotch-high people would be happy and busy:  some would be wearing little aprons, perhaps pounding homemade playdough, some would be at their miniature kitchen making meals for the slightly grubby dolls, some would be building towers with cardboard blocks, and the rest would be chattering away to the teachers.  In other words, it was a very idyllic scene.  And it's all coming to an end.

Last year, when Ella was at the "grad" party, Mrs. C., one of Ella's teachers, read a heart-felt letter the ladies had written about how much they love and care about the children, and when she got to the part about how some of them would be moving on to public school, she was CRYING.  I nearly disintegrated right then and there, because my secret is that on the inside I'm actually just a giant MUSHBALL. 

And, I'm also a giant CRYBABY.  If you want to know the truth, I was just crying as I wrote out the thankyou cards.  So what's the big deal, you ask?  Shouldn't one be allowed to cry during these TENDER MOMENTS OF LIFE?  Oh yes, that's fine, but when I cry, it's UGLY. 

it's a cloud, of course, a big, water-filled cloud

First of all, I was always the kid who was either crying, or trying desperately NOT to cry.  Remember that classic Disney movie DUMBO?  Remember when they put Dumbo's mother in chains?  Yeah, I was a wreck for the rest of the movie. 

If a teacher told me off (which didn't happen HARDLY EVER, square, boring, STRAIGHT ARROW that I was..), I'd spend the next hour trying not to cry. 

But it's not just the fighting NOT to cry, it's the idiot, INSANE crying that ensues, once the dams burst.  I mean, I could just let some tears roll gently down my face, and look all serene and lovely with DEEP EMOTION, but NOOOOOOO...I have to be a crying maniac, whereby I might get the dreaded grimace face, and be nearly incapable of talking to you--you know; like a little kid, who is crying so hard they're stuttering? 


And It's not just the INTENSITY of the crying, that's WAY, WAY, WAAAAY over the top:  it's how UGLY the crying is. 

Tell me, when you cry, does your whole face become puffy?  Do your eyelids puff up and turn red from lashes to eyebrows?  How about that rim above your lower lashes:  does it turn bright red as well?  How about your eyeballs?  BLOODSHOT TO HELL???  Oh, and does your upper lip swell out to twice its original size, and turn red all the way up to your red, swollen nose?  Actually, is your face ready to explode from all that CRYING LIQUID THAT'S JUST READY TO BURST OUT OF YOUR HEAD?

Oh, and don't even bother trying to blow your nose out in public after one of these episodes.  A) You'd need at least two paper towels, and b) the noise would be both horrendous and shocking to any and all sitting around you. 

Speaking of paper towels, here's a piece of advice:  never bring tissues to a sad event.  Years ago, at an uncle's funeral, I was a hot mess, and the tissue my Mom gave me from her purse, disintegrated as I mopped up the waterworks.  This I did not know, until it was pointed out to me that I had little fluffy pieces of tissue now CEMENTED to my face. Let that be a lesson to you people:  tissues will let you down.  ALWAYS bring paper towels. 

Thus, I am DREADING tomorrow morning.  I'm already sad that my girlie has to enter the world of "real" school, where kids learn how to be jerks faster than they learn how to add and subtract, and most of the teachers either should never have been hired, or should have retired a long time ago. 

How on EARTH am I going to make it...(you can't bring a flask of whisky to a nusery school party, can you???)

Oh well, at least I'll be bringing some really bitchin chocolate chip cookies. 

The Grass Is Growing Tall Again

The grass is growing tall again. We've lost the fervent, fresh new green of spring, and all that saturated tremulous beauty. We will trade it for white hot days, dry, cracked earth, and raucous daisies left to watch highways and lonely dirt roads.  The trees will reach together, joining leaves, and form a canopy from the sun, but not the heat; the breath-stealing, blanket heat. 

The cicada will sing.

There are days for bare feet.  Dirty, small feet running through the long grass.  Small feet running past mother's garden, running on the baked sidewalk, on the scorching black driveway.  Dirty little feet that get washed in a bucket of cool water at dusk. 

The moonbeam coreopsis are almost ready.  There will be a riot of yellow star-shaped flowers.  The blanket flowers will open, warm and saturated with yellow and red.  The coneflower will reach higher and higher, but those roadside daisies and the blue chicory will bloom even with no care and no rain. 

The grass is growing tall again, and soon the stores will be filled with strawberries in little green boxes, and then plums, and peaches.  Peach pie.  Corn on the cob that didn't come from thousands of miles away.  Drive in movies, back yard badminton, afterbite for your itchies, aloe for your burns.  What gets the chlorine sting out of eyes?  You might as well wear your bathing suit all day, even when you're making your chalk drawings with the girls.  You need it for those tiny, grass-filled kiddy pools. The sprinkler's broken.  You stomped on it right in the middle of the fun. 

At dusk, the june bugs circle the trees. 
At dusk, the thunder rumbles across the sky.

At dusk, the children come in to bed. 

When the grass is very tall, when the air is heady with jungle growth, and cut lawns, and when the crickets buzz incessantly, it will almost be over.  When the shadows stretch and lean across the path, even though it is still warm, it will almost be over.  When the chrysanthemum begins to bloom, it will almost be over.  When the Sears catalogue appears on the front porch, it's really almost over.


Have you noticed lately how tall the grass is getting?


* this was for a Studio30 Plus writing prompt; "The Grass Is Growing Tall Again"

Monday, June 20, 2011

Too Tired -- Must Find Soft Place To Die

Why don't little children love sleep?  Why don't they treasure sleep, and revel in it as only a burnt-out adult can?  Is sleep really that unimportant when you're a kid?  Is the world so filled with promise and HOPPING BUNNIES wonder that you just don't want to miss a single FREAKING minute of it?!? 

My girlie, as you may have heard me rant before, gets up at stupid times.  She gets up so early that she makes herself tired for the rest of the day.  Yes, that's right:  she RUINS HERSELF BY GETTING UP so facking early. 

Recently the kids had a sleepover at their grandparents'.  What time did Ella wake up?  4:00 AM, my friends.  Did she fall back to sleep?  Nope.  Did she have a monstrous nap later that day when she could no longer fight it?  Oh yes she did.  4:00 AM, incidentally, is stupid.

So, this weekend was busy.  On Saturday my brother had two free tickets for a very frou-frou, hoity-toity, la-dee-da wine and fancy food event.  It was held in a gorgeous 5000 degree F vineyard.  The basic idea is that the rest of the shmucks forked out 75 bones, to enjoy as much free wine samples as one could handle, and food made by chefs who are clearly jerks.  Yes, I'm talking about YOU, arrogant prick who masterfully paired prawns with strawberry salsa:  p.s. a compliment from a PLEBE is still a compliment a$$hole. 

Ahem.  Anyhoo, that event was class all the way.  Plus, what makes me happier than alcohol? 

Answer:  NOTHING. 

So, we ate:

* a couple of snacky plates of this fantastic fancy cheese assortment, and some really yummy seed-encrusted flat bread triangles

*  a tiny gourmet burger with fancy salsa and a side salad with WHEAT BERRIES in it...what are wheat berries?!?  Still, very interesting. 

*A GENIUS teeny sandwich that had some grilled chicken AND beef with some kind of chef-y sauce and really fun greens

*prawns with cornbread and strawberry brother joked that it was "strawberry shortcake with prawns" which made me want to throw up a little, but actually it was quite remarkably good, even if it did have a whisper of CILANTRO, A.K.A.: THE WORLD'S MOST HEINOUS HERB

* a teeny pulled pork sandwich, with some really, really good homemade baked beans.  Had a bit of trouble with this part, as the fully roasted PIG was RIGHT THERE, with a pan of its own shreddy meat sitting under it.  Shudder.  Turn your brain off, karen.  Turn your hypocritical, carnivorous/animal respecting brain off

* some BLECH arctic char salad thingy.  Okay, first of all, I'm IFFY on fish.  VERY IFFY.  If it's not THOROUGHLY COOKED, it makes me want to YARK.  I don't care if 'perfectly cooked' means just slightly undercooked.  I do NOT want my little crumpet of fish to melt in my mouth like butter.  Like fishy butter, with salad dressing on it.  HURK HURK HURK.  Like fishy butter on top of those stupid 'mesclun greens' that everyone thinks makes them sophisticated by serving, but it really, really reminds me of being a kid and trying to eat grass, because cows eat grass, so why can't we, and it reminds me of that grass, only more BITTER and unpleasant, but with a slightly better texture. 

* BEAUCOUP DU VIN  (that's "piggish amounts of wine," for my anglophone buddies)

So, while all the snacking kept me from being anywhere near tipsy, it did give me a gift later, at around 1:30 in the morning:  INDIGESTION.  Yeah, the good kind, in which my heart is like a fist pounding on a table, and I have to bargain with the fates not to die. 


Sunday, of course, was father's day.  After a terrible night's sleep, waiting for the indigestion/ensuing panic attack to die down, and elbowing that snoring idiot next to me several times, I prob. didn't get to sleep till 4.  So, for Father's Day, I made a fancy french toast breakfast, cleaned that up, baked two pies, 6 mini jam tarts (leftover pie dough, yo), and buttertart squares so magnificent, I astound myself.  Then I cleaned all THAT up, made the kids lunch, and FINALLY, FINALLY made it outside to plant my hundred dollars worth of flowers. 


Then my brother, sister, brother-in-law, my nieces and my Dad came over and we had takeout food and CHAOS, and fun.  And really bitchin' baked goods.  I don't fool around people.  When I taste stuff made by a bakery, more likely than not, while you're raving about it, I'm going to be sneering at it just a tiny bit:  especially if it has pastry.  I'm a pastry motherf*cking genius. 

So, I was wicked tired, and even was IN BED before 10:30.  But Ella, my tiny love, decided that she'd just be awake from 1 until 2.  AWESOME. 

And here I am today, like the trampled, dog-poop covered, wrinkled towel that I am, and I have to:

* put away all the beer bottles

* clean up kitchen

* do approximately 50 loads of laundry

* clean up this pantry

* change sheets

* turn BARBIE TOWN back into my living room

* get the balls to finally face that bag of wet clothes that were also peed in, because hey, if you're running around in the hose, you just wizz your clothes, right?  Right? 

Eff it.  I'm making coffee. 

How was your weekend? 

Friday, June 17, 2011

Who Cares HOW You Got Here, As Long As You're Here

You know what's super fun?  Checking out the "stats" section of my blog.  This section tells me how many "page views" I've had, the demographic of who is reading my shtuff, as well as the various search engines used to find me.  What's nice is that some overly kind peeps have me on their 'blog roll,' and this means people visiting  their blog might spot me and come on over and have a read. 

My favourite part of this stats page though, is the 'search terms' sub-section.  These, of course, are the words peeps clack into their computer which can sometimes inadvertently lead them to Ow, my angst. 

Search Keywords

1) "ow my angst"  : these keywords have been used 20 times this week, according to the stats-o-matic

2) "love for each other my sister my brother"  :  Aw!  That's NICE!  Let's have a GROUP HUG!  .....still...I wonder what the 2 people who keyed that in thought when they ended up HERE...

3) "big flying ant":  (2 peeps) Yup, this is a regular search thingy, I'm afraid, according to what I've seen here in stats land.  However, it's nice to know that others are suffering these REPULSIVE monsters and it's not just me.  Sniff!  You're not alone, karen.  You are NOT alone. 

4) "clarissa toilet paper and paper towel environment":
!  SOMEBODY OUT THERE is caring enough about the environment to realise it's ONLY BUTT WIPE, NOT A FREAKING BLANKET.  Yeah, that's right; I'm pointing my finger right at y'all

Remember when I did my post on environmentally friendly asswipe, and you guys were all; "oh I don't know, karen--I can't give up my cottony, cashmere, baby-blanket softness.  My BUM BUM will CRY if I do!  Waaa!  WAAAA!  WAAAAAAAAA!"   That's right.  That's what you said, and that's EXACTLY how you said it. 

Fine. I'll continue to use my thin, no-frills, no pillow-softness toilet paper proudly, even if a finger does tend to punch through from time to time. 

5) "funny things little boys do":  I'll have to get Jack back into his armpit symphony.  It was highly entertaining

6) "I have PMS and maybe aspergers":  Sweet mother of pancakes--someone is having a REALLY bad day.

7) "":  this is truly amazing!  Someone out there knows my blog url.  This is amazing because I still do not.

8) "kids won't stop fighting":  welcome to it, sister.  Welcome to it. 

9) "ow, my angst":  lookee!  Someone's even got the comma in there!  Oh wait...that was probably ME...googling myself again.  I'm so ashamed.
10) "pictures of flying ant bites":  let's not go there people, or I'll never sleep again.  Bad enough that the bastards were in my freaking bedroom.  Worse if they were actually landing on me like I was a giant buffet.


ahem.  Have a good weekend! 

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Do You Do This?

* Do you ever laugh so hard that laughing turns to mania turns to crying with laughter which then just turns into crying?  And then you're all sullen and not happy?

* Do you take commonplace or quirky phrases and CONSTANTLY turn them into names for imaginary rock bands, or names for something else?


My sister was talking about having to temporarily put her litter box on the warm front porch, and she said that she didn't want to smell the "hot stink" anymore.


I have no idea why Joan Jett came to mind.


* I'm putting a new bag in the organics bin   (for my American friends who don't have to do this yet, this is a little bin into which you have to scrape all that nasty, smelly, leftover food, and all the veggies you bought but didn't eat, so they can be mulched and broken down easier than by doing the lazy douche thing, and scraping them directly into the garbage.  The organics bin is the 4th layer of hell),   and I suddenly detect a misplaced smell of "clean."  Finally I realise that The Man bought new organics bags with "Odour Guard,"

And I say to him; "HEY! 'Odour Guard' is your VIKING NAME!  SPELL IT!"

Finally we agree on this:  "Odörgaard".

* Or, the time The Man was doing push ups, and thought he imagined his pecs moving too much, (they don't. He was being paranoid.  He barely moves all day, and he's still magically fit)  and I immediately piped up and said:

"HEY!  What if you're Indian spiritual name is 'Johnny Manhoots'?!?"

And then I laughed till tears squirted out, and then it just turned into crying.

(no offense intended to any Native peoples--any and all offense was intended for The Man)


* Or the time I gleefully told him;  "HEY!  'Sphincter' is the name of your DEATH METAL band, and the album cover looks like THIS:"

mad skillz, clearly

Finally, do you give your kids so many endearing, affectionate nicknames that they actually become TIRED OF YOU, and request you just call them by their GIVEN NAMES (how boring)?




Captain Snuggington
Monkey Bones
String Bean



Lady Baby
Ella B (the B. stands for BABY, of course)
Pooky Pants

You do all that stuff too, right!?   RIGHT? 


Monday, June 13, 2011

The NEW PMS karen Is So Snuggy

I wuv you all--do you LURV me ?

Does anyone remember the OLD PMS KAREN?  She was so angry!  So acerbic!  So filled with BITING VENEMOUS RAGE!  I still miss her sometimes, to tell you the truth. Vitriole is yummy.

Okay, enough talking in third person...or second person...or whatever.  How come it's never second person? 

Anyhoo, in case you were interested, I am mere days away from enjoying some quality time with my red buddy.  MERE DAYS, people.  So what?  I'm still nice!  At this point, I would have been deep in the heart of two weeks of pure, gorgeous hate.  Maybe today would be the day wherein I would scream at some point; THIS HOUSE IS A PIG STY. 

The house would be a pig sty, of course, because a) I'd be WAY too miserable to clean it for the past 11 days, and b) my COMPLETELY SELFISH, UNGRATEFUL family OF JERKS would be perfectly content to live in their own filth. 

I would hate everyone.  Oh yes, even you.  It would be confusing to you, because mere days before, when I still carried the EGG OF LOVE in my lady core, I'd be so fun, caring, and friendly.  Then the egg would drop, the hormones would shift, and you'd be lucky to get an out-of-office reply to your emails saying; F*CK YOU.  But no, you wouldn't even get that. 


But then, by day 10, I would revert back to apathy karen:
apathy blech karen:  "I'm not making dinner tonight, and I don't care."

The Man:  "okay, what do you want for dinner tonight?"

apathy blech karen:  "I don't care."

The Man:  "oh yeah, I forgot to tell you I changed the sheets on BLANK's bed.  There was poop on it."

apathy blech karen:  "WHATEVER."



......Oh wait...I still don't care about that last one. 

Hee hee!  But that was the OLD KAREN, sillies.  The NEW PMS karen currently has a kitchen so spotless, it's ridiculous.  My bed is even made, for crap's sake. 

And, while the New PMS karen still would rather you DIDN'T touch her, or even let your elbow accidentally brush against her in bed, or your hot foot for that matter--why the hell do your extremities need to be so FREAKING HOT all the time, anyway?!? 

Yes, while I'd still rather you keep a gentle distance, I feel calm, and pleasant, and have been thinking dreamily of love, and past crushes.  I've been thinking of the wonders of gardening--the mysterious commune with plants, and the vast need for patience and order. 

See, I just dropped a hundred bucks at the garden centre on Sunday, and when I hopped in to my flower CRAMMED car, I was thinking gooey crap about how my car is filled with LIFE, and this is what LIFE feels like, and what beauty SMELLS like, and how marvelous it is to grow things, and make every corner of your world beautiful...and tinkle...tinkle...tinkle... ice cream trucks and rainbows...and heart-shaped butterflies!

The old PMS karen would have been freaking out that some lady was ambling across the parking lot, IN MY WAY, taking her sweet ass time, and I'd have been thinking; "GET OUT OF MY WAY A$$HOLE I NEED TO GO HOME AND PLANT MY F*CKING GARDEN." 

You're welcome people.  You should all write a letter of thanks to the woman who invented THE SUPPLEMENT

Sunday, June 12, 2011

Sunday Inspiration

Sappy hallmark-esque but really cute image from HERE

Aw, karen is clearly very sentimental tonight, so you can SHUT IT!

My 7 year old little guy has a crush.  She's a friend of the next door neighbour girls.  She's ten years old, tall for her age and in grade 5.  And Jack talks about her every day.  Every day, when one of the girls from next door is rollerblading/running/biking past our house, or playing in her front or back yard, Jack asks;

"Who's coming to your house today?" 
"Is Lacie [name has been changed] coming today?"
"Is your friend coming to your house today?"

Tonight she was finally there.  Jack's delight was nearly palpable.  He did all the silly things we do when we're thrilled:  he talked too loud, he made extra good jokes, he made sure  to write "I am cool" on the driveway with coloured chalk.  So, I took a good look at this girl too.  Nice girl... a bit of a tomboy...much taller than the other girls...brown hair in a pony tail...cute freckled face, infectious cloud-free, sunshiny smile. 

When I was 4, there were two brothers I knew, not much older.  One of them was annoying, and could flip his eyelids inside out.  The other one was kind, and quiet and his name was Colin. 

So, tonight I invite you to remember way back to the first person you ever had a crush on.  Way back before you could ever be heartbroken by this crush.  Way back to those days when you played outside from morning till dusk.  When you had bare feet for an entire summer, and a live grasshopper sitting comfortably on his stick in the jar in your room (holes punched in the lid, of course).  When you ate freezies, and petted fuzzy caterpillars, and held little flowers up under someone's chin to see if the yellow glow revealed whether or not they loved butter.

Take that feeling and hold on to it.  It's one of the nicest things about living. 


Saturday This And That

The children are having a sleepover at their grandparents'.  The Man is asleep.  SMELLS LIKE FREEDOM TO ME, B*TCHES!

Today my sister and I hung out.  We wanted to go to our pathetic "downtown" area to scope out a few stores we like there.  You could have rolled a bowling ball down the sidewalk and not hit anyone.  For miles.  Oh, wait--that's not entirely true; maybe that ball would have hit that guy who crossed the street a few times, whilst lugging a carry-on suitcase.  Yes, that guy who said; "Hey!" after we had passed by and then; "come over here!" to us.   


We discussed this:  if we'd gone OVER THERE, could anything good possibly have come from that?  Should I have marched back there, all SALLY HAPPY, and naive:

Me:  "Yes?  What can I do for you?"


Here's what else was annoying about our little shopping trip:  four men, as they were driving past, sloooooooooooowed right down to check us out.  The first time, as this man was driving by, he was driving at walking speed for a second, and his face was completely turned toward us.  What the hell?!?  I thought, with mild annoyance, and we moved along.  By the fourth car, I became uber pissed.  What the f*ck?!  Did they actually think we might be HOOKERS?

Do I LOOK LIKE A FREAKING HOOKER?!?  Does a hooker go out with capri pants, and a pale blue cotton shirt, with her MOM PURSE slung over her shoulder? 

The only thing that redeemed that little trip was the gourmet cheese store.  I love you, gourmet cheese store.  I purchased some nice hunks of 1) applewood smoked cheddar, 2) some kind of Dublin cheddar, and 3) cheese with carmelized onion.  HELLO HAPPINESS. 

When I got home, my email informed me that I had a couple of new friend requests in my Myspace account.  I think there is only one reason I keep my myspace profile:  it's so damned entertaining every once and a while. 

And behold!  I had friend requests, but I also had some messages.  I checked out the messages first:

Hi Pretty woman,

How 're you doing? am from United State of a contractor, Married before but divorced... Am looking for a serious Relationship that Will lead to marriage,pretty woman,As i was seaching i come across your profile so I decide to say hello to you also to let you know how beautiful are. i like you Can we be friends?

Take good care of yourself.......while i wait for your Reply

Does that mean I'm supposed to take care of myself while he waits for my reply, and then do what the hell I want after that?  I'm confused.  Oh well, on to the next one:

Hi there..,was just going thru here and finding friends i can get together with and hopefully get to know better and maybe it sure leads to something serious and i came across your picture here,,i must confess i love what i saw and would definitely love to get to know u better if you dont mind.. am like your normal guy next door,simple,easy going,calm,matured,responsible,honest,God fearing,intelligent&very comfortable,,romantic,nice,funny&absolutely adorable.I hope my lil profile here interests u and u did like to get back to me... u can email me directly at [blank] its at yahoo dot com....... i really hope i get to know u better&u write me back asap... take care
Hoo!  I am a popular girl TODAY!  I probably could have made an easy 500 bucks downtown too, if only I could have...could have....blech.  Nevermind. 

Okay, so that was fun. Let's check out the three friend requests.  One is from a musician, one is from some lame sounding metal band, and the third is

SWEET MOTHER OF MUFFINS, THAT BOY IS RIPPED.  He's also only wearing a (gulp) towel to cover his 23 year old self....





Let's file that one under "request pending", hur, hur, hur.

Oh crap, I accidently hit "accept" instead of "ignore" to the friend request from that rock band.  Oh dear god, they're terrible.  It's that awful SPEED METAL GUITARS DRUMS WALL OF NOISE SOME IDIOT SCREAMING, SCREAMING, SCREAMING OUT HIS UNINTELLIGIBLE MESSAGE....

ack...note to self:  do NOT hit "PLAY" for any more of their songs.  Oh, but dig this--this is what they have written on their profile page:

...As you breathe rock, we breathe rock. As you feel rock, we feel rock

Um, no.  Actually, I like a soothing cocktail and a good book.  Maybe some poetry, maybe not.  I neither breathe, nor feel rock any longer (if I ever did), because that sh*t gives me a headache.  As soon as I'm finished clacking this up, I have to find the button that undoes our new 'friendship.' 

And so endeth another Saturday. 


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