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


Monday, January 31, 2011

How To Kill The PMS Monster? Part 2: The SUPPLEMENT



Friday January 28



SO, I went to the health food store, right after I dropped the kids off for school.  Right around the time I was so tired, I didn't think I could survive the six minute walk to said store.  Right around the time I was exhausted from shrieking like an idiot during that hectic getting-ready-for-school hour.

I walked in and asked the nice, new-agey looking lady what their best-selling, most effective PMS supplement was.  She asked me if I had bad PMS, and what kind of symptoms I suffered.  I told her casually about how it lasts 2 weeks, and has all the usual symptoms x 100, blah, blah, blah.  However, she got stuck on the 2 weeks part and I then had the pleasure of her wide-eyed, unblinking stare for the next few minutes while she exclaimed; "WOW..."  Yeah, okay lady, I get it.  So, she directed me straight over to the Lorna Vanderhaeghe section.   Ms. V has a whole line of products for women, and it says the following on the little product leaflet I was given:
"Lorna Vanderhaeghe, MS, is Canada's leading women's health expert and has been researching nutritional medicine for over 25 years."

To read more about Lorna, and to read more about her products/books, etc, go HERE.

So, the store clerk insisted that this product is "great," and also is "the best."  She didn't even recommend any others. 

ESTROSMART

Balanced hormones ensure effortless periods, clear skin, a symptom-free perimenopause, lots of energy and vitality.  (
ooo!  I could use some vitality!)

What to expect from this product:
* Maintains healthy estrogen-to-progesterone balance (yay)
* Detoxifies toxic estrogens from plastics, pesticides, cosmetics and more (okay, that's good)
* Stops flooding, heavy, debilitating periods (YO! I'm DOWN with that!)
* Halts abnormal cell growth, including breast lumps, fibroids, cysts, endometriosis, thick uterine lining  (mmm...endometriosis)

* For those with PCO's and ovarian cysts (what the hell are PCO's?  Must google...could that stand for 'polycystic ovaries???)

* Halts the conversion of good estrogens (2-hydroxyestrone) to bad estrogens (16-hydroxyestrone)  (yeah...mmkay...your standard 'what the eff is that' type scientific stuff)
* Elimianates PMS and makes periods effortless (effortless.  Interesting.  Can't wait to see about that one)
* Maintains healthy PAP smears (let's all collectively CRINGE)

* Eliminates hormonal acne (good luck!!!  Does this mean I won't have to toss that flesh-coloured zit stick in my purse wherever I go for a while???)

Alrighty then!  That all sounds like a SMORGASBORD of WONDERFUL. 

So, I got a jar of Estrosmart, and a little vial of some kind of floral essence stuff, that supposedly will quell anxiety if I squirt just 4 little drops onto my tongue--but the anxiety stuff is besides the point. 

Sound exciting?  Or does it sound like a WHOLE LOT OF QUAKERY???  Time will tell, my friends!  I'll start taking it on Saturday.  Stay tuned...


* Hey!  Want the whole PMS Story?  Click Any of the links below:

How To Kill The PMS MONSTER??? Part 1


How To Kill The PMS Monster? Part 2: The SUPPLEMENT

How To Kill The PMS Monster - Part 3: Hormone-o-rama

How To Kill The PMS Monster Part 4: Maybe They're Really That Annoying

How To Kill The PMS Monster Part 5: PMS Can Suck It!

Sunday, January 30, 2011

How To Kill The PMS MONSTER??? Part 1

Want the whole PMS Story?  Click Any of the links below:

How To Kill The PMS Monster? Part 2: The SUPPLEMENT

How To Kill The PMS Monster - Part 3: Hormone-o-rama

How To Kill The PMS Monster Part 4: Maybe They're Really That Annoying

How To Kill The PMS Monster Part 5: PMS Can Suck It!


Aw, PMS--my old buddy, friend, and life long pal.  It seems like a funny joke right--"ha ha, I'm soooo bitchy! I'm TOTALLY PMS-ING!  LOL!  You too, girlfriend?  What?  If you don't get a chocolate bar with some nuts in it you're going to start lopping off heads too?  ROFLMAO!"Yeah, ha ha, right?  And how about that other tired joke that I've heard so much, I can hardly muster up a feigned "yeah, heh heh" any longer?  That joke goes a little something like this:

Me (with anguish and great, bald sincerity):  "I suffer terribly from PMS."
Mr. Hilarious:  "Yeah?  So does your husband!  Hyuk, hyuk, hyuk." (did you just hear that ba-doo-CHAH! of that jokey drum riff with cymbal clash too?) 

Granted, this is true--The Man does INDEED suffer--but it never, ever lightens up the situation.  Never.  GOT THAT?

Ookey, moving on...

Actually, I make light of the whole thing myself to a certain extent.  Oh man, it's so funny that that womanly time comes when I want to tear off heads and sh*t down necks, har har har--yeah, my PMS lasts for TWO WEEKS!  Ha ha ha!

*SCREECHING HALT*

This is the part when women stopped laughing and started looking at me.  With wide eyes.  Your PMS lasts for TWO WEEKS???

uh...yeah...doesn't yours?

Womanly friend A:  "um, nooo...I get one day where I want to drink coffee all day and cry over everything, but that's about it."

Womanly friend B:  "I have a couple of days when I feel like I could shoot someone, but that's about it."

Womanly friend C:  "I guess I have two or three days when I'm really irritable, and I find my husband really unattractive and annoying, and the kids really get on my nerves, but that's about it."

karen, the freak with two heads:  "erm, at around exactly two weeks before my red buddy shows up, my breasts start to get sore.  Sometimes they get so sore and achey, I nearly need to put a heating pad on them.  I also become extremely depressed, very, very, very edgy, totally angry, and suffocated by anxiety.  I get so bloated in the last week that I can actually SEE it in my face, and I could easily pack my bags and never return again." 

And so, even though all those things I listed are one big wonderful adventure, for some reason I've decided I've had enough.  Two weeks out of every month.  Hey, I'm no math genius--in fact, I SUCKED at math in school.  I sucked so hard at math that in elementary school, I had to be in the extra help math group because I could NOT GET the concept of "rounding up or down" to the most logical number.  You know--5.7 gets rounded up to 6?  5.4 gets rounded down to 5?  (That's right, isn't it?  I may yet be an idiot).  And when it came time to learn "factoring" in grade 10, my boyfriend at the time (and incidental math genius) could not make me see that he wasn't simply pulling numbers out of his A$$.  So, I'm a math idiot, but not so much so that I didn't figure out that 2 weeks out of every month of feeling sh*tty, and horrible, and bummed, and SUPA DUPA TIRED = FIFTY PERCENT OF MY FREAKING LIFE!  No es bueno. 


Also, it was my sister who pointed out the obvious to me:

Nerdo:  "karen, that's not PMS.  I think you have that PMD thing, or whatever it's called." 

YES!  A DISORDER!  YAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAY!!!!!!!!!

Blah.


So what the hell is PMD?  Actually, it's PMDD:  Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder.  Mmm...yummy!  Well, let's grab some of the juicier info from good old Wikipedia, shall we? 

Premenstrual dysphoric disorder (PMDD) is a severe form of Premenstrual syndrome[3], afflicting 3% to 8% of women.[4] It is a diagnosis associated with the luteal phase of the menstrual cycle.




PMDD is a premenstrual syndrome (PMS) that is so severe it is debilitating.



Like less severe forms of PMS, premenstrual dysphoric disorder always follows a predictable, cyclic pattern. Symptoms always begin in the late luteal phase of the menstrual cycle (after ovulation) and always end completely shortly after menstruation begins.[5]

Emotional symptoms are always present, and in PMDD, mood symptoms are dominant.[5] Substantial disruption to personal relationships is typical for women with PMDD.[5] The cardinal symptom—always surfacing between ovulation and menstruation, and always disappearing within a few days after the onset of the bleeding—is irritability.[6] Anxiety, anger, and depression may also occur.

Hey....this is what I've always realised...as soon as the EGG DROPS, I turn into an angry, asexual cactus!  The main symptoms, which can be disabling, include



* feelings of deep sadness or despair, possible suicide ideation
* feelings of tension or anxiety
* increased sensitivity to rejection or criticism
* panic attacks
* mood swings, crying
* lasting irritability or anger, increased interpersonal conflicts. Typically sufferers are unaware of the impact they have on those close to them (oh, I am aware!)
* apathy or disinterest in daily activities and relationships
* difficulty concentrating
* fatigue
* food cravings or binge eating
* insomnia or hypersomnia; sleeping more than usual, or (in a smaller group of sufferers) being unable to sleep
* feeling overwhelmed or "out of control"
* increase or decrease in sex drive
* increased need for emotional closeness
* physical symptoms: bloating, heart palpitations, breast tenderness, headaches, joint or muscle pain, swollen face and nose Common physical symptoms include:


* physical symptoms such as breast tenderness or swelling, headaches, joint or muscle pain.
* an altered view of one's body - a sensation of 'bloating', feeling fat or actual weight gain.


If you would like to read the entire article, go HERE.

Well frankly, that BLOWS, but one can almost perversely get used to living this way, if it's THEIR LIFE. 

So, I'm going to subject you to my own guinea-pig installments of whether or not an over the counter supplement can make a difference in my life, since I'm just not ready to get on hard-core meds just yet.  Don't worry--I'm not going to talk exclusively about yucky PMDD stuff.  There'll be other fun things to discuss like poop, boobies and other goodies. 

And so, it's ONWARD, IN THE NAME OF SCIENCE! 

Makes it almost sound exciting, no?

http://icanhascheezburger.com/

Friday, January 28, 2011

CUPCAKE




















Want one?

Take A Mental Trip

Not too long ago I stumbled across a blog featuring interesting photography.  One of the photographers featured was a woman from the Netherlands named Ellen Kooi.  I thought there was something so engrossing about her pictures; the subject matter, placement, settings, and fairy-tale like feel of many of them.  So, since it's blah, grey, slushy, soggy winter out there, and there's been no sign of green for months (well, here at least), take a few minutes to click on her link and let me know what you think of her pictures.  Click on the photograph below to link to Ellen's home page.

First, here's a nice little write-up I found on this artist:

(for the whole article, click HERE)


ARTIST:  ELLEN KOOI
Born 1962, Leeuwarden, The Netherlands

The large-scale panoramic photographs by Ellen Kooi challenge us to view the world as a dramatic narrative. She wants us to seek the border between fantasy and reality. At first glance, the people that inhabit these panoramas of (mostly Dutch) landscapes seem to be at the mercy of their surroundings. But if we look at these pictures more carefully we see a more complex relationship, as the landscape almost responses to its inhabitants. The displays of nature we see are a symbolic reflection of the inner turmoils, or indeed of the happiness of these people. In a way comparable tot nineteenth century psychological portraits, kooi tries to tell us about myths, chance encounters and our relationship with the outside world. But keeping this in mind, her works are as much concerned with the landscape as they are with the person. By forming close connections between themes set in our visual memory of history but never choosing a main focus, Kooi's works are suspensefull and hard to identify.


Click on the Photo to Link to Ellen Kooi's web site, and then click "Works". 

Velserbroek- de brug

2005
ilfo archiveprint, plexiglass, reynobond
120 x 60cm



Thursday, January 27, 2011

Nobody Told Me

 How tired I'd be all the time in becoming a parent.  How I'd almost never get a good night's sleep, and how even if the whole family goes to bed too late, the kids will still have 10 times more energy than I the next day.


How horrendous the VERY FIRST POOP a baby produces is--especially when it arrives at some ungodly hour in the middle of the night. 

How someone could actually cut me open with scissors as I push a baby out of me, and I wouldn't even realise because my lower half was just one great nether region of pain.


That there would be times I'd be in the emergency room, wilted with worry, because my child had a 104 degree fever that acetaminophen wouldn't touch.


That there would be times I'd be in the emergency room, wilted with worry, because my child vomited every 10 minutes for 17 hours straight.


that children could actually frustrate you so much, you go into your room, close the door, and cry. 

that children are so over-run by colds, flu, viruses, earaches, and throat infections during the first few years of their lives, that they can become white, thin and frail, with their backbones prominently visible as they shiver out of their clothes and into their pyjamas. 


that I would grow up and forget nearly all my fairytale worlds and girlish joy


Old fears of monsters and the dark would be replaced with fears of illness, cancer, whether my child is making friends at school, and if other children are being cruel.

But,

My Mother once told me how I would feel when the time came that I would decide I'd never have more children,

and she was right. 



Tuesday, January 25, 2011

Why I LURV The Library



Awesome.

OH, right--better offer up the standard warning:

WARNING:  THIS POST IS CRUDE, IRREVERENT, AND RIFE WITH IMMATURITY;  IT DISCUSSES PRIVATE PARTS SLIGHTLY, AND USES PROPER NAMES, AND MAYBE SOME SLANG AS WELL--I'M NOT SURE--I HAVEN'T WRITTEN IT YET.   SO, IF YOU'RE MY DAD, YOU MIGHT WANT TO STOP READING NOW. 


Well, it was time to go to the library again yesterday. All the books were due, so I had to dig through that giant mess that is my daughter's room to locate them all.  I love the library, and wish, wish, WISH I could go there all by myself more often.  However, I try to turn it into an outing for Ella, who is constantly bored, and really needs to be in school filling up that chess-club brain of hers.  I was sooo sleepy though, and the library is super quiet, super hot, and super boring if you're stuck for an hour in the childrens' books section.  So, I sent my sister a text:

@ the library--ella currently crapping in library can. I so need a nap.

She was also singing "Firework" by Katy Perry at top volume.  Nothing like the accoustics in an echoey one-stall washroom.

I have discovered that if you ask a librarian for help in finding a certain book, or something good in a certain genre of books, she/he will never, ever stop helping you until she/he FINDS THAT BOOK.  Kinda funny, but charming just the same. 

I had a PILE of books for Ella, but as always; nothing for Jack.  Every time I go to the library I lament the total VOID of the type of books that he likes. 

Jack likes: 
1) books starring REAL HUMAN CHILDREN
2) books starring boys
3) books about NAUGHTY, BRATTY JERK BOYS WHO GET IN TROUBLE.

Good frigging luck.  Seriously--why do 99% of the books have to have ANIMAL protagonists???  I can't take it anymore.  Why does that kid who's starting kindergarten have to be a kitty?  Why is a dog going trick-or-treating?  Why are we supposed to think that cows who type are hilarious???  Can't stand it. 

Suddenly I had a brainstorm:  Jack is currently very interested in babies. How do babies feel in tummies, how do they get out of tummies, do they make tummies sore, was he in there at the same time as his sister, did I take him home from the hospital in the car, etc, etc, etc.  Then, when my inlaws were over the other day he asked how babies get in there in the first place?!?  I smiled and said; "that's a frank and open discussion for another time." 

I have no problem with frank and open discussions actually.  I have no problem using proper terminology for private parts as well.  Sorry, but I thought my new little baby was adorable, and it besmirched his adorableness to call his penis his "dinky" or his "wee wee" or his "weiner" or whatever.  That's just me.  It's good for shock value too, because to my Dad, proper names for privates are akin to swear words.  Awesome.  I do, however, shy away at this point in time, from going into any detail about the special embrace that a MOMMY AND DADDY share, and what happens following that...but, I did want to find something to work with Jack's curiosity.  

So, BINGO, I'd just see if there were any nice where-did-I-come-from type books!  I simply mentioned this to the helpful librarian and she was ON THE HUNT.  So, she found the sub-section with all the non-fiction books, and left me to choose what I liked best. 

Much to my delight, there was a book from the 1970's about where we all come from, with fantastic, real, black and white photos.  I was giddy when I came across the page with the naked people on it.  On the top of the page was a picture of 1 young woman, and 3 girls standing casually naked, and on the bottom was a pic of 1 young man and 3 young boys lettin' it all hang out (ages 23, 16, 10 and 4).  I immediately felt that same tittering joy as when I was in elementary school and some classmate passed just that kind of book around for everyone's wide-eyed amusement.  Wicked! 

I'm very mature, so I raced home to first show THE MAN.  We both snickered together over the fact that the 16 year old dude was LUCKIER than the 23 year old dude (*wink* wink* nudge, nudge, aherm).  I also had a snort over the 23 year old woman, who clearly didn't have to worry about bikini waxing back in the day. 

Hair
shorts.  That's all I'm saying. 

Then I couldn't wait to show Jack. 
"Hey Jack, check out this picture!  It's full of naked dudes!"Jack didn't even give a crap about all that blatant nudity though.  He couldn't get beyond the fact that all the guys had long hair.  "Is that a girl?"  he kept asking.  That was the most confusing thing of all.  No, it's not a girl, I told him.  "Is THAT a girl?"  No, that one's not a girl either.  "Why do they have long hair?  Did they used to have long hair?" 

Like I said--I'm very mature.  That's why I could hardly choke out the words; "hey Jack!  I can't wait till you get a big hairy penis," because I was laughing so hard, and I had to cross my legs so I wouldn't pee my pants.  I've had two kids--I can't help it.  My bladder's way lower than it should be.  Jack rolled his eyes and groaned with disgust and The Man shook his head and said;

"Mummy needs to calm down." 

Okay, this is where I should note that when I said "big hairy penis," I was referring more to some monstrosity of size and hair volume, rather than ever caring about the size of my son's junk.  Because, come on--that's just gross. 

I asked The Man if he would pose for some nice, clinical, scientifically-minded nude photos for me. 

"No way.  I don't want to see it end up on your blog." 

I heart him. 

Anyhow, this is the most awesome book ever!  Do you remember being in elementary school, and finding that book with the helpful, secret message in the front:


turn to page 124
ooooh goody!

turn to page 60

mmkay...

turn to page 39

yup...here we go

turn to page 219


yes, yes!!!

turn to page 10

ooo...nothing yet!!

turn to page 95


and
you turn to page 95 and THEN......!!!!!






there's a crudely drawn picture of a dink with dashes coming out of it. 

This book felt as fun as that. 

They'd NEVER make a book like that now.  Ah, the good old days...


Monday, January 24, 2011

Rhapsody Of A Small Town

The first white-gold of day lights up the town, fills warm, dusty bedrooms, and floods in through bright kitchen windows. Right outside the side door, it is completely white--like a great iced cake--calm, still and spectacularly cold. The cold is brag-worthy, which is fine, because that’s what we do around here; we talk about the cold. We marvel at the cold. We boast about the cold. We lament it. We live it.



Somewhere, everywhere here, people are getting ready for the day. They’re in their big, drafty, run-down old houses, on their narrow, cracked streets. The hum of overworked furnaces hangs in the air, as some make breakfast and others go without. Kids get the knots brushed out of their hair, and are pushed out the door again. They ride in school busses, or their parents’ crappy car, and most of them lament the loss of the weekend freedom. They carry their worn-out Walmart running shoes in their Walmart backpacks, while wearing their Walmart pants, shirts, socks, underwear, boots, coats, hats, mittens and scarves.


They leave their parents to their worries, their frettings, their minimum wage struggles or their joblessness. All roads lying NORTHSOUTH are jammed. A warm line of exhaust fumes. A train is coming. It cuts the entire city in half, and brings Rush Hour to a grinding hault. The train goes on its way. The gates swing open, and they're on their way again, to inch and push up those pot holed roads.


The sky-high hotels and tourist traps entice visitors by creating a wall—blocking out the ghost factories, the struggling city; its residents so mired in their own apathy, they’ve forgotten the beauty a mere ten minutes away from their own derelict neighbourhood: one of the world’s seven wonders, in fact.


And they drive. They drive in their rattling cars, and white mini vans, and their working-man’s trucks, and they smoke. They all smoke, it seems, and everyone has a cup of Tim’s strong coffee in their hand, or a discarded paper Tim’s cup on the floor of their vehicle.


I step out into that cold, sparkling morning, let the dry ice air hit my lungs and I walk. I pull my girl by the hand, helping her through the snow.  My boy drags along behind endlessly fussing and fidgeting against his cumbersome snowpants and coat.  The snow squeaks and crunches underfoot, like styrofoam. My jeans feel thin and useless against the sub-zero temperature. I kiss each of them goodbye when they're delivered to their destinations, and I walk.  That familiar feeling comes over me again: these are my streets, these are my roads. The house across the road is covered with long, clear icicles.  When I return, it’s just where I thought it would be—my girlie’s pink scarf, right there on the driveway where she dropped it. And I am home.

Thursday, January 20, 2011

Dear Cute Little Kid: Please Get Lost

Here's the part where I reveal that I'm a bit of a jerk. I love my own kids. I love my nieces. I like the rest of the world's kids. Kinda.

I like joking with them sometimes, and hearing the goofy things they have to say--for about a minute. No, that's not true. It's probably more like 5 minutes.

I love babies! I love the newborn baby now that I'm no longer terrified of them, and I absolutely adore the sunshiny 1 year old, who is happy, very curious and sweet, and has not yet learned the magic of the word "NO," how fun it is to make Mommies and Daddies burst a blood vessel, or to fire toys at unsuspecting heads and ankle bones.

I think kids are great. I'm not uptight, so I'm not all over a kid with rules and regulations, and punishments. I'm firm about stuff, but not anal like that mean, yucky mom at the Early Year's centre this week who was on her kid's A$$ the entire time:

"Chase, that little girl is playing with that toy."
"No Chase, you can't play with those children."
"Chase. Put the Thomas the Train back where you found it."
"Chase, PUT the train back."
"Chase, "PUT the train back."
"Chase, WE'RE not playing with the car right now. The little girl is."

The kid was like 2 and a half! Every time he tried to plunk his quiet self down next to another kid, the lines on his mother's chin would deepen, and she'd haul him out of there. Chill the f*ck out, woman!

Yeah, so kids--nice, great, blah, blah, blah. I have zero interest in playing with them. If I ever give in and play with my daughter, there's this inner voice in my head whining, and complaining and dying the entire time. You know: I'm hunkered down on the floor holding a princess doll, while my girlie is holding another princess doll, and our dolls are supposed to be having some fantasy conversation? Oh, I can't do it. I can't bear it. Not even for five minutes.

Also, if the kids are given some super fantabulous activity set for a present, which is filled with markers and paints and stencils and stickers and glue sticks, and glitter glue tubes--I nearly want to cry. I hate that crap! My daughter got a kit for Christmas to make her own paper puppet show, and let me tell you--I hope she never remembers she has it.

I told you--I'M A JERK!

I'm not proud of this.

In fact, I feel a certain amount of guilt over it. My sister is wonderful. She's kind, patient, and most importantly: FUN. Here's what I've learned though: if you are fun, little kids will sense it. They'll hone in on you and EAT YOU ALIVE. Do little kids ever get tired of the same joke? Do they ever get tired of tickle fests? Do they ever get tired of playing games? Do they ever get tired of that goofy voice you just did for a laugh, even though after the 50'th time you've repeated it, and your throat is SORE, they still clamor for MORE, MORE MORE???

Yeah, if some adorable toddler waddles up to me at these Early Year's centres and offers me a toy, I won't ignore the kid. I'll even talk to him/her about it, and make that approrpriate "OH!" face of surprise and delight. And then I'll send them on their merry way.

Even as a kid, if I was left to watch my baby cousins for more than a MINUTE, I would feel the life force draining out of me. I never wanted to hold the baby. WHAT DOES THIS MEAN???

I do take a little comfort in knowing the following:

* my kids burn me out. Because I am burnt out, I am now less than fun.

* There is always more house work to be done than any idiot can get done in one day. This stay-at-home-mom biz is exhausting. I spent all that money on toys, so you would have something to do, kids. I will try my best to take you out to fun places, and do special things with each of you, and I will always spend time listening to your woes, worries, hilarious anecdotes and concerns, but for crap's sake--don't make me play with you.

* My friend told me that she once said the following to her daughter: "I used to play with toys when I was a kid. I'm a grownup now though, and I don't do that any longer."

It's hard. It's cold. It's soooo comforting.

So, today my son and a few other classes at his school had their monthly morning ice skating trip. I love tagging along. I love to see the kids having a great time, and how cute they are as they slip and slide around on the ice. I also go to help tie as many skate laces as I can get to (freaking exhausting, tying up skates, by the way). And then, as the kids are on the ice, I love to watch, enjoy, and sip my coffee from the travel mug in near-perfect peace.

But today, this kid in Jack's class started yapping at me.

kid: "I know which MOM you are."
Me (smiling): "you do?"
kid: "you're Jack's mom!"
Me: "that's right! How come you're not skating, honey?"
kid: "my Mom doesn't have enough money for skates."
Me: *PANG* "oooh...I know: skates are expensive."
kid: "blah blah blah blah, blah, blah, blah blah blah blah blah, blah, blah, blah

blah blah blah blah, blah, blah, blah

blah blah blah blah, blah, blah, blah

blah blah blah blah, blah, blah, blah

blah blah blah blah, blah, blah, blah

blah blah blah blah, blah, blah, blah

blah blah blah blah, blah, blah, blah

blah blah blah blah, blah, blah, blah....I can do a somersault you know, and my brother can do a somersault too, and he's only three. I'm good at math you know. I can count really high. My dad's going to paint our house. Yeah, he's going to paint the walls as soon as he gets some money. One time I got in trouble in school. Blahblah blah blah blah, blah, blah, blah..."

Oh, but really when I type blah blah blah blah, blah, blah, blah, I should actually type "meee meee meee meee meee," like if a squeaky little mouse was suddenly talking, that's what he would sound like. Oh, and I could barely hear the kid, so every time he spoke, I had to say; "Pardon?" or "sorry, what?"

15 minutes of solid, breathless babble later, I began to feel a little panicky. I wanted to say; "look kid, I'm here to relax, enjoy my coffee, and hope that some confused, hot hockey guy accidentally wanders in to this rink, instead of rink 3 where the other yummy, testosterone-laden men are skating around. That's why my hair looks unusually fabulous for a week day, and why I'm wearing all this makeup and perfume. So you're a cute kid, but please--BEAT IT."

Instead I pulled the old oblivious Mom trick, and just turned my ears off. Eventually the poor little soul went off to play with some peers HIS OWN AGE.

Like I said, I'm a jerk. I'm not proud of it, but that's how it be's sometimes.

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

Coffee 101

Recently, while at a funeral luncheon for a girlfriend's dearly departed grandmother, I made the huge mistake of having one of the church ladies pour me a cup of coffee. 

"Oh my god..." I thought, "is it wrong to complain about the coffee at a funeral reception??"  Because, man--that coffee was BAD.  It was so undrinkably disgusting, I felt like making an announcement.  In the end, I had to abandon it. 

The funny thing was, a young guy there thought it "wasn't so bad."  I was stunned, but then, come to think of it, there's good reasoning for his flawed sense of coffee appreciation: 
IT TASTED THE SAME AS EVERY LOUSY RESTAURANT AND DINER JAVA WE'VE ALL BEEN SUBJECTED TO AT ONE TIME OR ANOTHER.

It was weak.  Oh, was it weak--shudderingly weak.  I like to think of this beverage, that's misleadingly presented under the guise of "coffee," as "coffee-flavoured water." 

But it wasn't just that it was weak: it was as though it was made from sh*tty coffee to begin with, and only a little bit at that. 

First of all,

THERE IS NO GREATER SIN THAN WEAK COFFEE

If you're going to drink it, drink it for crap's sake.  If you're afraid of the caffeine, buy decaf.  If you're still afraid that the decaf may yet contain traces of caffeine (as can be the case), drink tea instead (yes, tea has caffeine too.  You can go ahead and drink that herbal tea, which is, 9 times out of 10, horrid). 

Here Are Some Things You Should Know
1) if you invite me over for coffee, even though I say "yes," just know that I will be leery of your coffee until I try it. 

2) if you invite me over for coffee, and you have neither chemical whitener, nor cream, you need only pour me half a cup, because I'm going to fill the other half with milk. 

3) If you ask me if I'd like a coffee, and I say YES, but you actually only have INSTANT, you must offer that information as a DISCLAIMER right from the start. 

Ie;


coffee ignoramus:  "Would you like a cup of coffee?"
- coffee lover:  "sure."

coffee ignoramus: "you should be aware that it's INSTANT."
- coffee lover:  "Oh, erm, no thanks then."
coffee ignoramus:  "what?!?" snicker, snicker, "you don't like decaf?  OMG, you're so picky.  Coffee's coffee.  I'M not picky like YOU--I'll drink anything."
- coffee lover:  "I believe it's safe to say this visit is over."

4) If, when you purchased your coffee, you got it in the 50 pound drum size, and it still only cost you $5, while you may be thinking it's a fantastic bargain, you are wrong.  What you have in your possession is a great big can of garbage. 

Here is another important scenario we can all learn from:

coffee ignoramus:  "would you like a coffee?"

- coffee lover:  "sure."
coffee ignoramus:  "I got this enormous can of FOLGERS yesterday.  It only cost me five bucks!  What a deal!"
- coffee lover:  "I believe it's safe to say this visit is over." 

I have learned my lesson the hard way.  ONCE, at my inlaws, when I was offerred a coffee, I made the mistake of saying "sure."  I was presented with a cup of INSTANT, whitened with 1 % milk. 

The gut rot was legendary

Yes, I am a coffee snob.  I'm not ashamed to admit it any longer.  I will not drink anything just because it is called "coffee."  I am leery of those big vending machines that say they contain coffee, but no human is ever in sight to check on the quality.  I'm always leery of those great big silver coffee carafes that are set up at various functions, with a basket of creamers and paper cups next to them.  I'm always leery of the coffee after dinner at weddings, and have recently given up trying it.  Blech.  When the flight attendant says "tea or coffee?" I will choose the former, and not the latter.  I'm not falling for THAT again. 


I have one freaking cup of coffee per day.  I cut the caffeine in half by mixing a can of decaf with a can of coarse grind.  One cup.  I want it to be good.  Is that really so much to ask???

How To Make a Good Cup of Coffee
* 2 heaping tablespoons of a good quality ground coffee to 1 mug of water (and not that piddly-a$$ tiny thing otherwise known as a TEA CUP). 

What--you thought I was going to be all tiresome, and long-winded, and tell you how to work your coffee maker?  No, that's your problem. 

And so I leave you with a small conversation I overheard at that funeral, related to that horrid, wishy-washy, insipid, weakest-brew-I've-ever-had coffee:

Elderly lady:  "I'll have another cup of coffee.  You know, this is my SECOND CUP! 
- Elderly church lady
:  "your second cup?!?"

Elderly lady:  "I'm probably not gonna sleep till tomorrow now!"
- Elderly church lady
:  "Yeah!!! You'll be WIRED!"

Sunday, January 16, 2011

The Tired Gourmet: Bye Bye Bread Pudding

Bread pudding?!?  you say, why the $&#*! would I want to make bread pudding?  Isn't that the kind of thing my GRANDMAW used to make??? 

You are correct!  It is one of those old fashioned kinds of desserts.  It's also simple, completely delicious, warm and snuggy on a cold miserable day, and perfectly suitable for us to make because we are LAZY. 

Let's face it--we go through a ton of cinnamon raisin bread in this house since it's 1 of 7 foods my son will eat.  However, the end pieces, apparently, are inedible, so I save them up, let them dry out, and when I have enough--voila--bread pudding.  I make it fairly often, because my sister digs it too.

Recently, the lovely and charming Matt and Paula dropped by for dinner, with their cutie pie kiddos, and I forced this on them served it to them for dessert.  If you read this blog enough, you'll recognise Matt and Paula as faithful friends and commentors on my posts, and you'll also know how hilarious they can be.  Plus, I've known Matt for FREAKING EVER.  Aw, don't you feel all warm and fuzzy inside now?  GOOD, then you can make this WARM FUZZY DESSERT! (note, dessert is usually served warm, but is not actually fuzzy).

Bye Bye Bread Pudding (aptly named, because it disappears, hyuk, hyuk)

1) 7-10 slices of dried out cinnamon raisin bread (7 if the loaf is regular sized, 10 if the slices are small)
2) 1/4 cup melted butter

3) 4 eggs
4) 2 1/2 cups milk
5) 1/2 cup white sugar, plus a little for sprinkling on top
6) 1 teaspoon real vanilla extract *
7) table cream (your choice of how much fat you want in it)

* hey, why is karen a snob, and only uses real vanilla extract?  One, it tastes better, TWO, read the ingredients on the phony stuff, THREE, it tastes better, so splurge.  Seriously.

Butter an 8 inch square or 1.5 litre baking dish.  Rip stale bread into small, bite-sized pieces.  Drizzle melted butter over bread, and toss to coat.

In a large enough mixing bowl, combine eggs, milk, sugar and vanilla, and whisk till blended.  Pour over bread, and push top pieces down gently to immerse in the mixture.  Set aside until you're read to bake, so the bread can soak up all that liquid.

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Bake for 1 hour, or until pudding is no longer wobbly when you shake it around.  Or, if you like it more moist in the centre, you can bake it until it is still slightly wobbly. 

Serve warm with a drizzle of cream.  I guess you could use ice cream if you want, there's noone to stop you.  Enjoy the simple tastes of butter, sugar and vanilla.  Yummy.



Optional:  sprinkle top of pudding with a little white sugar just before baking.




What a mess.  Better clean up work space first...

okay-I've got everything I need...milk, butter, eggs, bread, sugar, sprouts...

ha ha, just kidding--no sprouts.

butter, butter, butter...

rippity rip...

mmm....mug o'melted butter...no, don't drink it.

look at that whisking action!

pour...*yawn* This is so easy it's almost boring

pat, pat...now let it sit and soak up thegoodness before you lightly sugar it and bake it!

and I ask you:  is that NOT pretty?!?


look how happy it made my sister feel

ooo!  The lovely and charming MATT & PAULA! (curse these shaky hands!)

"OMG, MATT!  HAVE YOU EVER SEEN ANYTHING THIS FANTASTIC???"
"NO PAULA, I HAVEN'T--JUST LOOKING AT IT FILLS ME WITH AN INDESCRIBABLE HAPPINESS."

Deeeeeeelicious.





Saturday, January 15, 2011

No Guns For Me, Thanks.

I don't have a gun.
My sister does not have a gun.
My brother does not have a gun.
My friends don't have guns.

We live in Canada.



Here is an article that I read this morning on msn.ca.  I thought it was a good one, so I'll cut and paste it into this post.  Have a read, and have a think.

If you'd like to read the whole thing, go HERE.





The Rundown


A look at the news that made headlines this week.


One of The Rundown's more loyal followers asked if the Jan. 8 shooting in Tucson, Ariz., that killed six people and injured 14 others, would make the United States recognize that it has a serious problem with gun control.

If you ask The Rundown: no.

Guns wielded by citizens have killed or wounded high-ranking U.S. officials before, including the president. If Americans have refused to act appreciably on gun control in those instances, nothing that happened this past Saturday, including the grave wounding of Congresswoman Gabrielle Giffords, will stir them to that end.

The second amendment of the U.S. Constitution stipulates the right to bear arms. That was ratified in 1791 and nothing that has happened since then has caused it to be changed. Not even the horrible events that happened in Tucson. The amendment's longevity has spawned a largely pervasive culture that has established gun ownership as inalienable, as vital as freedom itself, to be forsaken only when it is removed from your cold, dead hands. There are few guarantees in life but one of them is the gun culture in the United States. It will not change. Not in this lifetime, the next one or the ones beyond that.

If anything, the gun debate in the United States has been trampled by the notion that the country's incendiary political rhetoric was more to blame for what happened in Tucson. That debate percolated throughout the week, with some political operatives telling their followers to cool it and the right-wing talk shows dismissing it altogether. The Facebook video posted by Sarah Palin was another matter, doing much to put kerosene on flames that already contained plenty of heat. Palin, the former governor of Alaska and a candidate for vice-president on the Republican ticket in 2008, had "targeted" Giffords' district with a cross-hairs logo because of Giffords' support for health-care legislation.

Some of those hard edges were softened by the eloquent address given by President Barack Obama at a memorial for the victims on Wednesday night. The president poignantly turned the moment on the people at the scene, those who were killed and those who survived.

If the gun debate in the U.S. went anywhere this week, it was in the opposite direction, with more people deciding to pack heat, including some members of Congress.

That response bears out the close regard for the second amendment. It also ensures that what happened in Tucson will not be the last time we hear of such a massacre.

http://news.ca.msn.com/photogallery.aspx?cp-documentid=27249773

Thursday, January 13, 2011

It's PMS TIME, MOTHERF*$#ERS


PMS karen:

1) wants to be left alone.  A*L*O*N*E.  Is that REALLY so much to ask?

2) wants to put this entire post in ALL CAPS.


3) is relieved:  now she doesn't have to kill anyone, because The Man presented a bag of chocolate covered almonds when he came home from karate

4) finds The Man handsome, witty and snuggly when she does NOT have PMS, but when she does have PMS, she talks to him thusly:

"I can't abide your PIGHEADEDNESS ANY LONGER." 
Somehow the Man doesn't warm up to this kind of talk. 

5) Wonders if children, ever, ever just stop talking?!?

6) has ditched the bra for the evening.  She would also like to stomp on it, pee on it, and then burn it just for being the unbearable little knife that it is after wearing it all day.

7) will not shave her legs this entire 2 weeks of hormonal suffering, because really, there's no point.


8) shrieks too much at this time o' the month.

9) has worn the same knubby, fleecy, lint-magnet, frumpola black pants for two days, and even shlepped over to pick the boy up from school in them, and she does NOT CARE

10) has been toying with a new dessert idea... COOKIE PIE!  It's bound to be a winner.

Tuesday, January 11, 2011

BOOBIES

Okay, time to employ the "kitty" rule again...ha, this kitty rule is the best thing ever!  I think I've twisted the original "rules" though to a certain extent.  I think the original directive was to post a warm, fuzzy kitten picture RIGHT before you talk about something that is very un-warm-fuzzy-kittenish, or before you post a picture that's just plain gross.  Let's see if I can find one in my blog pic vault here....




(image source:  http://icanhascheezburger.com/ )


Seriously--is there something wrong with me??? Does anyone else just LURV ridiculous pictures of cats with zany human-like sentiments and affectations attached to them?  Angry cat at a drive thru...ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ...

But we're not going to talk about kitties.

WARNING: THIS POST IS ABOUT BREASTS, TITTIES, TA-TAS, HOOTERS, HONKERS, JUGS, BAZOOMBAS, BOSOMS, CHESTICLES, OR WHATEVER YOU CHOOSE TO CALL THEM.  THIS POST IS NOT SOME PERVERTED ROMP THROUGH A STRIPPER-ESQUE WORLD OF OVER-SIZED, CARTOONISH  SKIN BALLOONS, NOR IS IT A GRATUITOUS ESCAPADE OF THE BUXOTIC.  THERE WILL BE SOME CRUDE BREAST EUPHEMISMS USED.  STILL, IF YOU'R OFFENDED ABOUT DISCUSSING BODY PARTS, OR IF YOU'RE MY DAD, PLEASE STOP READING HERE

Girls, do you remember your hoots when you first had them?  They were so embarrassing.  Did your grandmother ever make you a nice, thick, hand-knitted sweater, and the first time you wore it, a boy in your class said; "hi so-and-so, nice tits," and you were so mortified you never wore the sweater again?  And did your Mom just not get it, and keep asking why you never wore that nice sweater that Grandma made?  Was that memory burned into your brain, so that now, even as a bagged-out growed up woman, you still run into that guy from your elementary school, and you feel like TELLING him that story, but you can't because ultimately it means discussing BREASTS???  And we all know that breasts are good, yet baaad, and good because they're baaaad, but they should really just be good, because their one and only purpose is to nourish the tiny new people of the world?

Anyhow,

Before I started grade 6, we were informed that in the new school year, we would have to start changing for gym class.  My stomach dropped.  I felt cold, clammy and sick all at once.  I came from a ridiculously modest family (maybe no more so than many other families), and there was no way that I was going to pull my shirt off in the change room and reveal my fairly new chesties.  Oh the unbelievable horror.  There was no choice:  I would HAVE to get a bra.  That took a lot to rustle up the nerve to ask my Mom--let me tell you.  She was a super private person about all things female.  Somehow though I managed to squeek it out:

"Mom, I need a bra."

So, we went for THE most uncomfortable shopping trip ever.  Mom picked one that looked cute, and I went in the change room to try it on.  I was so horrified by the whole experience, I simply assured her it fit fine, just so I could get the hell out of there.

That thing was stiff and itchy.  I remember running around at soccer practice in the summer, being slowly chafed to death by it's horrid, unsympathetic stiff nylon-y-ness.  "Maybe I can just not wear it today???"  I asked/pleaded with my Mom."

"No.  You have to get USED to it."

And so began years of bras:  terrible bras with maxed-out elastic, straps that slid off your shoulders simply by breathing, itchy lace, bumpy lace that looked terrible under a sweater, bras that squeezed more boob fat into your armpits, than up front, bras that had just the right shaped cups, but the band was so tight you could hardly breathe, so you cut out the clasps from another older crappier bra, and sewed them onto the band of this bra, creating your own masterful extension.

There were bras that turned your boobs into the shape of ice cream cones, balconette bras that give you marvellous push-up action, but your jugs would fall out every time you reached down to pick something up, bras with little pockets in the front that held little half moon packets of "water" so as to appear more well-endowed, but all they really made you appear was bulky and lumpy, bras that felt great in the change room, but turned into a sliding knife of pain after wearing them for half an hour. 

Oh, and you also bought bras that were a really cool colour, like super hot pink, but you could never wear that under pale clothing.  You bought that one strapless bra for those awkward but sexy shirts you wanted to wear out to the club.  You  had to keep pulling it up constantly though.  At first you tried to do this when nobody was looking, but after a while you didn't give a crap, and just yanked it up whenever.  This bra also did a better job at giving you ample armpits than anything else, and when you finally, mercifully took it off, you had a red ring around your torso that would still be there when you woke up in the morning. 

Oh, and don't forget those sport bras you bought, that had you welded in as snugly as a criminal in an iron maiden.  There was also the 'racerback bra', which you bought because you had one stupid (but really cute!) shirt in your drawer, that had an awkward shoulder-revealing shape. 

You had a whole drawer full of bras:  functional, beige, white, black, strapless, sexy, lacy, frilly, blue, hot pink, but you still only wore that ONE AND ONLY BRA THAT WAS COMFORTABLE and had just the right shape, day in, day out. 

Girls, do you remember when you were in yout late teens/early twenties, and your zooms were WAY up high on your chest?  Yeah, those were good times.

And then, one day you got married, or not, and became pregnant.  Those breasts were no longer your friend.  They HURT.  They hurt if the seat belt rested across them.  They hurt if someone bumped into them.  They screamed if you weren't really careful putting on your shirt. 

At last the baby came.  Aw, the magic and terror of being responsible for a brand new person.  You were going to do the right thing: you were going to BREAST FEED YOUR BABY (breast is best, yo).  At first it was a little scary, but maybe not too difficult.  You felt like you were really doing it, but what you didn't realise was that your milk had not yet come in.  And then, two days later, it came in.  You noticed this at the first light of day. 

HOLY TORPEDOES, BATMAN

OMG, your gazongas are now ROCK HARD, and standing straight up.  Whoa...it's kind of fascinating, but more than a little disconcerting.  Okay!  Time to feed that hungry baby!  Oh, but wait...that's funny...your nipple has disappeared.  The baby is mashing his little face around on you in a frenzy, as though he's trying desperately to find a nipple on a great big, completely smooth balloon.  So, you've read all your handbooks.  You simply hand that baby over to your husband for a moment, or lay him down safely beside you, and you apply a warm, wet compress to your ENORMOUS boob.  There!  You have a bing-bong again!  Quick!  Get the baby!  You get the baby back into position on your nice, new c-shaped pillow, AND---oh no, it's disappeared again.  So, you do what all new moms do:  you panic.  The kid is not very happy either, and he begins to scream, which is not helpful at all.  You're frantically squeezing milk out into a washcloth as your baby shrieks beside you, and your husband dances around with wide eyes wanting to help, but not knowing what to do. 

Finally you mange to get something for that baby to latch onto.  You're sweaty from head to toe, and your teeth are nearly chattering from the stress.  The little baby is pretty happy though, but he holds one arm out, with a fist, like he's ready to punch you right in the neck if you give him a hard time again.

A few days later, you have a problem.  Not with the feeding thing--you've been doing fairly well on that.  You've had your husband pull baby's little chin down while he's eating, just so he can get the best "latch" possible.  You notice that his mouth forms the perfect, textbook shape of the feeding baby.  Yeah, you are awesome!  However, your nipples are killing you.  First they are extremely sore, and swollen.  Then they start to crack.  Then, if you're really lucky, they might even bleed a little. 

So, you walk around the house, with your jelly bag, postnatal stomach, and a nursing bra on with the flaps hanging open, because you've only got an hour until the little *!$# eats again, and that stupid book you have tells you that air will help heal your nips.  No wait, they're not nipples any longer--they're NOPPLES now.  So, you've got your nops hanging out, and they don't feel any better, but through the baby monitor you begin to hear that sound...that sound of the sleeping baby moving around. Stirring.  Getting ready for his little internal food clock to ding.  You want to cry, because your nops hurt so FREAKING MUCH, but you're wearing the MOM PANTS now, and you've got a job to do, so you get that tube of gunk out, spread some on your nops, hoping it'll make a sort of barrier between you and that great suction of pain, and head off to prepare the feeding area. 

OH, but all those stupid books, pamphlets, and even that lactation lady, all told you that "if it hurts, you're doing it wrong.  Breastfeeding should not hurt." 

DUH. 

That is the stupidest thing that all new mothers all told. 

Think about it:  if you have a human sucker fish attached to your boob, every couple of hours right from the time he's born, and he's ruthlessly dragging milk out of a nipple, IT IS GOING TO HURT.  I don't care what anybody says.  Your poor nopples have ever been mistreated like this before.  Period. 

Isn't it fun that you can shoot milk at your husband from six feet away, and hit him right in the unsuspecting side of the head?  Yeah, that is AWESOME. 

What's not awesome is sleeping with a bra on, with breast pads in, and if you don't, waking up for feeding time having soaked your shirt, and all the bedding on your side.  However, you're so tired, you climb right back into that puddle at 5 AM and go back to sleep for another couple of hours.   

These days of nursing don't last forever though.  Eventually you decide the time has come to stop breastfeeding your baby.  You know this, the baby knows this--he's thrilled to be able to hold his own bottle/sippy cup of whole milk.  In fact, he likes that better than you, which sucks a bit, but so be it.  So, everything's moving along, but your body still thinks it's supposed to be making the milk.  Even if there's no little person there to drink it.  Oh the pain of your rock hard boobs.  No problem--you just have to walk around with cabbage leaves in your bra for a few days, and you'll feel much better.  There, almost back to normal. 

And so you're left with breasts that kind of remind you of your old breasts, but it's like somewhere along the way, someone swapped your young, high-on-the-chest bazoomies for a worn out second-hand pair.  Well, they certainly have more lines on them than before. 

Then comes that strange day when you finally decide to deal with your fancy bra drawer.  You have a whole stack of B cups that now have to be thrown away. It's like each lacy, frivolous bra is a moment in time from a younger, slimmer, more care-free you.   In its place are the biggest-of-the-C-cup bras you've replaced them with.  Sigh.  That's okay, you go ahead and have that pity party for a moment or 20.

So now you're a Mom with kids, and you would appreciate your jump in cup size, but your larger mams are now overshadowed by a) that brand new protuberant stomach (that never went away), and b) copious amounts of BACK FAT.

But still, aren't you lucky that you have them?  Your hooters, not the back rolls.  Aren't you proud of the way they nourished your children?  Doesn't it make you think of a woman who has lost one or both breasts to cancer?  Aw, baggy and saggy as they may seem to you now, give your boobies a hug.  They're still awesome. 


 http://www.cbcf.org/

Monday, January 10, 2011

whoa...this is getting a little eerie

Okay, just as I'd finished my last post about getting 2 new awards, another mis-guided soul gave me an award.  How nice!  However,

there's something weird about me:

even though a blog is essentially one great big MIRROR MIRROR ON THE WALL session, I still am not growed up enough to accept praise like an adult. 

Actually though, it's cool, because I really, really enjoy writing :)

So, I'm going to send a big thanks to jdracecar at It's Always FUNNY In Columbubble, for the award, but mostly I'm just going to say thank you for stopping in and having a read.  What's more fun than getting together with all my bloggo friends and having a good laugh, or a really good convo?  Apparently, nothing, because the house is still a mess. 
Anyhoo, I'm supposed to send this to 15 people, and say 7 things about myself, and blah, blah, but I already DONE that.  Just this morning in fact!  If you're really, really that interested, you can check out the post I did JUST before this one, for those 7 scintillating things. 

And now, to pass it on.  Remember:  I'm a jerk, and if I really, really had to look for 15 new people, I'd whine till next week.  Maybe I deserve the A-HOLE AWARD instead? 

Well, I'm giving this one to my good friend B, who has just started her blog Say YES or else!!  Her posts are great--at times extremely funny, touching, and thought-provoking.  Plus, her blog just looks cooler than mine, and this award will really fit her virtual décor.

And now, back to whining...

Deserving of WHAT?!?

Okay, okay, I can't put this off any longer. I have received 2 blog awards from 2 lovely ladies who read my blog, and apparently haven't decided to run away.  I should have posted this sooner, but praise and compliments make me squirm a little bit

BECAUSE I'M A DINK LIKE THAT. 


So let me say, that first of all, I got an award from Maria at "Mission:  Fertile Soul" .  Maria is an excellent, articulate writer, who conveys her thoughts with grace and earnestness, and if you're a bitching, whining MOM as I often am, her blog will really make you pause and think.  So, thank you Maria.

The second award is from Sherilin at "Laughing My Abs Off"  Sherilin is hilarious--seriously:  her "hair bonanza" posts were so good I wondered why I hadn't found her in the blogger world sooner. 

So, thank you ladies. 


So what am I supposed to do here...

1. Thank and link back to the person who honored you with this award.

2. Share 7 things about yourself.

3. Award 15 recently discovered bloggers.

4. Contact these bloggers and tell them about the award!



Okay, I'll try my best.  I'm one of those party poopers who NEVER keeps that email chain going, and this sounds a hell of a lot like one of those 'forwards' from my Dad.  Also, I don't even think I'm following 15 blogs...let me check...oh, I do, but some of them haven't updated in a year.  Hmm..

Okay, I'm going to give the "cherry on top" award to Bennet at |||| |||| |||| ||||...  (ha, even his blog title is hilarious.  I'm giving this to Bennet, because he's even more of a curmudgeon than I am, so a cupcake suits him hilariously, but when he does get round to posting something, he's witty, poignant and insightful.  Plus, he'll probably be horrified at receiving a blog award.  We shall see. 

I'm going to give the style award to my cuz Pam at French Buttonsand
Melissa at Pink Satin Sashes
They read my blog all the time!  Sniff!  And they're just so damn talented.  Seriously, when you have one of those days when your house is a disaster, check out their blogs, and it'll remind you how important beauty in your everyday life is. 


There.  I'm a jerk, and that's all I'm passing it on to.  A) because I'm lazy, and B) that's how I be's sometimes.

Sigh.  And now to painfully search myself for 7 things...

1) I still wear the same 4X underwear sometimes, that I bought when I was pregnant.  They come right up to my waist, and they feel like I'm wearing a nice pair of shorts.  I keep telling myself to throw them away, and only have somewhat-attractive gitch in the drawer, but I just can't seem to do it.

2) I won't make any decisions about what I want to do for the day until I've had my coffee.  Don't even bother asking me--even if it's going some place super fun.

3) My favourite thing to do on Saturday is get my coffee and watch "New Scandinavian Cooking" with Andréas Viestad on PBS.  The scenery is breathtaking, Andreas is completely whacky (without realising it), and the recipes almost always look disgusting!  Pure entertainment. 

4) I once had a pair of yesterday's underpants fall out of the leg of my pants during a driver's ed class in highschool. 

5) A girl wanted to beat me up once in a club, but I'm such a pudding, I still can't laugh about it.

6) I hate SPACE.  Yeah that's right--black holes, other galaxies...blech.  The vastness of it is far too large to comprehend, so it's a meaningless to me.  Also, I'll never see any of these distant places, so ditto to that.  I know that a lot of people will be flabberghasted by this, but remember when that little camera with wheels landed on Mars and immediately fell into a pothole, thus becoming just another piece of useless space junk?  Yeah. 

7) Never pinch my nose or mess my eyebrows.  I freaking hate that. 

peace, y'all.

Friday, January 7, 2011

POOP

I was told by one of my lovely fellow readers/sympathizers, that if I'm going to post anything shocking, I should put a picture of a kitty on my blog first.  That way, if I need to talk about something gross, or if I want to post a more shocking photo, nobody will be horrified and offended, because if my post shows up in their list, the kitty will be the happy icon that goes with it.  Heh Heh...

Okay, well enjoy this for a moment then:



Chuckle, chuckle, chuckle...that damn techno cat cracks me up every time...

But we're not talking about kitties. 


WARNING:  THIS POST IS ABOUT POOP.  FECES.  TURDS.  STOOLS.  LOGS.  CRAP.  KA KA.  Now don't get all squeamish on me; everyone poops.  Everyone. 
Since I became a Mom, poop has become one of the most important topics in my sad, sad little world. 

Mothers are all obsessed with poop at some point--namely, baby poop.  It's the barometer of how well your little person is doing.  Did he/she poop today?  How much did he/she poop?  What was the colour of it?  Was it really solid, or was it loose?  What does it mean if it's greenish???

With both kids I was obsessed with poop.  If one of the babies didn't provide one during the day, I'd pretend I was fine with it, but it would be on the back of my mind all day.  If they still hadn't gone by the next day, I'd be starting to get even more worried.  What they don't mention in all those (stupid) helpful little handbooks is how the introduction of solid food into a baby's diet will bring the whole digestive/bowel workings to a grinding HAULT.  When Jack started eating solid food, the longest he went without pooping was 12 days.  He was otherwise happy, but I was freaking out.  I was giving that kid prune juice, trying to boost the fruit to cereal ratio, giving him extra drinks...and then on the 12th day, when I was at my wit's end, and sobbing, it came.  It filled then overflowed that diaper. I've never been so happy. 

Baby Ella would dupe The Man and I so often, we should actually have been ashamed of ourselves.  She'd fill up her little diaper, and we'd lay her down on the change table.  "Are you all finished?" we'd coo at the wriggly baby.  We'd wait for a minute or two, and then decide that surely she was all done with her business.  Then we'd open that diaper up, clean her little bum till it was all pink and shiny again, and then:

PA POW POW BLAM
Do you know how many diapers we went through changing that girl's bum?  She had excellent fire power too.  One time I had her on the change table, and she was squirming and squirming when suddenly

BLAMMO!!!!!!!
She fired out poop with such force that it hit the wall nearly two feet ahead of her, and ran down right to the floor.  Luckily she was breastfeeding at the time still.  All of you fellow breasties will know that breast milk poo poo is better than formula poo poo.  It's less smelly by far.  Unluckily though, it was still poop.  When her little body exploded, I actually screamed and jumped backward.  It was shocking.  Then I stood and had to stare at the horror on the wall in stunned silence for a few minutes.  Or was I standing there in AWE?!? 

Either way, even though cleaning it sucked, it made me happy. 

Because she wasn't constipated.

I was obsessed with the contents of the diaper.  If The Man happened to be changing the diaper, sometimes I'd yell over to him:  "did he/she poop?"  If they did, invariably I'd find myself running upstairs to inspect the diaper for quality/quantity.  I would be disappointed if I missed out on that poopy diaper, if it occurred when I was out, and the kid had been a little irregular for a few days.  I'd never get satisfactory answers.

The Man:  "kid X pooped."

Me:  "oh good!  Was it a big one?"
The Man (shrugging): "I don't know.  It was a good size."
Me:  "like, was it a lot?"
The Man (with a slight smile on his face):  "it's up there in the diaper pail.  Would you like to go look at it?"

The diaper pail...oh how that thing REEKED.  There is no diaper pail in the creation of humankind that can hold a poopy diaper and not stink.  That's what I think anyway. 

I used to love it when the little people would be sleeping, or just lying down in their crib, or just lying down period, and when they pooped, it would often go RIGHT up their backs.  I became very skilled at getting off a poop-backed oneside, that only had the snaps at the crotch.  Roll, roll, roll your clothes, gently up the kid...

So what inspired all this fond reminiscing?  Well, today, as usual, I had to GO.  Don't look at me that way, I'm no different than anyone else, and I happen to be proud of my attention to fiber.  I was racing upstairs, and found that the toilet (the ONE AND ONLY TOILET WE HAVE) had already been used, nice and early, by one of my kids, who shall go nameless.  Anyhow, I opened the lid and saw turds and HALF A ROLL OF TOILET PAPER floating like an ominous cloud in the water.  Yeah, I had to reach my hand in there and scoop out handfuls of paper before the whole system backed up and onto the bathroom floor.  All the while, all I could think of was that somehow my fancy self-manicure of electric fuschia fingernails were now ridiculous, given my current PROFESSION (see my profile), and current JOB AT HAND.  Needless to say, after I'd lathered up for ten minutes, I got out the bottle of nail polish remover. 

There's nothing like sticking your hand into a toilet to start your day!  Ah, it's the little things that make life worth living. 

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