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

Saturday, April 30, 2011

HE thinks he's HILARIOUS

Like the apathetic, mostly directionless HUMAN TUMBLEWEED that I am, I often fall back into my same old bad habits. 

Recently, I set aside a hunk of my pride and came to The Man for help.

Me:  "I think you're going to have to help police me.  I'm falling back into my bad habits again.  I don't feel like eating lunch, so around 3:00 when I'm starving, I have a cheese toast (you know, toast with 3 slices of cheese on top, no butter.  Basically, one of the laziest lunches possible). I drink a coffee in the morning, and then have no liquid till dinner time--if then.  I went pee after Jack came home from school, and it smelled like coffee. That's disgusting.  That basically means I hadn't gone to the can all day."

The Man:  "do I have to draw up a schedule for you too?"

Me:  "yeah, you may have to."

See that?  I'm a total, preachy child.  EAT YOUR VITAMINS everyone.  ONLY EAT WHOLE GRAINS, PEOPLE.  DON'T DRINK POP ALL THE TIME, IT'S BAD FOR YOU.  You should be eating SEVERAL SMALL MEALS throughout the day.  It's much better for your metabolism. 

In other words, BLAH BLAH BLAH DIDDY BLAH, because I don't practice what I preach. 

So, this morning, The Man was busy scribbling something, all secretive like.  My new schedule. 

Is it just me, or does it reek of  I'm-a-dick-ness? 

I keep getting stuck on number 6 for some reason.

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Friday, April 29, 2011

A Royal Dress

Princess Diana's wedding dress.  Aw, this dress on a stand pic makes me feel kinda sad actually...

Ah yeah, now that's a dress

From "A look back at Princess Diana's Wedding dress":

"It is quite arguably the most famous wedding dress of modern times.

Princess Diana's dress was made of 40 yards of ivory silk taffeta and antique lace.

It was covered in 10,000 hand sewn pearls, and who could forget the 25 foot long cathedral train.

"We sewed her into the dress because I had a nightmare that the train might fall off down the aisle," Elizabeth Emanuel said."

Now THAT is a dress!

It's kind of funny:  when Princess Diana stepped out of that carriage on her wedding day, I thought her dress was URGLY.  I thought it was all EW, and not white, and SO, SO WRINKLY. 

Now that I'm older and shockingly, majestically more mature, I think it's a FABULOUS dress.  An ingenious dress.  But I'll get to that. 

Fast forward THIRTY FREAKING YEARS, and today everyone is talking about the marriage of Wills and Kate.  What time would I have had to get up this morning if I wanted to watch the wedding?  Four?  Five?  Yeah, that's NEVER EVER going to happen.  Sure, the wedding is kinda neat, and yes, it's a ROYAL wedding, but there are two problems with this:

1) I am not in any way shape or form, a morning person.  After Ella was wailing at 3:30 this morning that she'd had a bad dream, I was dead to the world until 7:00.  DEAD TO THE WORLD, PEOPLE

2) I think the whole monarchy business is kinda ridiculous. 

OH RELAX, I'm not going to get all Chumbawamba about it (catchy song--a little too extremist maybe, but it's got a good beat and I can dance to it), but I'm really not a big worshipper of anything besides a good night's sleep.  But, I'm not going to be a big crust pot about it.  I've had many a debate with The Man, who is much more of a traditionalist than I, and whose family does have some commemorative queeny, princey, princessy type mugs and plates and stuff, but today I'd rather be girly and talk about dresses. 

So, I missed the wedding.  Yeah, I actually kind of shunned the wedding, because I'm a miserable jerk like that, and I kinda felt like I was missing out on something. I heard a lot of people on TV and in blog land talking about having fun tea parties, and making scones and stuff like that, and even if I'm not jumping up and down because some privileged girl became a PRINCESS, I DO LURV A PARTY.   Damn.  I LURV a party. 

However, I had to tune in for a bit, because weddings are nice.  I am still a romantic at heart (THAT'S RIGHT--even if I chow doritos in my hotel room, while wearing ripped gitch, instead of getting my love on with The Man), and I am still a girl I guess, so I likes a good fancy dress.  Yeah, you do too: that's why it was totally awesome when your Barbie clothes collection had a white dress and cheap little net veil.  So, I tuned in to see how lovely Kate Middleton looked, and what her dress looked like:

image from HERE
 Lovely, right?  Nothing not to like.  Beautiful, elegant, modest and pretty, and not like this:

trashy much?  Image from HERE

She looked young, and fresh, and timeless in a Grace Kelly kind of way, which is just how she should look really.  However, did her dress PUNCH THE WORLD IN THE FACE like Diana's?  I would have to say NO.  Did Diana's dress say; "THAT'S RIGHT, B*TCHES, I'M ROYALTY NOW"?  Hellz yes. 

I mean, regardless of whether or not you loved Diana's dress, you have to admit it was genius for the time.  It was big, decadent, and luxurious in its yards and yards of fabbo sumptuous taffeta-ness, and damn it, it could be wrinkled just to show you that it doesn't have to be ironed or shiny because it's FREAKING SILK, PEOPLE. 

But most importantly, you have to consider this:  Diana got married in 1981.  The 80's people.  The MOTHERTRUCKING 80's.  You know:  one of the worst eras for hair, makeup and fashion EVER?  The era that gave us the SHOULDER PAD, the LEG WARMER, LILAC COLOURED LIPSTICK and FEATHERED HAIR? 

Yeah, that's right.  So, before you conclude Diana's dress was ugly, remember, she could easily have walked down the aisle like this:

image from HERE
or this:

Yeah.  You know what I'm talking about. 

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Thursday, April 28, 2011

Butt Wipe: Something To Consider

People, you are awesome.  You've already stopped using FABRIC SOFTENER, because it's stupid, useless, and just one more pollutant we pour into our WATER.   You don't use that coloured wrapping paper nearly as much as you used to.  Now you use re-useable gifty bags or RECYCLABLE BROWN KRAFT PAPER.  Fantastic!  You do lots of little things to show that you still give a crap about the Earth, and that you're not a total environmental douche.  See, that makes me all warm and fuzzy. 

Here's another nice thing you can do for the planet:  switch to ENVIRONMENTALLY FRIENDLY TOILET PAPER!

Image from HERE

Okay, don't make that face at me.  Do you really, really need "cottony softness" on your ass?  Do you need to feel like you're wiping yourself with a baby blanket?  No.  Do you ever use cheaper toilet paper and get a rash?  I doubt it. 

The great marketing masterminds of evil, want us to comfort and pamper ourselves in everything we do.  Our clothes can't just be clean, they have to be like a snuggy, perfumed blanky.  Our toilet paper can't just be useful, it has to hug our little bum bums. 

Okay, but remember:  I never use fabric softener anymore.  Never.  I don't want to spend the money on it.  I don't want to pour more chemicals in the water.  I also hang my laundry out on the clothesline as much as possible.  And guess what:  I never put on a shirt, wince, and say; "ooooo, this is hurting my baby fine skin!" 

Here's a link to an interesting article about the toilet paper vs environment. Stop groaning, it's not boring!  We're not back in some heinous highschool class again, we're sitting at our computers with hot, steaming, scrumptious beverages. 

Green Toilet Paper Buying Guide: Be Kind to Your Behind vs. Hug a Tree?

So how does THIS grab you:

From "Toilet Paper And The Environment"

How many trees can we save if we switched to recycled toilet paper?

"According to the Environmental Protection Agency (EPA), the United States could save 470,000 trees, 1.2 million feet of cubic landfill space, and 169 million gallons of water if everyone in the US traded one roll of regular toilet paper for a recycled roll. That’s just for one roll. Imagine if we all made the permanent switch to recycled toilet paper!"

What--you still want your pillow-soft, triple ply butt wipe???  You're not convinced that you can live with recycled toilet paper?  Oh COME ON--it's not like you're wiping your ass with a page out of the Sears catalogue! 

I have my own highly scientific observations about conventional toilet paper vs environmental.  We always use the environmental stuff here.  Ditto for paper towels.  One night I was out shopping for a few items and remembered we needed more butt wad.  The store I was in sold NO environmentally friendly toilet paper.  They did, however, have a nice sale on a name brand

Ya dig?

so, because I was feeling particularly burnt out that night, I thought what the hell--one package of name brand toilet paper won't make me evil. 

Well, it sure did feel luxurious compared to my regular toilet paper.  Supposedly, because it was thicker and "more absorbant," we, in theory, could use less squares.  However, if you're a human, you're probably programmed to use a certain amount of squares whenever you go to the can, and can't reprogram yourself to use less.  So, no savings there. 

ALSO, my children, who are in the early years of wiping their own bums, use INSANE AMOUNTS OF TOILET PAPER when they go to the bathroom.  Yes, I've had discussions, demonstrations, tutorials on bum wiping with them.  Still, when Jack heads to the can, unfortunately you can almost guarantee a half roll will disappear in one "sitting."  So wipe his bum for him, and save some paper, you say?  HELL NO.  Any good mother knows that once a kid starts doing stuff for himself, no matter how poorly he does it, you can NEVER GO BACK IN TIME and be helpful again. Har har. 

So, like I said, the kids use STUPID amounts of toilet paper (and still have skidmark underwear...go figure).  In my c.1928 house, we have some crazy, archaic plumbing system.  Let me try to explain it as simply as possible:  the plumbing pipes come down through the house to the basement into a HOLE in the floor.  The water then flows off perpendicular-ish to...hell?  The city sewer system?  Seriously, it's confounding. 

Anyhoo, recall that nice 12 pack of deluxe butte wadde I purchased from that BAD, BAD STORE:  the plumbing backed up 4 TIMES during the use of that toilet paper.  And by this, I mean, ACTUAL TURDS OVERLOWED ONTO THE BASEMENT FLOOR.  Yeah, that's right.  The Man was down there FOUR TIMES scraping turds back down into that hole (here's the part where I could rant about SOMEONE never DEALING with things, and NOT CALLING A PLUMBER, like he said he would OVER A YEAR ago, but I won't go into THAT NOW). 

The pipes NEVER have never overflowed when we use the environmentally friendly toilet paper.  We even had to call some guy to come roto rooter his way through that gloopy toilet paper mess. 

So, if deluxe toilet paper noticeably (turds on the basement floor people.  HUMAN turds) gums up our crazy, old fashioned plumbing system, what does it do everywhere else?!?

To me, it's worth the small, extra cost. 

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Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Which Is Worse: The Dentist, or The Dentist?

image from HERE

I had to go to the dentist yesterday. I'd been having some pain in my pain-in-the-ass wisdom teeth.  I was MUCHOS nervous about going, because even though I'm 39, I'm a MAJOR WEINER about the dentist.  I was pretty sure I had a cavity.  My sister assured me her dentist was super nice.  Still, yesterday I was NOT a happy camper.

Not too long ago, my 6 year old niece informed my sister that her mouth hurt.  After a quick examination, my sis saw a bump on little L's gum.  If you know my sister and I, you will know at this point that our first conclusion is always going to be:


So, I looked it up online, and saw that a bump on the gum indicates an abscessed tooth.  Oh brother. The poor kid's only 6.  A trip to the dentist confirmed this:  one little old rotton baby tooth, causing an infection.  The tooth would have to come out!  Oh, and there's more good news, she has a cavity that has to be filled, and another cavity that can probably be left alone since it will fall out soon. 

I immediately turned white, hot, cold and sick.  Why? 


Lily survived her SUPER YUCKY ordeal.  My sister, however, was wracked with guilt.  Oh, she was a terrible mother, why did she let the girls eat candy for little treats, etc, etc (Me?  I'm the sugar nazi.  I'll tell you about my mean mommy ways sometime).   I reminded her that she just inherited the unfortunate tooth gene from our Mother.  I have the lucky, mostly trouble free teeth of my Dad's side of the family, and The Man, barely gives a crap about his teeth and never has a problem.  In fact, he has a WACKY DENTIST, who once told him that he DOESN'T NEED TO FLOSS, because there's enough space between each tooth.  Okay, before you conclude that The Man is some sort of hillbilly with a set of choppers like a picket fence, this is not so.  His old dentist, clearly, is WHACK. 

Still, I couldn't convince my sister that she wasn't evil, even when I revealed Jack's typical lunch habits:

1) chocolate milk

2) 2 pieces of cinnamon toast
3) 3 cinnamon snap cookies (source of calcium?  Heh?  Heh?)
4) rolls on back to school without brushing his teeth

The shame!  The horrible shame! 

Okay, in my defense, all I do is fight with my son, and I AM working on integrating lunch time tooth care into his schedule.  However, before I get there, there will be much anger, frustration, calling me "Stu" (short for stupid, of course...very could write a whole post on being called "Stu" and what it does to their blood pressure over time) and all around bad times. 

So here's the deal:  in my opinion, dentistry has hardly advanced in the 30 years or so that I've been going for that horrible visit. And by this I mean, why isn't there some sort of happy pill one can take before they get a filling or have a tooth pulled?!?  Laughing gas?  Toke on a doob?  3 fingers of rye?  COME ON DENTISTRY PEOPLE, WORK WITH ME. 

If you ask me, dentistry has gone BACKWARDS as far as personal comfort is concerned.  My mother in law told me this story:  when she was a kid, she'd get a whiff of this gas, and the next thing she knew they were waking her up and her tooth was gone. 

Uh, hello??  That's FREAKING BRILLIANT.  I'd totally sign up for that.  Wake me up when the mouth carnage is over. 

I had to have a tooth extracted once.  When I was in my first trimester of my Ella pregnancy, I got my first ever toothache.  I had to wait a good couple of weeks until I was in my second, and safer trimester to get the tooth yanked out, because I'd have to take antibiotics.  Horrifying.  But, the dental surgeon seemed really nice beforehand.  In fact, he sounded so soothing, so reassuring.  And then he brutalized my mouth, like the psychotic butcher he was.  Okay, I'm not in the know about having teeth pulled.  Is it "typical" for tooth fragments to be flying out onto one's face as their tooth is being crushed, cracked, tugged and pried from their head? 


Do you remember being a kid, left alone in one of the little rooms, with teeth immersed in that most heinous fluoride solution?  If you were old enough, maybe you just got abandoned there, in that room, for a long time, holding your own sucker tube, left to take care of your own river of spit. 

Remember when you reached the magical age whereby you could choose if you wanted to continue fluoride treatments or not, and EVERY SINGLE KID SAID NO? 

How about the time I was getting my mouth torn apart during a routine cleaning, and the hygienist stuck her little hook into my gum and actually pulled a small chunk out.  Then she paused and had to dab away blood for a bit. 


I particularly enjoyed the little anecdote my dad told me recently, after his visit to the dentist:  he was having a convo with the hygienist about kids and the dentist.  She told my dad that sometimes they've had to STRAP KIDS ARMS DOWN TO THE CHAIR so they could work on their teeth.


Where's that magical happy gas when you need it? 

I can't think of anything I hate worse than getting that needle in my mouth, and then the drilling, with the burning tooth smells and that ZZZZZEEEEEE!!! horror noise. 

OH man.  I'm going to have to end this post now and turn it over to you guys.  I want to hear your dental horror stories. I want to hear if there's anyone out there who doesn't mind going to the dentist (unlike my freak brother in law, who, I was told, asked if he could hold up a mirror and watch his own tooth extraction). 

Oh yeah..and that tooth I had to go in for?  Well, turns out it has some infection around the root because the last dentist had "over-filled" it.  So much for my theory that maybe they could just turn the whole tooth into a filling, thereby creating one great SUPER TOOTH THAT CAN NEVER BE TOUCHED BY DECAY AGAIN!

Anyhoo, I was so relieved I could have fainted.  I came home with my prescrip for antibiotics in my hand raised my arms high for victory and said to The Man:

"I don't have a cavity--I have an INFECTION!!!!"

The Man:  "is that good?!?"


Hooray for infections! 

And now it's YOUR turn. 

click HERE if you wish we could all just replace our teeth with harmless wooden pegs
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Monday, April 25, 2011

On Weddings and 3 AM Super Sonic Indigestion

the DEVIL assumes many pleasing guises

In case anyone happened to notice my absence from the land of blogs, I was away for a wedding slash mini vacay this weekend.  Recall the BACHELORETTE party I went to last week for the lovely T--well this weekend was the wedding.  And, since it was an hour and forty five minute drive away, this was a fabulous excuse to DUMP THE CHILDREN, get a hotel room and PAR-TAY DOWN.  BOO YAH.


I'm not much of a par-tay down kind of girl anymore. I mean, I want to be, but clearly I'm not very good at it.  I was getting some ribbing from friends at our reception table, because apparently the story of me BOLTING FROM leaving the bachelorette party upon discovering it was 1:30 in the morning had gotten round.  I'm not ashamed. I own my loser-ish-ness.  So, there was much guffawing, and ribbing on my behalf, but whatevs.  A good night's sleep keeps me from being homicidal.  Who knew?

So, The Man and I made sure to drop the kids off good and early at the grandparents' so's we could enjoy the HOTEL POOL.  Hellz yeah.  When going to a wedding, or any evening event now, I have to do a certain amount of pre-event prep work.  This primarily involves NOT EATING ANYTHING THAT WILL BLOAT ME LIKE A HUMAN BALLOON.  I was going to squeeze my ass into my black dress pants for that wedding even if it killed me.  I didn't care how much muffin-toppage I might be risking, I was not wearing a skirt. 

Because, I H8 wearing skirts. 

I think other girls look great in skirts, and I certainly admire a lovely skirt or dress, but my sack of potatoes body is 10,000 times sexier in a clever pair of pants than a skirt.  Skirts do horrible secret things to bodies:  they hug the bum to create the GIANT BOOTY effect.  They hug the hips to create the MAMMOTH SADDLE BAGS effect.  If the length falls just to my knee or below, it makes my calves look like big, fat bowling pins.  If they come above the knee, I feel like I should be peddling my potatoes on the street.  And worst of all, there's that issue of NYLONS.

I freaking hate nylons, tights, and hosiery of any kind.  Itchy, clingy, bindy, top-of-the-thigh-pinchy, attire created by Satan. 

So, I avoided sugar, milk, and any kind of fun food indulgences for two days, and my pants weren't tight.  Yay me.  This was particularly difficult, because The Man, evil tempter that he is, bought DORITOS to bring to the hotel.  Put a bag of doritos, a bowl of mini eggs and a super garlicky dip in a room and I'd be finished.  They may be my biggest weaknesses. 

But, I didn't eat them.  I got the DORITOS SHAKES, but I didn't eat them. 

Yay me. 

So, after the pool and the mother-trucking-hot-tub YO (hot tubs ROCK), I tried to bend my super fluffy, straw-like hair into an attractive shape, put on some bling, and my PANTS, chugged a couple of cocktails and off we headed to the wedding. 

The wedding was intimate and elegant.  The centrepieces were FANTASTIC:  several roses in a tall, glass vase, in various juicy-juice colours.  The bride looked stunning, with her glossy strawberry blond hair swept up, in a magestic loose curls style, and her lovely gown.  I was getting a mild buzz, the appetizers were yummo, I was at a table with all friends, no duds, so all was well. 

Lots of appetizers. Ooo...yummy appetizers!  Let's just have drinks and appetizers all night!  More than enough drinks.  FREAKED OUT when I saw the little birdie salt and pepper shakers gifty ont the table.  FREAKED OUT.  BEST BONBONIERE  EVER.  Then some rich food.  More drinks.  Loads of laughs.  Fun to dress up and be with friends!  Red wine.  CHEESECAKE, B*TCHES.  Marvelled at some of the sky-high heels some girls managed to wear...silly girls.  Couple more drinks.  Lots of sitting.  Lovely speeches.  Got teary-eyed when the bride spoke.  Ew.  I don't feel good.  I'm not drinking anymore.  No wait, I feel fine!  Hooray!  I'll have one more drink! 

In the meantime, finally came that most anticipated time of the evening:  DANCY DANCE TIME!  And here's where I have to apologise to T. if she's reading this, because the DJ LET ME DOWN.  Herewith I provide:

karen's rant about wedding DJ's
I have been to more weddings with a sucko stinko DJ, than a good one.  People, I love to dance.  I LURV IT.  I love to get my drink on.  I love nothing better than to get my drink on and dance.  Ppfft--zero inhibitions--what's not to like about that?!?  I want to shake my groove thang (whatever that is) for as long as the music is good.  Then I want to dance to "Can't help falling in love" by Elvis with The Man.  Then I want to dance some more with the girls.  I do NOT want to ever, ever hear the following:

* Jive Bunny. 

Seriously?  SERIOUSLY?  Ah hell naw.

* Old Time Rock & Roll

I've ranted about this before.  It fills me with an incomparable rage.

* Shook Me All Night Long

It's not a highschool dance.  If anybody wanted to "shake" me all night long, I'd punch him in the neck. 

* The Macarena

Yeah, I used to do that dance.  IN THE 90'S

* The Chicken Dance

Luckily I haven't heard this one in years.

Okay, so, that being said, this DJ last night did not play any of these major offenders.  Well, that's a big point in his favor.  He even played really good music during the reception, while we were eating and drinking and eating and drinking.  Good, good, and good.  And then, it all fell apart at dance time.  I lurv the Everly Brothers.  I have a greatest hits cd.  I don't want to dance to them.  Ditto for Connie Francies, and SUPER DUPER DITTO for Paul Anka!  MON DIEU--PAUL ANKA!!!

Vivacious L., who was at my table, went up to make some requests for songs chicks actually like to hoochy to:  Akon, Taio Cruz, that dance-tacular new J-lo song.  Current, current, current.  However, Cotton Eye Joe informed her that he didn't have most of the songs she requested, and the one he did have, he wouldn't be able to get to for a LONG TIME.  Okay buddy, do you notice that there's nobody on the dance floor?  He's like the jerk at a party who monopolizes the music, takes no requests, and insists on playing sh*t like "Free Bird" all night. 

If I were a DJ, I would RULE THE PLANET.  I'd play a) what the bride and groom wanted, b) CURRENT MUSIC c) music to suit some of the older crowd, and d) slow songs that don't make you want to hurl. 

Here endeth this rant.

SO, it was 10:30, and everyone was leaving (see?  I'm NOT a total loser--everyone else was tired too, so NYAH!), and The Man and I headed back to our hotel room.  I pried off my sexay shoes, noted with horror that my feet had expanded to roughly five times their original girth, and made The Man poke them.  Then I put on a pair of my favourite super-sized gitch with the hole in them, my jammies shirt, and hopped on the bed with that bag of Doritos that had been singing its siren song to me all day. 

I've never been so happy.

Then I went to sleep. 


Question:  how can you tell that you're getting OLDER?

Answer: when you have indigestion SO BAD, it actually tricks you into thinking you're having a heart attack.

After a few hours of fitful dreams in which I was basically still at the wedding chit-chatting with the girls, and loads of tossing and turning, I woke up at 3 AM with LEGENDARY INDIGESTION.  Have you ever felt like a giant bottle of fizzy pop?  Well, that's how I felt.  Had that happened in the afternoon, I'd have concluded that I had wicked heart burn.  However, at 3 AM, I felt like I was on the road to heart attack country.  Then I had a mild panic attack.  Then I had to be my own voice of reason:

Voice of reason:  calm down, karen, old kid, old sock--you're not having a heart attack.  You're having an ANXIETY ATTACK.  You never used to have those, but you get them now, so just take deep breaths and chill out.

So, here is the prescription for massive middle of the night indegestion:

* 2 TUMS
* 1 entire bottle of water sipped slowly
* approximately 50 farts (yeah, I said I wouldn't talk about personal gas again, but it's integral to the story)
* 20 burps

and voila!  All better.  Of course, this is all very lonely as The Man is sawing logs next to me as I'm pondering my own MORTALITY, and making a few hypocritical psuedo prayers and promises that I'll NEVER DO THIS AGAIN, but that's how I roll. 

Yup.  That's how I roll. 

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Thursday, April 21, 2011

I Can't Believe I'm Telling This Story

It's funny:  when I'm by myself in my crappy little green car, I swear like a sailor.  I appreciate the crude, the irreverent, and the gross:  zit humour, barf humour, poop humour, immaturity--I love it all.  But, I don't do fart humour for some reason.  I don't know why.  I'm not a prude, nor am I a princess (no wait--I kinda am. Whatevs), but I am the type of curmudgeon who laments that fart jokes have made their way into TV land.  I want to spout out crap like; "when I WAS A KID, they never talked about farts on TV!" 

I certainly find it as funny as the next person.  I still tell the story about the lady in my pilates class a year or two ago now, who blew one right in the middle of doing some kinda sit-up stretch.  Sure, I wanted to laugh--so did a lot of people.  I laughed when my disgusting brother crammed the stuffed skunk toy my little sister had made in home-ec up against his butt and blew one into it.  I didn't laugh when he did that to my bed pillow (which, by the way, really held the stank in).  I kinda thought it was funny when little Ella RIPPED ONE OFF in the walk-in-clinic's waiting room, but I had to act disapproving, because hey, we're not total animals I think.   

However, when Ms. Sherilin at Laughing My Abs Off presented me with this grotesque award, and I learned that I had to tell a fart story, I felt a little daunted.  But then, this little voice inside me said; "SUCK IT UP, PRINCESS, YOU LURV A CHALLENGE." 

Okay, this may be the first and last time you'll  hear me tell a gaseous story about myself.  It casts me in an even worse light than my freaking double chin does. OH well...let 'er rip...

Back in my early 20's, when I was merely DATING The Man, I had a huge, huge phobia of farting in front of him.  Huge.  But, what happens when you go on a date out for dinner, and eat a huge meal?  You blow up like a BALLOON.  So, often I'd be at his little university boy room with him, with my stomach booping and bonging, and I'd laugh and say; "tee hee, I guess I'm still hungry!", pathetically trying to pass the heinous noises off as hunger growls. 

Hungry, my ass. 

The first time we went away together, was to Las Vegas.  We were 24 or 25.  First of all people, what does an airplane ride do to your guts?  Fills them with AIR.  So, after getting off the plane and checking in to our hotel room, we hit the strip.  We were so excited when we saw the sign "HALF POUND HOT DOG AND SODA $1.99"  Wow!  Did we split one though?  No, we were idiots.  We got one each.  What does a half pound of hot dogs equal?  Six?!?  Well, it's a FREAKING LOT.  Neither of us could finish it.  But what does one do on vacation?  THEY EAT.  The food was fantastic.  The dinners were huge.  We had sweetie buns for breakfast one morning.  What does all this do to the stomach? 

Well, mine was getting worse and worse and worse.  I was desperately trying to pound back the anti-gas tablets, but my system really just wanted to get rid of all that WIND.  The Man, however, seemed to be in no discomfort at all.  Perhaps this is because boys can take a crap ANYWHERE:  at work, at the Wal of Evil, at the freaking grocery store, and never be embarrassed.  I probably had POOP STAGE FRIGHT, and was unable to go, while I desperately tried to maintain my sexy girlfriend image. 
It was getting worse and worse.  I could hardly sleep at night.  One night, while drifting off on my stomach, one SQUEAKED OUT, and I was so mortified I couldn't really fall back to sleep after that. 

Finally things came to a head one day when I went to use the bathroom to pee:

Mortified.  Totally mortified.  I just sat there on the can in silence.

Then The Man started singing; 

"Getting to KNOW YOU, getting to KNOW ALL ABOUT YOU!" 
Then he laughed and laughed. 

I laughed too, but I also kinda wanted to cry.


I couldn't care less.  Let's give a big hand to the end of romance!  Har har. 

Okay, I'm supposed to pass this on to 5 people, but since I never play by the rules, I'm just gonna pass this off to my homegirl B. at Say YES or else!!!


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Wednesday, April 20, 2011


There's another very important member of our family I may not have talked about that much.  He's a little ratty, and looks like he's seen better days, even though he's just 7 years old.  His name is Dave.  He's Jack's bear, right-hand-man and all around best friend. 

Hi.  I'm Dave.

Dave is 7 years old, and was bought for Jack by Nana, when Jack was a new baby.  Dave didn't always look so ratty of course.  He actually used to be plush at one time, but Jack and Ella are HARD on everything.  And by HARD, I mean, I tend to kinda think of them as THE DESTRUCTORS.  Remember that scene from Ghostbusters, when the Demon urges the ghostbuster guys to "CHOOSE, CHOOSE THE FORM OF THE  DESTRUCTOR," and then the first thing that pops in their brains will be the orchestrator of their demise?  Yeah, well if I were "Dr. Raymond Stantz," I imagine that the first thing that would pop into my head would be an image of JACK AND ELLA, instead of the marshmallow man, and they'd ROAR AND RIP AND CRASH their way through my house faster and mightier than they are now. 

But I digress...

Oh look!  It's Baby Jack surrounded by stuffies! (does every parent take this pic?)  There's Dave, in the left corner of the photie, looking very plush indeed

At first, Dave had no name.  He was just one of many.  But, when Jack started to talk, and talk well, this teddy bear became "BEAR" (whatever.  The kid was a year old for crap's sake).  Or, as Jack would say it; "BEH," because Nana used to babysit Jack while I went to work, and Jack quickly took on Nana's English accent.  In fact, I still like to point out to Jack that there was a time he would say things like; "I have to go upstehs to find my BEH." 

Is that only funny to me?

Comfy Cozy.  Can't look at this too long or I'll need a nap myself

Oh Lookit!  It's Jack and his little cousin (6 months younger), plunked in the crib together.  And there's Dave..I mean Bear.  Cuteness factor is OVERWHELMING

As Dave's...I mean Bear's importance grew, so too did his presence, and emerging personality.  He soon became "Bear Buddy," and when he talked, for some reason, he sounded almost exactly like Bill Murray in Caddyshack.  I have no idea why.  Bear Buddy was a ton of fun.  He was loud, and boisterous, loved to dance and sing off key. 

In fact, Bear Buddy was so damn funny, that little Jack couldn't resist grabbing him, mid-joke, and crushing him to his face with love, and that I-can't-stand-it-you're-so-adorable kind of sentiment. 

And then Jack discovered that, like every other toy in the house, Bear Buddy's face was particularly good for chewing.  He'd get that snout in between his new teeth and "gnow, gnow, gnow!" away with enthusiasm. 

Whattaya know--he eventually ate part of Bear's face clean off!  So, I sewed him back up.  And Jack chewed his face apart again.  And I sewed it again.  And he chewed it again.  Eventually there was no nose left to salvage.  Bear's face was wet and GRRROSS nearly all the time.  If Bear got left in my bed, it would make that part of my bed wet.  EEEEEEW!!!!! DISGUSTING!!!  But I kept on washing him, sticking a needle and thread through his gross, crusty, slightly soggy face, and sewing that Bear back up again. 

Because, Jack was not about to give him up. 

(here's a secret:  Bear smelled pretty gross for quite some time during those wet months--kind of like mouldering wood chips)

Jack's grandparents were revolted by the thing.  They were horrified by all the chewing and sucking going on on Bear's face.  GET RID OF IT, they urged us.  As if.  They even tried to buy substitutions:  "look Jack," they'd chirp, "this is your NEW Bear Buddy."  Yeah, they've tried to replace Elvis too, and we all know how that's worked out.  Some fat guy with mutton chops does not an Elvis make. 

Bear's face was quite a state though.  Eventually I had to sacrifice a pair of black cotton undergitch, so I could cut circles out to craft up a new nose for Bear.  Am I a freaking genius or what?!?   

why nap on your "big boy bed" when you can climb behind with your buddies?

Bear had to go wherever Jack went.  If Jack was going on a road trip, so too was Bear Buddy.  Bedtime had to include Bear. 

 Bear had to come on vacation as well.  In fact, forgetting Bear was never a freaking option.  One time Jack left Bear behind an hour away from home after a family visit.  The Man hopped into his car and made the drive just to get that Bear. 
Look, he's even in the family photo

there's Jack, and that same cousin from the crib, and of course, Dave.  I think he was Dave by this point at least.
 Eventually Jack started getting interested in music.  It all started with The Beatles.  He was a SUPER FAN of the Beatles.  Then it was The Rolling Stones.  And then it was every other British Invasion band.  Bear Buddy was no longer Bear Buddy.  He was Dave now.  Also, Dave no longer sounded like Bill Murray from Caddyshack.  Jack informed me one day that "Dave's voice has evolved."  Dave had a new voice--no longer provided by me, but by Jack instead.  Dave enjoyed the electric guitar, and playing in bands.  He went to Bear school on the weekends, and he often tattled on Jack as much as Jack tattled on him.  Dave even gives Jack hell sometimes when Jack does something naughty. 

Oh, and recently Jack has informed us that Dave is a Muslim.  Christmas does not come to Dave's house, Jack told us. 

Recently, we could NOT find Dave at bedtime.  TRAGEDY!  DISASTER!  Oh my lord, I can't even describe the wailing, panicking, tears--the laments of "Now I'll NEVER find Dave!  DAVE'S GONNA BE ALL ALONE!  WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!" 

We hunted, and we searched.  We looked under EVERYTHING.  I was out in the back yard with a flashlight.  I scanned through the back seats of our cars.  Under the couches.  Under my bed.  All through Ella's room.  The Kitchen.  The pantry.  The bathroom.  It was a nightmare.  Finally we found Dave:  in Jack's room, under a towel. 

Dave is also Jack's most important member of the band.  He is the Lennon to Jack's Mccartney.  Or is it the other way around...  If you've been checking out Jack's art in some of my posts, you'll notice that when Jack draws his band, it always has the same members:  Jack, Dave, John (on bass guitar), and Roland the lion on drums. 
John, Jack, Roland, Dave

Dave, John, Roland

Thankfully, Jack no longer chews Dave's face.  It's a damn good thing too, because that bear was getting WHIFFY.  Plus, I was running out of black cotton underwear.

And so there you have it.  Dave, the irreplaceable.  For god's sake, DON'T LOSE HIM. 

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Tuesday, April 19, 2011

Time For Some Good Old Fashioned Whining

This post could also be titled "SOMEBODY PUNCH ME IN THE F*CKING THYROID". 

Is there another good word for TIRED, because I feel like I use that one to death. 

Beat?  Spent?  Knackered (that's a British one)?  Cream Crackered (some insane British version of 'knackered')?  Nah, I like TIRED.  It's very to-the-point.

Anyhow, I have been tired since Friday.  As you may recall, I was trying to rediscover my INNER HOOCHIE (officially dead), with some girlfriends.  I thought staying up till 2:00 AM was OUTRAGEOUS.  Picture me, practically RUNNING for a cab, once I realised it was 1:30.  However, my girlfriends had reports of partying down till 3:30 in the morning.  Jesus.  Who's the nerd in this picture?

But like I said, I've been tired since Friday.  I told my sister the other day that if this tiredness continues much longer, I'll be forced to conclude the obvious:  FULL BODY CANCER, and not the more reasonable answer:  too many late nights peppered here and there with CRUSTY WIVES (don't feel left out:  you can get the recipe for that heavenly concoction simply by scrolling down the left side bar), and other cocktails. 

This morning, The Man said he would take Jack to school. This means I could stay in bed and get a little more sleep!  At 7:40, this sounded VERY, VERY APPEALING.  Thanks to my MOM EARS, I heard that little dickens Ella stirring up in her room at 4:45.  She didn't get up yet, but once I hear her thumping around in her bed, I know it's not long before it's all over and she's up for good.  Personally?  I'm not interested in getting up at 5.  Sorry, but since I have no freaking CROPS, or a job out in the REAL WORLD, I figure I'm not being unreasonable. 

But, in case you're thinking I was drifting off into peaceful bliss there in my warm, cozy bed, think again.  Sleeping in in this house actually just means "staying in bed a little longer."  First I heard Jack and Ella bugging each other.  Then Jack and The Man were fighting over clothing choices.  Jack wanted to wear his shirt with the guitars on it.  The Man wanted him to wear the shirt he'd already picked out.  There was much screaming, and outrage on Jack's part, and I was lying in bed thinking; "why the hell can't the kid just wear the damn shirt HE wants to wear?!?" 


Hopped out of bed, found Jack's preferred shirt in a pile of clothes on the stairs (where optimistic items live, hoping for the day they'll be returned upstairs), gave it to Jack, and MAGICALLY averted a crisis. 

Then it was that usually time of the morning whereby Jack has to listen to the same 6 or 7 songs AGAIN before he has to get his stuff on and go.  Today, however, started with a nice, loud rendition of "Rollover Beethoven," by Chuck Berry. 
*Note:  Chuck Berry music is EXTREMELY ANNOYING when you're trying to get a tablespoon more sleep.

So, I got up, went to Early Years with my sister and our girls, and felt my face turning into a ball of fresh, sinking dough.  What's particularly obnoxious about this Early Years location, is that one half of the gym is set up with toys and things for the little people to play with, and the other half of the gym is clearly an aerobics class now, and the only thing separating us from the make-me-want-to-knife-someone BOOM!BOOM!BOOM!BOOM! of the loud dance beat music, coupled with some overzealous instructor's "WOO!  YEAH!  ALRIGHT LADIES, COME ON!" is a pull-down, flimsy plastic wall.  So, on the other side of that wall, there are probably lots of hot unwrinkled bods in spandex, and on our side lots of moms who looked just as tired as I. 

I would totally love to go over there and say; "listen, fitness idiots, can you show some respect and turn that SH*T DOWN???"

The last thing I want to whine about is my thyroid.  You know:  that idiot in my neck.  The last time I had a biopsy on my thyroid was hideous!  Evil Dr. THOROUGH poked my neck so many times, it was bruised for a month!!!  Because I'm the biggest wimp on the planet, I was relieved I wouldn't have to get THAT done for a long time. 

Oh karen, you great gallumping idiot. 

I have to get my neck poked A-FREAKING-GAIN.  Yeah, that's right.  My stupid, ugly lumpy lumps fall into the grey area of needle biopsies.  This is basically like saying; "hmmm..this thing looks weird.  We can't tell if it's cancer, and we can't tell if it's not cancer, so let's poke your neck 7 more times and see if we can tell one way or another, kay?  Sound super fun?" 

Two months people, and I have to do it all over again.  Legendary pity party.  Legendary. 

My sister says that I should tell my thyroid; "look, this relationship clearly isn't working out.  You're going to have to GO," and evict the f$cker. 

What would you guys do?  Avoid surgery and try to hang on to your vital organ, or yank that thing out and replace it with medication for the rest of your life?!? 

Blech.  karen need a nap. 

Click here for me while I have a nap
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Saturday, April 16, 2011

karen The Five Thousand Year Old Woman

Oh the bags under my eyes. 

Last night, after much coercing, coaxing and cajoling, I joined a group of girlfriends for a bachelorette party night on the town.  There are, IMMEDIATELY, at least two problems with this: 

1) my new, preferred bed time is 10:30.  Teeth brushed, face washed, recently purchased wrinkle cream lovingly applied, jammies, bed-time socks, etc. 

2) deviating from routine now causes anxiety.  Yeah, I know--mild OCD.  We've been over this. 

However, the girls were persistant.  Plus, The Man kept saying stupid, positive things like; "you should go!  You'll have fun!"  "You should go!  You'll have fun!"  "You should go!  You'll have fun!" 

Sigh.  I caved in.  I even found a shirt that (I thought) cleverly concealed the body that might as well be a billboard SHRIEKING


Yay me.  So, all of my girlfriends gathered first for drinks, snacks and gossip.  All of them were wearing SKINNY JEANS.  Me?  I don't even bother trying skinny jeans on in stores, because I don't need to lower my self esteem that much.  Okay, who cares.  They've all had just one child, and my body was still good after having Jack, aside from the obligatory JELLY BELLY.  No worries karen, you can rock your wide-legged jeans.  Second, all of the girls were wearing funky black leather boots.  Who cares that I was wearing my favourite bo-ho wedgy-ish sandals.  I'm an INDIVIDUAL, right?  Also, there's that matter of the purse.  I'm the only idiot with her little purse on with the strap crossed between my boobers, because a strap will NEVER FREAKING STAY UP ON THESE SLOPING SHOULDERS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD. 

Let's back up here a moment. 

When the stay-at-home mom is forced to go out for a girlie/fancy/formal event, chances are she will mildly panic.  Why?  Because she no longer has the appropriate clothes.  Yes, she has a hoody in every colour of the rainbow.  Yes, she has some comfortable, shlumpy jeans, that are slightly stylish, but they're a little frayed on the bottom from never having the time or inclination to hem them (stupid short legs).  Yes, she has a really cool pair of running shoes, because after dropping the little people at school, she goes for a power walk every day.  No, she never rolls up to the school wearing high heels, fancy clothes and too much makeup because she'd LOOK LIKE AN IDIOT. 

So, what I'm saying here is that I'm fairly out of touch.  But whatever.  Mostly I've evolved beyond that highschoolish paranoia of image. I style myself to please myself, do up some killer makeup, adjust my scarecrow hair, smell PHENOMENAL, and off I go. 

After being forced to put on some "Mardi Gras beads", a pink button that says "princess", and a glow bracelet, and receiving a drinking straw with a little penis and scrotum on it (sigh), I tried to plead to the girls that all this fun bachelorette gear was like putting on a uniform that told everyone:  "Hi, I'm a COUGAR," but they just laughed, so I decided to be a good sport. 

And so we headed out on the town...

I have to admit: I kinda LURV the button

and ended up at a bar/dance club that was FILLED with gorgeous 20-somethings.  The girls behind the bar, were wearing STRIPPER CLOTHES to showcase their unbelievable bodies, with their glowing, un-stretched skin.  You know, unbelievable pairings of thongs with pants that have little cut-outs to show case the bum-bum.  But the girls on the dance floor were the best.  Question:  DOES EVERY YOUNG WOMAN HAVE A FREAKING SKIN-TIGHT MINI DRESS? 

Kill me now.  GET GRAMMA HER WHISKY!!! 

I have come to realise something:  yes, it's fun to go out with the girls.  However, bars are not my thang any longer.  By 1:30 in the MOTHERF*#&ING A.M. I had had enough.  Enough THUMP THUMP THUMPTHUMPTHUMP noise, enough drinky-drinks that weren't even giving me a decent buzz anyway (sniff!), enough girls in tight little dresses with super high heeled shoes, enough being moved out of the way like I was a human box, and enough questioning my own hawtness. 

Because, for a 5000 year old woman, most of the time I feel okay.  And people, I'm not kidding when I say I always smell PHENOMENAL. 

Still, I have GOT to peel the shrink wrap off that yoga DVD. 

Be a DEAR and click this linky here for me, won't you?  Mama has a hangover. 
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Friday, April 15, 2011

The Tired Gourmet: karen's Cream Cheese Tart

karen's Cream Cheese Tart (which, by the way, is wicked good)


Doesn't the mere word make you feel like you HAVE TO HAVE SOME RIGHT FREAKING NOW??? Okay, so then you consult your cookbook, or your recipe rolladex, or the internet. Some of those cheesecakes sound so yummy, you can hardly stand it. Okay, all you have to do is choose the one that sounds nummiest...


THREE packages of cream cheese....oh, look at this recipe....FOUR PACKAGES OF CREAM CHEESE?!? Holy crap, that's a lot of cream cheese! NO WONDER EACH BITE IS A HUNDRED CALORIES! But, it looks like all of these recipes are that way. So you make that cake, and yeah it's delicious, but every time you take a FLIPPING BITE, you feel disgusted, guilty, and by the time you've eaten your third piece, the self loathing is legendary.

WELL NOT ANY MORE, PEOPLE. I present for you my own cream cheese tart, which is so yummy, but only uses ONE package of cream cheese. Therefore, dear hearts, you can have a slice of cake with much less guilt, but still satisfy that deep down, primal need for cheesecake.


In a large bowl mix together the following:

1) 1 cup all purpose flour
2) 1/2 cup nutty multigrain cereal (I used Post "Great Grains" this time)
3) 1/3 cup very soft butter (*I always use salted butter)

4) 1/2 tsp salt
5) 3 tbsp sugar

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. 
*With your fingers, work all butter into crust mixture until crumbly and well-incorporated, crushing cereal slightly if desired.  Press into a small spring-form pan, or 9 inch pie plate.

*Bake for 10 minutes.  Set aside. Leave oven on.


1) 1 package cream cheese, room temperature
2) 1/4 cup good strawberry or vanilla yogurt (no glucose-fructose!)
3) 1 egg + 1 egg yolk
4) 1/2 tsp real vanilla extract

*In a large bowl, combine all filling ingredients together, and beat with electric mixer at high speed until smooth and thick.

* pour filling onto crust, smooth evenly and bake 35-40 minutes, or until cream cheese is firm and only a tiny bit wobbly.  Allow to cool at least an hour before eating.

You can either enjoy plain, or with


4 tbsp strawberry or raspberry jam (whatever you have on hand)
1/2 cup frozen raspberries

* in a microwave-safe container, nuke jam on high heat until very hot and bubbling (1 minute or more depending on strength of your nuker)
* dump in berries.  Stir.  Top tart as desired.  Make swirly frou-frous around the plate.  Whatever.  This topping is also delicious on home-made vanilla pudding.  Guests rave about it, and it's so easy it's STUPID.  You can make more, or less, depending on how much you lurv it. 

Now go let everyone tell you how awesome you are. 

okay, we have everything you need pictured here...oh crap, I forgot to get the yogurt in the shot.  Damn it. 

mixing in the butter by hand is SEXAY

today I have a lovely little assistant to help make the filling while our crust buddy is baking

smooshing cream cheese is fun

add the sugar

and the yogurt

this is more fun than freaking playdoh

the yogurt, clearly, was irresistable.  Pause for a snack...

clumsy little people do NOT get to use blenders

bloppety blop onto crust

don't just admire me, BAKE ME

oooo...golden magnificence cooling on the baker's rack

I already look totally delicious (why is the cake talking)

drool-worthy closeup of crust

stupidest, easiest topping

at last!  Time to eat the damn thing!


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