tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-79540836672163590052024-03-05T00:30:53.697-05:00Ow, my angstKeepin' it real, because I lurv you.karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.comBlogger461125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-6597392669797715812018-09-02T16:30:00.000-04:002018-09-02T16:30:23.919-04:00Highschool For The WinLast night I tried to find any kind of webpage that had tips for dealing with the stress of your kid transitioning off to highschool. I'm REALLY good at googling stuff. It could almost be my career...if they had a career for that. Do they have a career for that? I would like a career in that. I tried to word it in all kinds of ways; "tips for stressed parents of kids going into highschool," "how to deal with the stress of your kid going to highschool," "parental anxiety when your child is starting highschool," etc, etc. And you know what? I couldn't find anything. Every return showed all kinds of websites for how to help your teen make the transition, how to help your teen deal with the stress of going back to school, sites about kids starting school anxious and depressed, "9 ways to help your kid with back to school anxiety..."<br />
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What about me?<br />
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I know. That sounds selfish. It's my SON who's going into grade 9. On the outside, I keep smiling. Saying things like; "I feel good about this!" and "I think highschool is really going to suit you!" and "you must have felt like you were too big for elementary school by the end anyway." I tell him that he needs to have his own adventures. I'm here for him. Hey, anytime you need to talk about anything, or if you feel stressed, just let me know. I keep myself one step back. Breezy. Cool. Casual.<br />
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But,<br />
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it's all flashing before me. Nursery school when the instructor told me she "didn't know how I did it," meaning, how I coped with my high-functioning, at times volatile son. I guess that was a compliment. I guess it was like giving me a little Super Woman cape. It hurt. Or the time in nursery school when he came back after I'd started to give him Omega 3 supplements, and I was told "I don't know what you're doing but keep doing it!" Another "compliment." I guess.<br />
<br />
Going to junior kindergarten. Waiting for the bus which was ALWAYS LATE. The bus that was always late that freaked my son out because schedules are important, yes, but they're of PARAMOUNT importance to a little boy with Autism. We gave up on the bus. I tucked my son and his baby sister into the double stroller I'd gotten cheap online, and I whizzed them up the road myself.<br />
<br />
Will the highschool bus be on time?<br />
<br />
The lady who was like an eccentric, kind, odd little bird who was my son's EA (educational assistant). The one who helped him keep it together when life became overwhelming.<br />
<br />
Then we moved and came to our present city and school. Eight years of meetings about that "Individual Education Plan." Eight years of gushing commentary about what a neat kid he is, what a character. So witty. The little kid who nearly vomited before school in grades 1 and 2 because the sound of the school bell was so horrifying to him. The kid who a teacher gave a little toy bee to to hold onto a recess because he was-- and still is--completely FREAKED OUT by bees. Fighting for him to continue to get extra help in grade three. Each year he gets older, memories coming out of him like conversational anecdotes of all the times teachers said things to him that were really, really not all that patient, kind or remotely empathetic. And then at graduation, he left that school having made zero friends. Maybe he doesn't care. He always said he was fine with it. Not acknowledged during or at the end of elementary school for all the fucking effort it took just to sit there and be as unnoticeable as a shadow, as a whisper. I know, because I was invited to class one day and I saw it. <br />
<br />
So now he's headed off to highschool. This is a monumental change for him, and I know he hates it, but even the fact that he's keeping it together, and quietly sequestering himself off in his room, teenager style--that kills me too.<br />
<br />
I decided a day or so ago to chill the fuck out. I'm happy that he's okay. I'm happy he can physically walk to his bus stop. I'm happy he's healthy. I'm happy he's here to go to highschool. I'm happy. I'm happy. I'm happy. I want him to have experiences. I have so much hope. I have fantasies of this bold, bossy girl I've invented in my head who tells him "Come on!" because they're going out of the school to buy a slice of pizza for lunch. Or maybe there's another awkward guy and they become friends, even if it's hanging out in their room, barely chatting because they're each on their ipads. You know--like that line from "The Breakfast Club:"<br />
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Anyway, I'm good during the day. Well, maybe not "good," but better than at night that's for sure. I have lots of up/down moments. So much dread for the unknown. I just don't want him to panic and totally forget those new combination lock skills. I just want the bus to be on time. I just want those older teens who are part of his "link crew"--the ones who are supposed to help grade 9's find their way around the school--I just want them to be nice. I want him to make a friend. Just one friend. A dozen if possible, but I'll take one. I want to not yell at him on that first morning when I walk to the bus stop with him if he's mouthy to me because he's nervous. I want him to have a girlfriend one day. I want him to find out he is so proficient at computers a post-highschool career will be in the bag. I want him to not hate school anymore. I hope he realises how proud I am of him. <br />
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And yeah, I wouldn't mind a website with "10 Tips On How To Deal When You're Teen Is About To Start Highschool." Thanks, google, that would be great. karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-71290986652962201662018-08-08T14:19:00.002-04:002018-08-08T14:19:53.631-04:00But Seriously: Why I Gotta Be So Homely On Vacation? Okay, so I'm on vacation. I'm FINALLY enjoying myself .You would think it would be IMMEDIATE FUN but this is the kind of vacation for which I had to pack and organise for like 5 days in advance. You know; the kind of vacation where not even the TOILET PAPER is included. And it's not just that I have to pack every freaking thing I need, I have to pack stupid things I don't need but MIGHT need. And it's not just the packing, it's like in those five days prior to leaving I have to make amends for WEEKS of slack housekeeping, all the while telling myself that I'm messy because I'm an INTELLECTUAL. Do you know how you say that, btw? You have a gin in one hand that's ALWAYS tilted at a crazy angle, and you lean in too close to someone with your gentle, tired, hazy eyes and you say; "I can't be bothered having a tidy house. I'm an INTELLECT-CHOO-ELLE. The drink doesn't actually spill, but it's all that guy will be able to look at. <div>
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Anyway, eventually by day 4 of all day packing , organising, sudden, inspired scrubbing the SIDE of the oven, waiting for the 40th load of laundry to come out on the dryer, it's THEN that you start to say stuff like; "you know what? I'M not going next year. Unless EVERYONE PITCHES IN, I'M not interested anymore. I'm TOO OLD to do ALL THIS on my own." Strangely enough, this doesn't make my Autistic son MORE sympathetic , but actually LESS. </div>
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So finally, that day arrives when the van is loaded and it's time to go! Yay! I DID IT! I'm an AMAZING WOMAN. Okay - one last pee before we hit the road. BOOM: PERIOD. I kid you not. I don't know which is most exciting: that time I got my period IMMEDIATELY upon landing in Florida, or Christmas morning. Ah, memories. </div>
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So here I am in vacationland. Staying in a very nice trailer. Swimming at the beach every day! Enjoying cocktail hour! Eating S'MORES! I've been working out, sleeping not too bad, bod's looking decent but oh my face. Like, I took a couple of pictures of me and the kids , right? We'd just been swimming. The first one was Karen humpback of the beach, and the second was me with the sunset STREAMING over my face and the boy said I was "red mom hulk" in that one. Also my hair is ridiculous. As soon as I'm NEAR the lake it's Shirley Temple on crack. And the bags under my eyes!! WTF! </div>
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It's a 46 year old worn-out-by-life, I-eat-really-healthy-but-I'm-still-waiting-for-robust-eyebrows-to-grow-back. Don't get me started about eyebrows. I MIGHT do a whole next post on eyebrows. Vacations: actually kinda tiring, and I dig myself but sometimes those teenage girls zipping around with their straight hair and full eyebrows kinda bum me out. Enough whining. I may be getting homely but I did over a 100 pushups in my workout today, and Karen with the luxurious eyebrows never used to be able to do any! </div>
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I'm sure it's just the lighting... Pretty sure ...</div>
karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-64137425426776982782017-07-12T19:20:00.001-04:002017-07-12T19:20:31.849-04:00THE CHORE CHARTS COMETHThis post could also be titled "Summer So Far," but who wants to click on that? It sounds like one big tedious update, WHICH, MY FRIENDS, it just might be! Hoorah! Lucky you. Whatever. This is <i style="text-decoration-line: underline;">my </i> <i>RANT HOUSE</i> after all. I really felt like calling it a Rant HAUS. What does that mean...<br />
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Fuck. I could use some alone time.<br />
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Anyhoo, today I was spending some quality time on my laptop trying to find "printable chore charts." Then I had to switch that up to "Summer chore charts for kids" because I can't very well tell LITERAL BOY to hang up his backpack each day currently, now can I. Then I had to modify my search to "COLORFUL chore charts." Yes, I left my Canadian "U" out of ColoUrful, because I am a MASTER GOOGLER, YO, and I wanted more search returns. <br />
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I need CHORE CHARTS because I can't stand the easy, breezy, laissez-faire DROP IT WHERE YOU DONE FINISHED WITH IT kind of summer lifestyle anymore. I know--super boring, whiny, ALMOST cliché Mom type stuff. <br />
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(Side Note: I've been thinking that once upon a time a kind doctor could have just given me a container of Valium for all of these problems, but oh well. Onward, tired ladies, onward)<br />
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Yeah, so I'm desperate, OBVI, because I do not LURV charts. I also hate schedules and being super organised. DON'T SHACKLE ME! NEVER SHACKLE MEEEEEEE.... But, I wanted a chart, because once upon a time, we had to write words on paper and tape them to the wall, because helpful written signs became INARGUABLE to my Autistic son. It was like magic: ASK him not to do something, and it was all FUCK YOU AND YOUR COMMON COURTESY, but WRITE it on paper...and it was magic. You know: juicy stuff like "NO HITTING, NO BITING, NO BODY CONTACT." Ha ha ha, what a gem. I'm cracking up as I remember that one. Oh sure, NOBODY likes to be bit, that's a given, but you have to laugh at these things or you go ins-- oh wait. Too late. <br />
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So the CHORE CHARTS also had to be COLORFUL because I guess it's supposed to look friendly, non-confrontational (good one), almost FUN. The problem was, nothing was quite right. Some of those charts were downloadable files I had to PAY for. Um, no. A lot of those charts led me to those horrifying ORGANIZED MOMS blogs... You know the kind: those incredible women who see a piece of shitty furniture and know how to transform it into something so useful, so majestic, so beautiful, you almost want to try it yourself. The women who have a fucking "mud room" with coat hooks that cost more than my couch, and cubbies for spotless rainboots. The moms who actually reupholster dining room chairs--ALWAYS with some on-trend fabric like chatreuse with zig-zag stripes, and know that the living room needs a punch of pink and orange throw pillows, and have a coffee table with a candle, a wicker ball and some fucking bullshit book that's actually a professionally bound collection of photos from their AWESOME FAMILY VACATION. You know what I'm talking about: they probably have a laundry "GUIDE" somewhere in there, and a house cleaning WEEKLY PLANNER, and a rainbow stack of tupperware grab-and-go snacks in the fridge. <br />
<br />
I am not that woman.<br />
<br />
Anyhoo, so I found my chore charts on a nice, all-business, no frills page. What a relief. <br />
ONE weekly chart per kid. FIVE slots for daily items, a few on the bottom for stuff you'd be happy if they just do them weekly. Really, I'd like to just cut to the point and say; "kids, please just choose something to do because I'm getting buried in your wrappers, art, and dirty dishes.<br />
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They're all set and ready to roll, but I need to get them laminated, because Angry Boy is almost guaranteed to try to rip that thing up as soon as he lays eyes on it. The hard part was narrowing it down; choosing those things I wanted most in the world and waving tearfully goodbye to the other dreams. Like, I really want The Boy to pick up snack wrappers and FUCKING THROW THEM OUT, but I also want him to stop saying; "don't make me say ASSHOLE," when he's annoyed. Don't bother trying to point out that he actually already, in fact, said "ASSHOLE," he will then ask "MOM, WHY ARE YOU BEING MEAN TO ME???!!?" I want my daughter to make her bed. I also want her go pee more than once a day. I dunno...I don't feel like writing "go pee" on a cheerful chart. I guess I could...*shrugs* *looks out the window off into the distance for a long, long while*<br />
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I want the boy to start making his own cinnamon toast before bed. He's 13 after all. So that one had to go on the chart, because verbalising THAT wish usually pushes him to say how TERRIBLE his LIFE IS. But, I would also like him to stop farting and burping constantly. <br />
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Seriously, let's move on because this is something else we need to discuss: that interesting time when your kid suddenly becomes smellier, ruder, lazier, loves being gross, asks you if they have permission to tell you about the swear word they saw on youtube (hey, at least they asked first, but I'm really tired about talking about swears. I personally enjoy swears myself in my own private avenues of my life, but I don't want to chat about it as a neverending and amazing SUBJECT MATTER). <br />
<br />
Anyway, I am learning that Autism + puberty = some serious adrenal fatigue for me. Try to discipline a kid who LITERALLY only has the barest emergence of his own self. <br />
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Deep. <br />
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Let's sit cross legged and ponder the sound of one smelly, sweaty, dirty fingernailed, I'll-give-you-the-finger-if-you-tell-me-to-go-outside-for-a-few-minutes hand clapping...<br />
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So today, I decided to forego my workout, and take my girlie on a little hunt to find a SUCKER. Yeah--I saw this really interesting documentary recently on a nearby beach town. When I was a kid, this town had a really great amusement park. It used to have a boat that took visitors between the U.S. and Canada, a huge ballroom back a long, long time ago, an amazing beach for swimming, etc. At one point they were talking about these amazing suckers they made at the amusement park, and people were giving first-hand accounts of how they were the BEST SUCKERS, and they loved these suckers, and blah blah blah, you HAD TO GET A SUCKER while you were there. Well, lo and behold, some American guy bought the original recipe and the original little sucker making machine, and he makes all the original lollipops and they're sold in various places here and there around this area. <br />
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SO, off we went to find these suckers, where they were supposedly sold at a store that also sells peanuts and peanut confections. Well, I don't eat this stuff anymore. I've given the old heave-ho to most of the refined sugar I used to enjoy. I am basically almost a total bore about loving healthy food and working out, but what the hell, let's go get a stupid sucker, and see if it actually tastes any different from any other sucker. <br />
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Well, I got a butterscotch one, and girlie got a loganberry one. Those things were pretty big too--kind of like the size of a creamsicle. As we were driving home, I felt this long-dead feeling making another rare appearance...childlike JOY! I could SEE why a kid would get excited about these stupid candies on a stick--it was big, it was yummy! Yay! LICK LICK LICK LICK LICK LICK IT NEVER GETS SMALLER WHEEEEEEE!! We drove home, licking our lollies, laughing, hooray! Summer is FUN! <br />
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By the time I got home, I was kinda bored with it. Why do I want to lick something for half an hour? Oh stop it. This isn't THAT kind of blog, you with your dirty thoughts. Anyhoo, I threw the last little bit out, and then proceeded to have several handfuls of "sour cream and onion" potato chip coated peanuts. What the hell, I can do this once in a while, right? <br />
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Maybe not, cuz as I was sitting there filling in the CHORE CHARTS, I suddenly nearly shit my pants. My stomach made that shift like the elevator went straight to the bottom floor and I was off and running for the can (THE WASHROOM, the boy hollers at me every time I drop that little euphemism). Pretty sad when a few moments of childlike whimsy ends in diarrhea. Isn't that just the way. <br />
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Well, summer ain't so hot so far. My nerves are getting a little shot from constant teenaged mouthiness and obsessive Autistic behaviour that I've run out of time to chat about just now, but I've got COLORFUL CHORE CHARTS, and those bad boys are READY TO ROLL!!<br />
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I just have to laminate them first so they don't get ripped up.<br />
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<br />karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-52441981826758344592017-03-10T12:24:00.001-05:002017-03-10T12:25:49.563-05:00Dear DadDear Dad,<br />
<br />
It is three years today since you died. I honestly can't believe it's been three years. It's like at least one of those years just got lost--completely lost. That first year after you died it literally took nearly the whole year to "deal" with you..and Mom too. We had to clean out that big, beloved house we lived in. That took six months. I always thought of that house like a sixth member of the family. Every time I watch "It's A Wonderful Life," and how every time George Baillie (Jimmy Stewart) runs down the stairs, and his hand trailing along the banister knocks that decorative knob off the end, it makes me think of our home. Remember how we had that crazy long pull-string hanging off the light bulb at the top of the stairs, and how dingy it became over time from our hands pulling the light off and on? Remember how the knob on the back door was getting worse and worse and sometimes you'd turn it and turn it and turn it but it wouldn't catch, and we'd start to panic that we were locked out of the house?<br />
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Anyway, it took ages to clean everything out because that house, and especially that basement was like a time capsule, and you and Mom had saved so much stuff. Not to mention cleaning out our lives was one of the most painful fucking experiences I've ever been through. <br />
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Then this horrible young couple came along and I'll spare you the details Dad, but those assholes own our house now. Ah well, that's life I guess. Everything changes. And all that happened the first year after you died. I got the taxes all straightened out too, Dad. Thanks for always (appointing, ha ha) believing in me to take care of those details.<br />
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Then I think I dropped off for a while there. I stopped going out anywhere and it became really difficult to keep in touch with people. I tried to get a job at the end of the summer of 2015. They really liked me at the interview, and then I lost my shit. I couldn't do it. The nice lady called me on the phone and the worst thing ever happened: I cried on the phone to a stranger as I told her I just couldn't do it, and how sorry I was for wasting her time. Nothing like hearing how nutty you sound, but not being able to reel it in. But, I tucked that one away. <br />
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Things really got groovy in the fall when a little, insignificant health concern happened and I lost my shit. I was waking up every day crying. I can't do this, I'd say to the mirror. Nervous all the time. Impossible to function. So I broke down and for the first time ever, I went to see a therapist. She was nice, I guess. She was really busy. I spent a portion of my session hearing about how busy she was, and the stress she was going through with her own daughter. She gave me some tips on how to practice "mindfulness," how to do deep breathing, how to deal with anxiety before it escalates. I was supposed to go back but one of my kids was sick so I had to cancel. My therapist never called me again. <br />
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And that health concern? It turned out to be nothing.<br />
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So anyway dad, I decided enough was enough and really started working on myself. Better nutrition, more water, more fitness because that all makes me feel better. And maybe a magic number of days had passed too, but I just started to feel a little better.<br />
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The past couple of weeks have been amazing Dad. You'd be so happy. I got a little job. It's not much. I have a little joke I made to myself actually: it's one small step for normal people, and one giant leap for KAREN KIND. I'm a Wednesday lunch supervisor at an elementary school. Money? Pppft, what money. It's just less than 2 hours a week, unless they need me more. But I made it happen. I battled the nerves and left the house and got the two criminal background checks needed. I got the info straightened out for direct deposit. Filled out all the necessary paperwork. You know; all the things I USED to do once upon a time without question. <br />
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On the day I was supposed to start, I woke up at 6:30, and I'm not gonna lie--I felt mildly ill. My adrenals start pumping real easy ever since we first heard you had ALS. They've never really returned to how they used to be. Fight or flight? YOU KNOW IT. I headed off to the school. <br />
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For the morning I'd be supervising the grade 2's, and for the afternoon it would be the grade 1's. I put on a fluorescent vest with waaaaaay too much velcro, and then it was like a door was opened and I was tossed into a tornado. Leaping between 4 classrooms I had to make sure everyone was sitting and eating, answer tons of requests to use the washroom, make sure they got tidied up before the bell rang then fly out the door with them to the playground. So many rules! No climbing the monkey bars! Grade 1's can only go to the little playground, Grade 2's can only go to the bigger kids' playground. This boy claims so-and-so was cheating during soccer. This little girl tripped and scraped the tiniest, skinniest knee I've ever seen. THAT KID PICKED UP A STICK! NO STICKS ALLOWED! <br />
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Jesus--I don't know if you know but I'm not a super big stickler for rules, so to have to be so rules-y all of the sudden? Ooof...<br />
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Bell rang. Everyone was back in safe and sound. I went home for an hour and bit before I had to return for the next shift. <br />
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Then, Dad, it was once more into the fray! And this time it was the grade 1's. The grade 1's are still so like babies. They're so small, and cute and a LOT of them can't open their thermoses, or their little apple sauce containers or their shitty processed lunchable all-in-one junk lunches they have. <br />
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I had to mop up a gross packet of "pizza sauce" out of one little girl's lunch bag. While I was pulling the foil off an apple snack container later for this same tiny person, a little boy snuck out of one classroom and was playing peek-a-boo with a little girl from his class whom I had allowed to go to the washroom. A horrible teacher saw this and reamed that little girl out. I kept trying to interject and explain that I had let her go to the washroom, but that teacher insisted she was playing a GAME, and yelled at her to GET BACK TO HER SEAT RIGHT NOW and SIT DOWN. Then that teacher tried to put the friendly tone on to me and tell me THAT girl does that ALL THE TIME. Well, I went back to her classroom and that poor little kid was crushed. Six years old. Honestly. I patted her little back and told her don't worry. She's alright. Sometimes school is hard and you just have to do the best you can to follow the rules. I told her that she is still a good girl. God I was mad, Dad.<br />
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Then it was time to go outside and I was running to get my coat from the staff room because those kids were GO-GO-GO and they were NOT going to wait! As I was jogging through the hall, a boy from an older grade sternly told me; "No running in the hall." <br />
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Yes, yes, kid. Got it.<br />
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Several kids lined up dutifully for their "wall" time. One little girl supposedly was to spend 15 minutes on the wall because a power hungry student from the older grades, who helps watch then during lunch, said she was "talking" when she was supposed to be eating. Seriously--WHAT THE FUCK?! When that little girl made it outside, the on-duty teacher asked her how long she was supposed to be on the wall. Her eyes darted to me quickly. I said; "I think she's supposed to be there for five minutes." Her whole little body relaxed. <br />
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So I ran around like a headless chicken for those 15 minutes they were outside. Made sure they all safely returned, and I went home, head nearly spinning. As I set up my dvd to workout, and changed into my workout clothes, I cried for 10 minutes straight. I couldn't stop thinking about that little girl who got hollered at, and that little girl who was supposed to be punished the whole damn recess instead of just letting her run around like a kid should. I had an endless movie reel of shitty lunches running through my head; thermoses crammed with alpha-ghetti. Processed all-in-one lunches marketed to appeal to kids with horrible, horrible ingredients. That one kid who had a thermos PACKED with bowtie noodles that she didn't get to eat because she'd dilly-dallied to and from the washroom. I cried because of all that, and I cried because it was new and I was basically shell-shocked. <br />
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But dad--I <i><u>liked </u></i>it. They actually called me the next morning from the school, because the regular lunch supervisor couldn't come in that day, and could I possibly come that afternoon? For the first time in my life I didn't feel ill from that phone call, or like hiding from the phone, or making an excuse. I was back in there and it felt wonderful. The little people are so sunny, and charming, and ridiculous and cute. They're so uplifting--not all jaded and rude and hideous like adults. I patted a little crying girl's shoulder because another kid said she was annoying and told her obviously they were wrong because she seemed just fine to me. I rubbed the tiniest little hand ever of a little boy whose friend accidentally pricked it with a little needly piece from a pine tree. A little girl drew me a picture and now it's on my fridge. And when I walked out of that school, I felt like the king of the world. <br />
<br />
Normal people go to work. They just do it. They leave their houses and run errands. They go out for drinks or for dinner. They go to appointments. I used to do all that too. I don't want to be the person I used to be. Karen 2.0 is much better, to tell you the truth. Yes, I was scared, but I made this happen, and I was outside, which I love, surrounded by all these crazy kids and it was great, Dad. It was really great. <br />
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And Dad, I discovered I'm still fierce as fuck. Just like you always knew. Oh, and I know that right now Mom's completely amazed too because I actually LIKED something. Ha ha, she always hoped my bad attitude would change one day, so there you go, Mom!<br />
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I'm excited to be doing this. So Dad, I'm doing much, much better. I got this. You just keep taking care of Mom, and I'll handle everything down here. <br />
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Love,<br />
<br />
karen<br />
<br />
P.S. Dear nasty teacher who is non-stop angry at students:<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/9f9SdiLL4o0" width="560"></iframe>karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-52760976425281536742016-11-23T15:21:00.000-05:002016-11-23T15:21:22.951-05:00My ALL DAY, EVERY DAY CompanionIf I ever run away from home, it will be 100% because my cat is a total idiot.<br />
<br />
Ha ha ha, that's hyperbole, right? Isn't it? ISN'T IT? <br />
<br />
GEE, I DON'T KNOW, YOU TELL ME.<br />
<br />
Incidentally, do all moms at some point say they're going to "run away?" I remember my Mom saying it. It was probably during some bullshit situation whereby she had just finished vacuuming the whole house, AGAIN, had some long-cook, good square meal THAT NEEDED TO BE FLIPPED EVERY HALF HOUR going in the oven, was in the midst of running up and down doing laundry, making our slovenly beds with her smoldering ashtray and an all-day-long cup of coffee for sipping parked firmly on one of our dressers, bent over at the waist (not the knees, people) picking lint off the carpet and then we rolled in from school, peeled our smelly socks off and dropped them INSIDE OUT on the tv room floor, left every juice and milk cup we ever used in some room far away from the kitchen, chowed some cakey, cookie, crumbly snack all over the couch, tossed our skid-marked underpants on the bathroom floor when we got our jammies on, and had the KID BALLS to roll our eyes when we were asked to not leave our school bags right in the middle of the room. It was probably RIGHT ABOUT THEN, that Mom would say;<br />
<br />
"THAT'S IT. I'M GOING TO RUN AWAY."<br />
<br />
"NOOOO, MOM! NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"<br />
<br />
Oh wait--was that my MOM'S life, or is that MY LIFE? Oh my--blurred lines indeed. <br />
<br />
Anyhoo, as I was saying, my cat drives me to a dark, dangerous mental place, and I'm going to make you go there for a few minutes too. <br />
<br />
First of all, isn't the WHOLE PURPOSE of having pets to REDUCE STRESS, and be lavished upon with so much damn unconditional pet love that you won't even care when you ask your pre-teen for a hug, but they're "too busy" looking up some really inane vine on youtube, that all you have to do is turn to that pet to fill in all the holes in your life? Isn't THAT THE IDEA???<br />
<br />
Okay, well not here. I'm trapped day in, day out with a completely mental, nearly 17 year old cat. This is making you unhappy. You're thinking I'm obviously a jerk. Well, herewith I shall make my case. <br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlpr0Qpg_oP2_KzplaONRnahxe9HcbLdH-1V0zzpVMCJpsT3JdkvnBtcvt6UfRPJFelwsHZm8KoPl1JHTSdPxotPqZjvf2c-7XYBcELfsK7OJrkMWfp6tHHZ0kY9bsesX1VndnhKF88LEm/s1600/DSC_4228.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlpr0Qpg_oP2_KzplaONRnahxe9HcbLdH-1V0zzpVMCJpsT3JdkvnBtcvt6UfRPJFelwsHZm8KoPl1JHTSdPxotPqZjvf2c-7XYBcELfsK7OJrkMWfp6tHHZ0kY9bsesX1VndnhKF88LEm/s320/DSC_4228.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">don't be fooled. She's only sleeping because<br />she's finally worn herself out from being mental.</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
If I'm sitting down having my coffee, and reading entertaining and thought-provoking things with my laptop on my lap, she is the most loving, snuggy, ridiculous LADY LOVE BEAST ever. Problem is, I can't sit there all day. If I'm not sitting with her, she's following me around the house, yowling at me all day. She won't sleep otherwise. If I ignore the yowling, she runs into the living room to howl. Then if that doesn't work, she comes over and starts drinking her water. For freaking ages. Then she puts her paw in her water. Then she splashy splashes water onto the floor near her water bowl. Then we humans who will NEVER LEARN, walk by and get the soak sock. In the meantime, she's putting little wet footprints everywhere. <br />
<br />
She's obsessed with water. In the cold months condensation forms on the living room window; the window being behind the love seat. With a metal vertical blind over it. Picture yourself sitting there peacefully and suddenly CLANGCLANGCLANG!!!!! JESUS CHRIST, WHAT'S HAPPENING?! Oh, silly me, it's the cat, clattering around behind the couch so she can get under the blind and LICK THE WINDOW. Then she comes back out. Then you relax. Then five minutes later SHE'S BACK DOING IT AGAIN. Then she comes out. Then you relax. CLANGCLANGCLANG SHE'S DOING IT AGAIN. Licking that window all winter. You can't put your water glass on the little side tables beside the couch. She'll stick her head right in there. <br />
<br />
Big deal, the cat likes water. Yeah.<br />
<br />
Yeah.<br />
<br />
She's also food obsessed. That's a thing. I looked it up: cats who are food obsessed. For years she happily ate the healthy dry food we gave her. And then she turned 15 and said "fuck that." So, silly moi, I thought; "what the hell--she's an old lady now. She deserves to be SPOILED."<br />
<br />
She get a little can of fancy feast at breakfast--but not the whole can. If you give her the whole can, she'll get disgusted, reject it altogether and meow at you either until the Earth explodes, or you give up, scoop that rejected food out and get her something new. So, you give her a good heaping tablespoon. Then in an hour you give her the rest. She gets a snack at 2 PM. She TECHNICALLY starts to become idiotic and relentless at 1 PM, but you're TRYING TO KEEP HER TO A SCHEDULE BECAUSE SHE'S FOOD OBSESSED. Her snack is 1/3 of a can of the cheapest water-packed tuna you can buy. You TRIED to be nice one time and buy her a nice can of quality tuna, but she rejected it, and bugged you until your eyes bled, so you just stick to the cheap stuff. At 5 PM, she's back again for her dinner. I have learned that it does NOT matter if she still has some tuna left for snacking. Dinner is more fancy feast and it goes in her CAT DISH. Tuna goes on her SNACK PLATE. You know--the plate that she'll come to several times in those 5 hours or so prior to snack time to LICK, even though there's nothing on it. Finally she gets a full can of fancy feast again at bed time. In the meantime, there is always a very nutritious, high-quality dry food in the other side of her two-sided cat food dish. But she won't touch it.<br />
<br />
In the meantime, if I'm making dinner, she'll come into the kitchen and move around to sniff EVERY SPECK on the kitchen floor to see if it's something good for eating. And she'll meow at me. And stare at me with those ROUND, UNBLINKING EYES. It's hella annoying. <br />
<br />
Every day after I take the kids to school she yells at me to take her out for an eye-wateringly boring session of her walking around the back yard chewing on grass. <br />
<br />
If I leave clean clothes in a laundry basket on the floor for too long without putting them away, she will decide occasionally that that is a delightful place to take a piss. Once a plastic bag of vacuum cleaner parts was on the basement floor beside the dryer and she decided that was a fantastic place to take a piss. A pile of towels that needs to be washed? FABULOUS PLACE TO EMPTY YOUR CAT BLADDER. <br />
<br />
She follows me every where I go. And stares at me. And howls outside the bathroom door if I try to take a wizz. With all due respect to my dog-loving friends, if I truly wanted that kind of attention, I'd have gotten a DOG. <br />
<br />
We put her down the basement at 10 PM every night. I can't tell you what a relief it is. I give her psychotic little cat head a kiss goodnight, give her a hug, and wish her a good night. She has a warm, cozy little cat bed on a pink fluffy blanky down there on a futon (is that where all futons go to die--the basement?). Every day at 5 AM, she CLANGS up onto the dryer to HOWL AND YOWL in this most disgusting cat voice toward the one basement window. It's a nice, startling way to be awoken every day.<br />
<br />
YAAAAAAY! WHO NEEDS A ROOSTER! ALMOST TIME TO GET UP! <br />
<br />
So yeah, I actually have fantasies of running away from my pet. A KITTY CAT FOR FUCK'S SAKE. Judge that as you will. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-85133221290035616032016-11-14T12:35:00.002-05:002016-11-14T20:17:13.706-05:00Working On It<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;">Pee Wee: <span style="background-color: #fcfae7; color: #333333;">There's a lotta things about me you don't know anything about, Dottie. Things you wouldn't understand. Things you couldn't understand. Things you shouldn't understand.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="background-color: #fcfae7; color: #333333;">Dottie: </span><span style="background-color: #fcfae7; color: #333333;">I don't understand.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "courier new" , "courier" , monospace;"><span style="background-color: #fcfae7; color: #333333;">Pee Wee: </span><span style="background-color: #fcfae7; color: #333333;">You don't wanna get mixed up with a guy like me. I'm a loner, Dottie. A rebel.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: #fcfae7; color: #333333; font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><br /></span>It's peaceful here and the only sounds are a lightly snoring old lady cat sleeping beside me, the ceaseless, quiet click and whirr of the cable tv box (reminding us that we're ALWAYS plugged into the system now--phew, this could totally go all creepy sci-fi couldn't it, <i>she says as all those internet waves bounce around the house and try to disrupt her ENDOCRINE SYSTEM AAAAAHHHH</i>...meh, who can be bothered), and a ticking clock. Occasionally a car passes by. Less frequently the house makes some mysterious clunk sound somewhere. Have you ever noticed that? I should say, does YOUR house DO that? You're just sitting there, and there's some offhand kind of "crack" noise, like the house got tired of standing still with your lazy, ever-present, never-leaving-ass in it, and it stretched and its spine popped? Or some clunk that ALWAYS comes from the basement? <br />
<br />
Ooop...hold that thought...I have to freaking pee again. Drink 8 glasses of water per day--pppffft. Terrible idea....<br />
<br />
.......<br />
<br />
<br />
So much for deep, meandering thoughts! The point is this: it's extremely peaceful and quiet here and I like it. I like it far too much. So, I decided I'd better kick my own butt and do some writing and connect with the outside world a bit. I have always liked writing. <br />
<br />
Back when I started this blog, the kids were a lot younger, a lot more tiring, and much shorter than me. Now instead of being darling little people (who wiped their own poopy bum-bums on the bathroom towels, shoved legos in their ears and put glitter glue on like eyeshadow), they're big, delightfully wonderful people who plug the damn toilet, but whom I can actually have really good conversations with. God I love my kids. They drain me, they give me white hairs, they turn me into a screaming idiot at times, but I found perfect friends and I grew them myself!<br />
<br />
Yeah, that's kind of sci-fi creepy sounding once again. <br />
<br />
Anyway, as I was saying, when I started blogging it was because I was a stay-at-home-mom (I think I hate that title--the feeling just occurred to me) with a young son somewhere vaguely on the Autism Spectrum, who liked to scream at me all the time for my shitty abilities to read his mind and always know 100 percent what he wanted from minute to minute, and a little toddler daughter who was and is the joy of my heart, but absolutely had her trying moments as well. I was an exhausted karen with a thyroid blown out by years of rabid snack cake and cookie abuse, stress, and loneliness that was almost palpable. <br />
<br />
I liked connecting. I liked the fact that there were other stay-at-home-moms, and working moms, and dads of course, out there who related to the frustration of a seemingly thankless job wherein sometimes you have to scrape vomited hard-boiled eggs out of a sink drain with a plastic fork. I knew my life was more fucking ridiculous than a lot of other peoples', and I liked putting that out there for a laugh. I like making people laugh. And I could do this all from the comfort of my own couch. I like this because I'm a massive introvert and a recluse, and now I'm quite certain I have PTSD. I thank my <a href="http://karensomethingorother.blogspot.ca/2014/10/one-day-at-timei-guess.html" target="_blank">Dad </a>for that. I literally do. If you've had really bad things happen in your life, and you can't find a way to laugh at them, well--things are hard enough, aren't they. <br />
<br />
I have to admit though--and please, I don't want to sound like an ungrateful bitch, or a miserable, unfriendly jerk, and this is not a judgement on anyone or the world of blogging, but it did become a bit hard. I didn't know if it was better to try to just write the hilarious stuff, or to try to only write the heavy stuff. I stressed when I'd see followers disappearing. I'd try to keep up with the "tags" and the conga-line "we're all doing a post on THIS this week," and I don't know. I'm not good at always joining in. Nothing but respect for all the amazing writers out there who have been so diligent and prolific with their blogging that they have amassed a great following and are able to make a living from their blog. <br />
<br />
That's not me. <br />
<br />
I've been not busy, and busy at the same time the past couple of years since my Dad died. He was a full stop for a while after my Mom died. And by the way, I know that when a grown-ass woman writes lamentfully (that's not a word. Fuck you, dictionary. If 'addicting' can become a thing, it's open season) about her parents dying, it's not going to typically move people much. That's cool. I get it. We only truly appreciate what we ourselves have already gone through. So in the past several years, I've been busy. The old version of karen wasn't working so hot. She was tired all the time, and really struggled through the days. Karen 2.0 gets so excited from her fucking lunch salad she takes pictures of it and posts it on instagram. I know. Contrived as hell. Except I'm absolutely and completely excited about healthy food. I work out all the time. And now, I won't bore you, but I'm hell bent on balancing my hormones. Ha haaaa, I know right?! But the point is, I've been working on it, and I've decided this is my "house", so fuck me, Imma do what I want in it. This is not a declaration to anyone but myself. I'll be miserable when I want to, and I'll be ridiculous when I want to. And, I'll swear it up because I love swears, and I ain't got no parents to disapprove. I have an older brother, and I don't think there's any risk of him reading my stuff, lolz.<br />
<br />
My own path. Cuz I'm a loner, Dottie. <br />
A rebel.<br />
<br />
<br />
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<span style="background-color: #fcfae7; color: #333333; font-family: "verdana" , "arial" , sans-serif; font-size: 13px;"><span id="goog_1608042479"></span><span id="goog_1608042480"></span><br /></span>karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-46771869895582331182014-10-14T12:05:00.000-04:002014-10-14T12:05:41.340-04:00One Day At A Time...I guessI don't always realise that I'm really pretty fucking wrecked since my dad died. It should be so obvious. It's like, my parents dying horribly should be the giant elephant in the room. My mom first, and then my dad almost four years later. Four years of stress. OBVIOUS. But it slips in and out of sight. <br />
<br />
Like,<br />
<br />
Nobody else is thinking about it? The world hasn't stopped moving? Nobody really asks "so how ya doing these days?" And why would they? I'm still here. I'm still cracking jokes (less, I think). I'm still getting the bulk of the laundry done (it takes a really long goddamn time), I wash my hair, I shave my legs every day. I go for POWER WALKS. Anyone who goes for POWER WALKS is functioning just fine. <br />
<br />
But then something comes up, like a doctor's appointment. Something out of the NORM. Maybe one of the kids has an appointment. Maybe one of the kids is COUGHING in the night. And that's it--it's back to waking up with the racing pulse and that feeling that doom is right around the corner. Or maybe it's that library book that I could not return; Lauren Bacall telling about her romance with Humphrey Bogart. As if I could even make it to the part where Bogey finds out he has cancer and begins to wither away painfully. Overdue book. Overdue fine growing by the day. I could not just throw that damn thing through the slot. I could not go ONLINE to renew it. I'm on my laptop all the time, but I could not do it. In another era, I'd explain this by saying; "I don't know, man--I just CAN'T DEAL." <br />
<br />
It's being really busy most days and then that day arrives that I now know as the "useless" day. That's the day that I'm having a BIG nap and the rest of the day I'm sitting on the couch, next to the cat, with my laptop atop my lap (heh), and I'm unscrambling words, and reading bland celebrity news. And that's all I'm doing. But it's quiet and civilized, and there's no weeping and wailing. Why, I'm really no trouble at all.<br />
<br />
Mostly I harden my heart. I echo my mother: of course it's hard, so what are you going to do? This means, I just keep moving forward. Always forward. But then a holiday rolls around, like Thanksgiving. I had a great time..ate way too much, et cetera, et cetera. But after dinner, an image shot into my head of my dad sitting in the rocking chair last Thanksgiving, with his breathing machine on, me standing beside him, holding his cold, withered hand. I could not stop thinking about that hand.<br />
<br />
And on one hand, I say; "why am I so sad?" And then my brain says; "uh, duh--it's only been seven months. You loved someone for forty plus years. You'e allowed to miss them.<br />
<br />
I'd tell that to anyone. There'd be no question about it. Why is it so hard to tell yourself? Why am I so sad? I'm wearing fresh, clean clothes. Aren't I supposed to be unable to get out of bed if I'm so sad? <br />
<br />
Apparently not. <br />
<br />
<br />karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-80965049042963236972014-05-11T13:37:00.002-04:002014-05-11T13:37:53.883-04:00Happy Mother's DayThis morning, right before I woke up, I had a very vivid dream. My Mom was there, and she was putting on this two piece skirt/blouse outfit that had flowers on it. She looked wonderful, and she was healthy. No crippled arthritic body. In the dream, her stomach was exposed from between the low skirt and the blouse and I said; "Mom, you're showing a lot of skin though." She laughed and said; "now it's like YOU'RE the MOM and I'M the CHILD." <br />
<br />
I felt so relieved in the dream, because she was in remission from ALS, even though it was ALS that took my dad. I was so happy she was there, and that she was healthy and happy and beautiful. <br />
<br />
Facebook is full of good wishes for Mother's Day. It's filled with women sharing pictures of them with their own mothers, so much so that it was causing me great pangs of the heart. Do you know that feeling? Surely this is whence the expression "heartache" is derived. In fact, it was causing me such pain that last night I thought, yup, that's it. I'm just going to avoid Facebook tomorrow until Mother's Day is over. In four years, this day is still a reminder of how much I miss her.<br />
<br />
I got up, got washed. I hugged my own children. I love them very much. I put on my workout clothes, laced up my big girl shoes, put on my shades, put that idiot new fangled cell phone in my little purse, queued up my ipod and headed out the door, bright and early, just the way I like. <br />
<br />
Today there is not a cloud in the sky. I walked along feeling good. No matter what self doubts I often grapple with, I am strong. I am healthy. When the mood strikes me, I can pick up my feet and fly down that sidewalk. I feel unstoppable. I no longer have anyone to make little amateurish cards for, bestow hanging baskets of flowers upon, share slightly awkward hugs with, but I can be the receiver of those hand-made paper treasures, and I can receive and give heart-strong embraces, and when the mood strikes me I can pick up my feet and fly down that sidewalk, carrying all the love and hope I have for my children, and my Mom with me every step of the way. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="//www.youtube.com/embed/VsNbhwSXDB8" width="420"></iframe>karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-74812384118143621612014-02-11T19:52:00.001-05:002014-02-11T19:52:57.501-05:00Which Shitty Disease or Disorder Should I Champion? It's Tuesday night, and I'm having a goddamn rye and coke, and you know what? I feel good about it. Yeah, that's right. I don't have any meds to get me through life. No prozac, no seratonin reuptake inhibitors or whatever they're called, no magic little delightful pills to slip under my tongue that will melt all my troubles away. <br />
<br />
No. <br />
<br />
I have two things: horrible fitness dvd's and whisky. An ironic pairing? Perhaps! <br />
<br />
Let us continue. <br />
<br />
So anyway, life has become a great black hole of SUPER SUCK, and as such, sometimes I need a little helper. So I've chosen POISON in a glass to make me feel better, and let me tell you my friends, at this moment, I truly don't give a shit if it gives me cancer, because then I'll say;<br />
<br />
"CANCER? OH THANK GOD! THANK <i><u>GOD </u></i>IT'S NOT ALS." <br />
<br />
Yeah. <br />
<br />
So anyhoo, I've been pondering all day. As I google this and that, and read message boards about this farking disease, I invariably come across stuff like:<br />
<br />
"WALK for ALS,"<br />
or,<br />
"RAISE AWARENESS for ALS"<br />
<br />
and blah de blah de blah fundraiser, awareness, get-out-there-and-support-the-cause kind of biznatch. And even though I'm livin' it (well, by association), I can't get all jazzed up about putting on an inspirational t-shirt, getting some pledges and walking my little heart out for it. <br />
<br />
Not that there's anything wrong with that...<br />
<br />
I mean, I'm all for raising awareness, and getting money for research for stuff and finding that CURE, but I just can't get it up for ALS. <br />
<br />
Before you start wondering if I truly am an asshole, here is my problem. <br />
<br />
Take my Mom: my Mom died of (from?) LUNG CANCER. Well damn you, LUNG CANCER, YOU BASTARD! I'll go champion YOUR cause! <br />
<br />
But wait....technically we only knew my Mom had lung cancer for like a week. <br />
<br />
Hmm...<br />
<br />
Actually, my Mom suffered over twenty years with excruciating, debilitating, disfiguring rheumatoid arthritis. <br />
<br />
FUCK YOU, RHEUMATOID ARTHRITIS! SOMEBODY FIND ME AN ARTHRITIS WALK-A-THON!<br />
<br />
But....um, what about lung cancer? <br />
<br />
Uh...my grandmother had lymphoma. YOU SUCK LYMPHOMA! YOU TOOK MY GRAMMA AWAY! <br />
<br />
My boyfriend died from Rhabdomyosarcoma when we were twenty! I HATE YOU, RARE CANCER! I STILL HATE YOU WITH A HATE THA'TS DRIPPING WITH LOATHE! <br />
<br />
Hmm....<br />
<br />
The Man had thyroid cancer. THYROID CANCER, YOU SUCK SHIT! IMMA RAISE AWARENESS ABOUT YOU!<br />
<br />
Oh, right...<br />
<br />
well, my son has Autism. That's a real ass muncher too. <br />
<br />
<br />
So, ah---<br />
<br />
<br />
yeah. Just pour me another glass.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="320" src="http://www.ottawadutyfree.ca/product_images/canadadutyfree/10018_L.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: small;">Hey girl, you think too much. Let me take care of that. </span></i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-3967449256882679932014-02-09T15:40:00.002-05:002014-02-09T17:55:54.713-05:00And The Title Of This Post Is...Seriously--I don't know. I can't come up with a title, but I've got a few rolling around in my head right now: <br />
"Major Drag"<br />
"I Saw Myself In Another Woman's Eyes, and I Ain't Pretty"<br />
"More Burnout? Sure! Don't Mind If I Do!"<br />
<br />
Dad, you're NOT allowed to read this post, so exit out here. Har de har har. <br />
<br />
Blech. <br />
<br />
It's one of those days. <br />
<br />
The snow won't stop fucking snowing. The kids won't stop fighting. I'm so tired half my brain keeps trying to budget in a nap for the day while the other half says; "nope. Sleeping at night is more important." And, The Man now has to go away on business trips from time to time. Let me tell you, gentle souls who are reading this, he didn't look particularly heart-broken to be leaving FIGHTY ANGST HOUSE today either I mean, sure, there was the perfunctory; "I'm really gonna miss you guys," but there was an unmistakable twinkle in his eye. And why not? You can only say: "STOP FIGHTING YOU TWO!" so many times. <br />
<br />
Oh, and there's that fucking bastard ALS, who is like that dirtbag tenant you just can't evict. <br />
<br />
Yeah. ALS. The past two weeks, I've been running in all directions at once. I SUDDENLY woke up. I SUDDENLY realised that I can't be in DENIAL or LA LA LAND any longer. All the other kind people who were keeping my dad company, and making those hours go by, well I just let them. I kept myself willfully and willingly in the dark. It's like things went down like this:<br />
<br />
Doctor: "Yes. You have ALS."<br />
Dad: "Doctor said it's ALS."<br />
Me: "Good luck with that, Dad. Sorry for your luck. I'll see ya!"<br />
<br />
But then one day, all of a sudden (or so I imagine anyway), my dad couldn't go to the washroom a) without assistance, and b) without a breathing machine. <br />
<br />
And it all hit me like a ton of bricks. <br />
<br />
So I got my BIG GIRL BATHING SUIT on, and I dove in, and I started paddling and flapping my arms and legs like mad: "DON'T WORRY DADDY! I'M A-COMIN'! I'M A COMIN' TA SAVE YA, DADDY!" <br />
<br />
And suddenly I was THERE, and I was learning who this lady was, and who that guy was, and I'm handing out my cell phone number to EVERYONE, and I'm putting MY NAME down as the contact person, and I'm upstairs on the phone with the technical lady pushing buttons on the incredibly scary new-fangled, computerized breathing machine my dad has up in his bedroom, and I'm unhooking the hose of my dad's breathing mask from the main machine to the portable machine, so he can get to the washroom, and all the while my brain is SHRIEKING; 'HURRY UP!!!! MOVE! MOVE! MOVE! EVERY SECOND YOU TAKE HE'S STRUGGLING TO BREATHE!!!" and I'm hooking that thing up with lightly shaking hands. But by god, I did it. <br />
<br />
And I'm realising something: a lot, and I mean A LOT of people are idiots and flakes. In fact, I see myself wading through a veritable sludge of idiots and flakes--people who would rather laugh with great open mouths than accomplish anything useful. <br />
<br />
Details? Oh yeah, the details. In the past two weeks, I can't stop thinking of details. There are so many details. Details pile up in my head. Details spill out. Details are here there and everywhere. Holy crap there are so many details I need to think of. For example...a Personal Support Worker (PSW) comes Monday Wednesday and Friday at this time for two hours, then this time for one hour, and then one more time for one hour. On Tuesdays and Thursdays, a PSW comes in the morning and one hour only in the afternoon. On Saturdays and Sundays they only come for one hour. OH wait...there are more hours in the day...Dad's alone for those hours. WHO'S FILLING IN THOSE HOURS?!? How do I get more help? How is this going to be enough? How do I keep my dad out of a damn care facility? How do I keep my dad at HOME?!? <br />
<br />
So details? Hell yeah, I got em.' But nevermind. Today the BOY wanted chocolate, and I wanted hair colour. I'm walking around with too much white exposed at the temples, and dark roots. You know the drill: if you want to colour your hair, you don't wash it that day. Well, let's go to the drug store. And the fighting between the kids as they get on their boots, hats, coats and mitts? RE-DIC (that's my new expression I invented for RIDICULOUS. You like?). I mean, seriously stoopid. <br />
<br />
Somehow we make it to the store. I tried to plead with The Boy to just get started brushing the snow off the car windows while I got my boots on, but this elicited some AUTISTIC OUTRAGE. WHY DO I HAVE TO HELP!?! Fine. Forget it. We get to the store. We get the chocolate. We go to the hair colour aisle. And, my colour is not there. It's not there. I need C13, and it's not there. I'm walking around with this dopey hat over my lank hair, major bags under my eyes, and I can't stop staring at that section of the boxes of chemical dyes that will somehow transform me from tired karen into RADIANT KAREN. In the meantime, the kids are not patient. They're fighting, they're whining. They're knocking stuff off the aisles by accident. <br />
<br />
I just wanted that damn hair colour. That's all I really wanted. C13--beige blonde or whatever the fuck it's called. I liked it last time. I don't even have to experiment with anything else. So, I try to plead with the kids to allow me (see the problem here?) to go to another store to look for some hair colour, but The Boy has more Autistic OUTRAGE.<br />
<br />
So THEN, as we're headed to the cashier, the girl knocks over this 4 foot sign, and I've had it. The line on my forehead gets SUPER DEEP. I'm whining now at her to BEEEEE CAREFUL!!!! and this woman--this immaculate, perfectly put together, neat as a pin, well-dressed, hair like a roots-less, glossy blonde helmet says in this calm, kindly voice; "Aw, it's not HER fault. Her coat caught the edge of it."<br />
<br />
I saw myself. Exhausted, angry, frustrated, struggling, impatient ogre mom, freaking at her kid for a little accident, and I can't say; "hey lady, I was awake from 1 til 4 the other night thinking about how I'm going to get enough care to keep my dad at home for the rest of his poor life, and all my kids do is fight anyway, and I extra can't take it today, and I just wanted some fucking C13 haircolour, okay? That's all I wanted in life today."<br />
<br />
Yeah, I saw myself alright--she wasn't very pretty. And now she has to have roots for at least another day.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://www.momlogic.com/images/mom_potty_mouth_pm-thumb-270x270.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.momlogic.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-67703992551937116432013-11-12T10:36:00.000-05:002013-11-12T13:32:36.809-05:00What If I Have Always BEEN Boring? Blank screen....blank screen....ohbum bleebum bloggum blooogin. <br />
<br />
Seriously...what the hell do they say at the beginning of that <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WfdD37tFC8M" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">Def Leppard "Rock Of Ages"</a> Song? <br />
<br />
Okay. Now I'm distracted. I have to look up the lyrics:<br />
<br />
"Gunter glieben glauchen globen." <br />
<br />
This actually pisses me off a bit. Now I have to pop it into Google Translate:<br />
<br />
(German ~ <i>detected</i>) "Gunter glieben glauchen globes."<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><i>BALLS! </i></span></b><br />
<br />
Now I must google "what does Gunter glieben glauchen globen" mean?<br />
<br />
<br />
GIBBERISH?!? <br />
<br />
I hate you, Def Leppard. I truly hate you right now. <br />
<br />
<br />
Of course, any of you who are too young to have ever walked around with 10 batteries in your "ghettoblaster," being all 12 years old and cool as shit, blasting out Rock Of Ages to your quiet, conservative neighbourhood...well, you won't get it. You just won't get it. <br />
<br />
<br />
What the fuck was I talking about? Oh yes, I haven't been here for a long time. <br />
<br />
And you know what? Five of you actually give a shit, and that's good enough for me, so I'm back! And I think I forgot how to write. <br />
<br />
So, what have I been up to? Well, the usual: having inane arguments with my mildly Autistic son, watching Adventure Time with my girlie,<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="286" src="http://images2.wikia.nocookie.net/__cb20130816183454/adventuretimewithfinnandjake/images/5/54/Adventure_Time_(no_copyright).png" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="320" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Adventure Time is THE SHIT!!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
trying hard to exercise 6 days a week,<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ2fDvawyij2Zf8b9c85T2K3lkhJkzFYLlajIGrUK0qrSb2urmFPm4p8_rrih9NFyWB-8KxExAiOik03hM9riEzKX8vGm6nf2sZ2-m0yiRdLB9iKq2W-KNtsrcUkps_eOVAVi7cgZsXN0h/s1600/roids+karen+1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZ2fDvawyij2Zf8b9c85T2K3lkhJkzFYLlajIGrUK0qrSb2urmFPm4p8_rrih9NFyWB-8KxExAiOik03hM9riEzKX8vGm6nf2sZ2-m0yiRdLB9iKq2W-KNtsrcUkps_eOVAVi7cgZsXN0h/s1600/roids+karen+1.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I'm particularly pleased with my arm<br />
and shoulder definition</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
trying hard to eat healthy food, instead of melting gourmet cheese on everything. Seriously--why even live if you can't have a platter lined up with some Applewood smoked cheddar, some Red Leicester, and some goat cheese with a whisper of red pepper jelly on it? Why even live. <br />
<br />
Oh yeah! I've also been trying to grow out my hair for three years. This is big news. But I have to wonder: is there something truly wrong with me?!? It has taken 3 years to grow almost 3 inches of freaking hair. I saw this friend in person one time, and then a YEAR LATER she posted an updated pic on Facebook, and her hair went from chin length to draping like gorgeous satin sheets over her shoulders. WTF, hair? I'm 41 now! I need to grow it so's peeps think I'm 38. <br />
<br />
And guess what, guys?!? If any of you know me, you know I've had my thyroid poked, many, many times, because it gots a big, ugly, stupid, idiot nodule on it. Well, I just had it stabbed again at the beginning of October. Then I waited til November for the results. Trust me--I was happy about waiting that long. I had NOOOOO problem with it. My results were AWESOME! My thyroid is completely clear, and there is no trace whatsoever of it being cancerous. <br />
<br />
My specialist said he was going to forward a letter to my family doc saying that I don't need to get it biopsied or ULTRASOUNDED (that's not a word. I do what I want) and the only thing I need to look out for is if I HAVE TROUBLE BREATHING, OR HAVE TROUBLE SWALLOWING! HUZZAH! BOO YAH! SUCK IT, UGLY THYROID! <br />
<br />
Now, now, gentle hearts, don't get all caught up on the breathing/swallowing thang. Sometimes when I'm chowing down on some McDonk's fries, they get all packed up in my throat, and I'm FINE. It could be the giant nodule in there, or it could just be that McDonk's truly does put out a shitty product. Meh--bigger fish to fry, my friends. <br />
<br />
So that's super duper good. What else...let's see...<br />
<br />
Oops, I almost forgot. My dad has ALS. <br />
<br />
SCRREEECH.....<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://media2.apnonline.com.au/img/media/images/2012/10/25/LEC_25-10-2012_EGN_04_LEC251012Diva_fct1025x631x388_t460.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">say <i>WHAT</i>?!? <br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Yes, that's right. My mom died in 2010 from lung cancer, and hand-wringing time has returned once again. Now, how the hell do you head-crop your way out of that one?!? <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitH34p8-74CiTC_YoZxiGAqurpyf7ZZj_oJJ4r1HQSS5sJKJHQFSPssOyTlfAtgA_4GKpxppp7733rTjXgmgkEwrxNIqJf7GKhyWdE7o8N6JP51ixUkQVxO9QcZNnwUVDw-wGcYhDKTod9/s1600/cocktail+karen.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="186" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitH34p8-74CiTC_YoZxiGAqurpyf7ZZj_oJJ4r1HQSS5sJKJHQFSPssOyTlfAtgA_4GKpxppp7733rTjXgmgkEwrxNIqJf7GKhyWdE7o8N6JP51ixUkQVxO9QcZNnwUVDw-wGcYhDKTod9/s400/cocktail+karen.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Why, yes! It <i><b>IS </b></i>a terrible disease!</span><br />
(seriously though--have my head-cropping skills not become totally amazing?!?)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Well, looks like I did manage to do a head-crop joke for that. Truly I am made of evil. <br />
<br />
Bah. It's how we cope at our house: not with hugs...NEVER WITH HUGS GODDAMMITT...no, with inappropriate humour! <br />
<br />
So, things pretty much blow lately, but it's weird, because if things have blown in your life so often, you still turn around and get the laundry done. Very, very strange. <br />
<br />
Oh, but the blogging thing. I have forgotten that I like writing. Writing is my thing. I have gotten caught up in the hum drum and the routine. I think I got really, really frustrated with my blog when I tried to monetize it and BLOGGER basically rejected my ass. And let me tell you: I filled out a FREAKING REAM of information, only to be rejected in the end. So, I did the mature thing, and promptly kinda gave up. <br />
<br />
WINNING. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://onstartups.com/Portals/150/images/charlie-sheen-winning-resized-600.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">that's RIGHT, Charlie. You tell em' buddy.<br />
<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So, I am going to try to kick my ass to do a lot of things: a) pushups, which are so gross they actually make me really, really angry. <br />
<br />
b) write, because it's the only thing I've been good at for longer than a couple of months. <br />
<br />
But then I had to wonder: what if I'm boring? What if I've ALWAYS been boring, but I quickly run in and blow some gold and sparkly powder in your guyses' eyes, and shout something witty then quickly run away, and noooobody realises that I never did actually have anything valid to say? <br />
<br />
Oh well, that's your problem dudes. <br />
<br />
Sorry :) <br />
<br />
<br />karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com22tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-50935134028070228782013-05-14T23:36:00.001-04:002013-05-14T23:36:06.889-04:00Rant About PantsHow annoying.<br />
<br />
Okay, so I've lost a bunch of weight in the past year. I currently have an obsession. A clothing obsession. A <i>shallow </i>clothing obsession: skinny jeans. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="1432211_fpx.tif (328Ă—400)" src="http://slimages.macys.com/is/image/MCY/products/1/optimized/1432211_fpx.tif" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">shoes are good too</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Ever since I walked into Old Navy about a month ago, and wondered "hrm...I wonder if I should even try these skinny jeans on...oh, what the hell," and tried on a pair, and admitted to the young sales girl that I'd never tried on a pair, and she said; "really?!! You look GREAT in those!"...yes, ever since then, something short-circuited in my brain, and now I'm obsessed. <br />
<br />
Yes, I crammed the swaying, jelly wreckage of my mummy tummy into those jeans, and it looked pretty darn good. <br />
<br />
There was only one problem--<br />
<br />
no--actually, there were two: ONE, my stupid legs are about as long as my arms, and they didn't have my size in SHORT. Nothing like the sales girls calling across to each other, asking if they have your size in SHORT, even though, clearly, I am not short. Meh. Whatevs. TWO: if the waist band actually fits properly, and doesn't fall down, there is way, way, waaaaay too much muffin toppage. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="CranberryMuffin.jpg (1207Ă—937)" height="496" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/8/81/CranberryMuffin.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ermahgerd...delicious..</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
and you know, if you're young enough, and you've got that nice smooth skin, I don't even think a muffin top over your pants is that big a deal. <br />
<br />
BUT <br />
<br />
If your stomach, thanks to squeezing forth some children, now looks like a BEFORE picture in an ABDOMINOPLASTY ad, therein lies the problem. <br />
<br />
So, to recap, you can either wear skinny jeans that are in constant danger of falling down, or you can have your lower half spilling over like so much unbaked bread dough. <br />
<br />
I have been online googling. <br />
<br />
For days I've been googling! I've been looking for "high waisted skinny jeans." Or, "high rise skinny jeans, " or even 'hi rise skinny jeans. Oh my god, I've even been looking for JEGGINGS. F*CKING JEGGINGS. And not just any jeggings--no--HIGH WAIST JEGGINGS. And this is all because I stumbled across an article saying that if you have a post baby body, you will fare better with HIGH WAIST GODDAMN SKINNY JEANS. <br />
<br />
BUT GOOD LUCK. GOOD FREAKING LUCK. YOU CAN GO INTO EVERY STORE YOU WANT THAT SELLS THESE TRENDY SKINNY JEANS AND THE 20 YEAR OLD GIRL HELPING YOU, WILL VAGUELY COMPREHEND YOUR PROBLEM, BUT NOT REALLY. She will, however, tell you that they DID have high rise skinny jeans and high rise jeggings but they FLEW off the shelves. <br />
<br />
Wait....you're not feeling me on this one. You're thinking, karen, have you turned totally lame and shallow and stoopid? The answer is kinda not. But I do have the same problem I've always had: when I get a clothing VISION for an event, it NAGS at me until that vision is fulfilled. So, that means, if I picture a certain pair of earrings with a certain shirt, I will hunt EVERYWHERE for that pair of earrings.<br />
<br />
Yes, enormous first world problems. <br />
<br />
So, what is my vision with the stupid skinny jeans? First, I had this fantasy, before I went to Florida in March, of getting off the plane, wearing SKINNY JEANS and a sexy tank top, and maybe even a flower in my hair. No skinny jeans. But, in reality, I got off the fart-choked plane, and stepped into 100% humidity, my hair turned into a broom IMMEDIATELY, and I probably had some substantial pit stains happening. <br />
<br />
I shelved the skinny jean dream.<br />
<br />
That is, until I bought tickets for the<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="JillianMichaels_940x400.jpg (940Ă—400)" height="272" src="http://fergusoncenter.ticketforce.com/uplimage/JillianMichaels_940x400.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="640" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">look at her! Glowing with sexy, angry gorgeousness. I didn't go on the 26th, but I AM going VERY SOON! SQUEE!!!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
THE JILLIAN MICHAELS MAXIMIZE YOUR LIFE TOUR!! <br />
<br />
And I, probs like every other Jillian-ite who will be in the audience, who has suffered through her workout vids, want to be there at that show looking BADASS in skinny jeans. BADASS in skinny jeans, and not shlumpy in the only pair of faded wash bullshit jeans I wear every single day. Jeans which actually only fit properly now when I wash them and run them through the drier. Jeans that have distinctive bling on the ass, so that anyone who walks behind me each day, as I walk my kids to school, will be able to say; "hey, there's those saggy ass jeans again, snicker, snicker." <br />
<br />
So, I have a renewed VISION and it included some dark rinse skinny jeans and this shirt:<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="renderImage.image (158Ă—170)" height="400" src="http://www.rickis.com/renderImage.image?imageName=Rickis/general_apparel/9182ed311310059_11334_01.jpg&width=158&height=170" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="371" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">www.rickis.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
this little bolero style cardi<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="renderImage.image (133Ă—160)" height="400" src="http://www.rickis.com/renderImage.image?imageName=Rickis/general_apparel/9271ed82912_41201_01.jpg&width=133&height=160" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="332" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">also from ricki's dot comn</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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an arm full of sparkly gold bangles<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img alt="img-thing (300Ă—300)" src="http://www.polyvore.com/cgi/img-thing?.out=jpg&size=l&tid=64529541" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">hm.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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some fierce, gold dangly earrings which I can't find a freaking pic of
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gold flip flops<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://www.ardene.com/media/catalog/product/cache/1/image/300x400/9df78eab33525d08d6e5fb8d27136e95/1/4/14160361-8488-01jpg.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ardene.com</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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and a vintage gold bag I got at a second-hand store<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-L9YMTR5jE0s/Tx27D3TsKjI/AAAAAAAACEQ/Gj0WhsyEVR8/s400/HPIM2531.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">nevermind the bracelet and necklace in this pic. Vintage-savvy girlfriends: tell me how I would describe this little purse thingy in proper vintage-y terms!!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So you see, clearly there are so many important things going on in my life. Everything was falling into place for my outfit vision...except the stupid freaking jeans. <br />
<br />
I went out tonight and tried on a lot of jeans. Twelve pairs of jeans in fact. I went to two different stores, and then finally ended up at Wal-hell. <br />
<br />
Wal-hell was actually the worst part. I hate them. I hate them so hard. I hate them because they're SHIT, but I still always always always ALWAYS end up back there at some point. I curse you Wal-hell! So I was in there, trying on like, seven pairs of stupid jeans, and this is where I lost my love of skinny jeans pretty much entirely. Why? Well, because these mythical HIGH RISE SKINNY JEANS that will hide my mom junk are a UNICORN, okay?? They don't exist. They are the Loch Ness Monster of denim. So, I am left with all the other stupid skinny jeans, which are low slung, right down to the hair line.<br />
<br />
Not only that, but I had two pairs of the same brand of jeans at Wal-hell, and they were supposed to be the same size, and one fit nicely, and the other one I couldn't even do up. I want to rant, and complain, but at Wal-hell, there is NOBODY to complain to, because there is not a single person there who gives a shit. In truth, you will never, ever ever be able to find a person within the entire corporation who gives a shit. Maybe if you went to the third world country and found the sweat shop and the poor souls who have to stitch the freaking jeans, maybe then you could say; "hey guys, can you make sure there's some sort of quality control and that if two pairs of women's pants are supposed to be the same size, that they actually ARE?" THANKS, I KNOW YOU ONLY GET PAID LIKE TWO DOLLARS A YEAR, BUT I NEED TO LOOK GOOD FOR THE JILLIAN MICHAELS SHOW. <br />
<br />
As I was shuffling in and out of all these stupid, teenagerish pants, they kept trying to drag my baffed out underwear down with them. And let me tell you something: not only did I learn that shopping for jeans is STILL PURE HELL, I'm also completely sick of having a hole in nearly ever pair of gitch I own. Because as my underpants kept getting dragged down, revealing my scrotum-esque Mummy tummy, they also revealed the stupid, faded pink, cotton underpants with the big RUN in the front, with all the bush poking through. Yes, that's right. I said it. Bush poking through. And it was then, that I got out of the change room, threw the ONE PAIR OF BOOTCUT GUT SUPPORTING WOMAN JEANS that actually made me look like the hawt babe I'm meant to be into the cart, and I wheeled over to the underwear section where I bought two frigging packages of underpants, and MARK MY WORDS, I am going to throw out all the other holey ancient gitches I own tomorrow. <br />
<br />
And then, because all that squeezing in and out of pants, and bush spillage and dough toppage, and battling against camel toes and all the other ridiculousness, my normally decent self esteem flushed itself down the toilet, and I found myself at home self-medicating with a handful of corn chips and some of that plastic Mexican-ish pourable cheese in a jar (I also have the PMS), and let me tell you, it's a damn good thing The Man ate 3/4 of the bag AND the plastic cheese, because that stuff is shit, and if you actually microwave it, as it says on the side of the jar, it tastes<br />
<br />
MORE GROSSER. MUCH, MUCH MORE GROSSER. <br />
<br />
Disgusting. <br />
<br />
And THAT, my friends, is all I have to say about THAT. karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com35tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-18527040582920762502013-03-24T19:14:00.001-04:002015-09-25T10:29:07.693-04:00Sunday Inspiration: Up With The Birdspress play first, please<br />
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<img src="http://desicolours.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/07/flying-birds03.jpg" /><br />
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<img src="http://mtpmcg.files.wordpress.com/2008/10/bird-on-a-wire-sm.jpg" height="258" width="400" /><br />
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Might have to go where they don't know my name
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<img height="299" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQMdu9MrIGUNtlmWHOF9_6NJumg41t_lgJMTHV7yoj-OsQ572mb" width="400" /><br />
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But I won't show or feel any pain<br />
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<img src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQItqTe5fP7-JdynOkMwhP5JXOJQo0NaeZwWqXKrwdjtqt5vhTF" />
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Even though all my armor might rust in the rain<br />
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a simple plot, but I know one day<br />
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good things are coming my way.<br />
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<img src="https://i.chzbgr.com/maxW500/6601142016/h469B4F9E/" />karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-40655813283715304082013-02-12T09:32:00.001-05:002013-02-12T09:32:10.694-05:00Look Into The Face Of This Boy And See Your FutureI had a very interesting experience yesterday.<br />
<br />
I don't know--does everyone know by now that I have an 8 year old son somewhere vaguely on the Autism Spectrum? Okay, well now you do. If you're interested in the Autism <i>thang</i>, you can always scroll down to the bottom of my blog and find the "labels" on the right side bar. If you click on "Autism," or "Autism Spectrum," or "Jack", you'll find where a lot of my angst is stored here in this blog.<br />
<br />
But I digress...<br />
<br />
So, yesterday after school, as always, I was letting the kids stick around to play, along with one of my mom friends, her daughter, and another classmate of Ella's whom she was babysitting after school. There is now a good-sized snow hill on one side of the school, and kids LOVE a snow hill, so they were having a great time. <br />
<br />
Not long after we had been out, a raucous snowball fight broke out nearby among a small group of older boys. One boy in particular seemed to be extra aggressive, and kept whipping snowballs right at the head of the little sister of one of the boys, at close range. One of the snowballs splattered right across the back of her head and fell down the back of her coat and everything. <br />
<br />
What an obnoxious kid, I thought. <br />
<br />
The mom I was with was really horrified by this kid's seemingly "bully-esh" behaviour, and decided she should teach him a lesson and throw a snow ball at HIS head. It was a misguided idea, sure, but she was trying to make it more of a light-hearted, mischievous thing than a stern lecture. So, she got a snow ball and lightly through it at him, but he turned his head just in time for the snow to hit him on his cheek near his ear.<br />
<br />
And the look on his face??? He was STUNNED. He couldn't believe it. He had the widest eyes of disbelief. He stopped and said; "YOU THREW A SNOW BALL AT MY HEAD!" <br />
<br />
Well, things kind of escalated from there, and he got angrier, and mouthier and stood back so he could throw snowballs at the mom (who, by the way, felt mortified by the whole scene, because she really is a nice person, and isn't malevolent at all). <br />
<br />
And the more belligerent and mouthy the kid became, and the more he threatened to get his CELL PHONE and CALL THE POLICE about the ICE BALL that had been WHIPPED at HIS FACE, it was like a combination lock suddenly clicked into place in my brain:<br />
<br />
That boy was the 13 year old version of Jack. <br />
<br />
It was all there before me: the over-the-top outrage, the total lack of connecting the wrongness in HIS actions to the wrong that had been done to HIM, the mouthiness, the inability to let it go even as someone tried to mollify him. <br />
<br />
As he was whipping snowballs in our direction, there was my boy, up on the snow hill calmly saying; "would ya please stop it?" to him. At one point the kid said; "SHUT UP, JACK" and made a face at him. <br />
<br />
And I stood there fascinated. Taking it all in. I had never met a kid who was basically like my son; looked like any other kid, but had that social cluelessness, that mouthiness, that total inability to "learn a lesson." <br />
<br />
By this point, the poor kid was on his way home, shouting anger at us from across the street, and I was pleading for him to come back so I could explain to him that I KNEW what <i>he was;</i> that I understood. That nobody was angry anymore.<br />
<br />
But he just kept shouting "WHY DON'T YA MAKE ME?!?" <br />
<br />
And then all night long, I was haunted by the look on his face. I can't explain it as well as I'd like. It's a special Autism Spectrum kinda look. It's the look Jack gets on his face when I do or say something to him that mimics the bad thing he has just done. It's a look that says; "no matter how bad I am, you are never allowed to be angry at me because I need you to love me 100% of the time." <br />
<br />
Not that I'm saying <i>that </i>kid wants me to love him no matter what. <br />
<br />
I thought about that look all night long. And I thought about that kid going home and saying that some kid's MOM threw a snowball at him, and I thought about how upsetting the whole confrontation would be to him, and I thought about how the parents would feel, because even though they'd probably know their kid had done something wrong in the first place, it would still be another one of those stories they'd have to hold on to in which nobody understood. <br />
<br />
I sat on Jack's bed last night, and talked to him about what had happened, and how I regretted being a grouch to the kid at first. Jack helpfully agreed that I was "too mean," and needed to be "more patient." Thanks, Jack. <br />
<br />
And then he remembered the face the boy had made at him, and he got all ticked off. "He was a JERK for making that face at me!" And this after we had this big discussion on tolerance, and sympathy, and how some people can't help what they do or say. But just don't do these things to JACK personally. Ha. <br />
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It was a very strange experience. The only good thing I can say is that I am so thankful I recognised this poor kid for who he was, albeit a little too late. How many other ignorant people simply conclude that he's an obnoxious kid? <br />
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I have no idea what the future has in store for us with this asshole Autism in our lives, and quite frankly, I try not to imagine, but yesterday I feel like I got a small glimpse into the future.<br />
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Don't know how I feel about that. <br />
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<br />karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com18tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-32366455942529300902013-01-14T09:34:00.001-05:002013-01-14T09:34:32.758-05:00I'll NEVER Live This DownHaven't you seen the horrible, heinous offense I committed against my girlie?<br />
<br />
An offense she will never ever ever ever ever let me forget???<br />
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<br />
Well come on, already! Click <span style="color: magenta; font-size: x-large;"><a href="http://myboringlifeinpictures.blogspot.ca/2013/01/horrible-thief.html" target="_blank">HERE!!</a></span><br />
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(and in other news...I feel the EIGHTIES coming on soon...)karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-71288647866651254902013-01-01T16:42:00.000-05:002013-01-01T16:44:18.159-05:00karen Does The Decades: THE NINETIES!!Hey Everyone! It's a BRAND NEW YEAR! <br />
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So, what better time to look back on the style and makeup of the past decades? Okay, actually I've just had this idea stuck in my head for ages about recreating the makeup from the past, because it's winter, and I'm trapped in the house, and it will be FUN! <br />
<br />
So, since we're already IN the OH-OH'S (I created that term myself. You like? Maybe it will go VIRAL), I thought I'd start instead with<br />
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<b>THE NINETIES. </b><br />
<br />
SHUDDER. <br />
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You know, the EIGHTIES takes a lot of flack from people. Everyone's always dumping on the eighties; the fashion, the music, the garish colours, etc, but NOBODY ever talks about THE NINETIES. <br />
<br />
That's right. As everyone's all shit-talking the eighties, the nineties quietly sneak under the radar, relieved that nobody realizes that they were actually WORSE. <br />
<br />
So come on! Let's go back to THE NINETIES!<br />
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<br />
<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3776883922" name="gsSong3776883922" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=37768839&style=metal&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=37768839&style=metal&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Rembrandts%20I'll%20Be%20There%20For%20You" title="I'll Be There For You by Rembrandts on Grooveshark">I'll Be There For You by Rembrandts on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object><br />
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Ew! It's the 90's! The music is gross, the fashion is yuck, and flammable polyester has made a huge come-back--and not in a good way.<br />
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So here's me, in the photie below, with my usual non-style, style. I like to think of it as, "just enough effort to not look like a hag." Har har. <br />
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Incidentally, I'm at a hair colour crossroads. On one hand I'm completely sick of colouring my hair, dealing with roots, and dumping CHEMICALS ALL OVER MY HEAD. On the other hand, is it mousey? <br />
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Whatever. <br />
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So this is me, pre-makeup. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdCfXwiGuqbvDdbbbRAbCZmVgQ4nlLRJB9krQNAfB2BJa82RKz9-SZVRI2SFunW50g0iKCdhUV7es-NUi6k7tdItkky2rinoW_1VdFqX2jP04abRR6gYL0VToBNgv2Zfj9VH-kGeDTOKv/s1600/cmas+2012+024.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXdCfXwiGuqbvDdbbbRAbCZmVgQ4nlLRJB9krQNAfB2BJa82RKz9-SZVRI2SFunW50g0iKCdhUV7es-NUi6k7tdItkky2rinoW_1VdFqX2jP04abRR6gYL0VToBNgv2Zfj9VH-kGeDTOKv/s320/cmas+2012+024.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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So, if you recall, the 90's was all about the super thin, hideous eyebrow. And if it was shaped like a clowny-clown semi-circle, even better. <br />
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So, what I'm going for here, is the look of a totally over-plucked eyebrow. Hard to tell in the photie, unfortunately. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIIXEYdePYzFWSDuP6wPV2aTYFZZO6x2vJimUDoSGRmnvZ5vr6ZT_jqOyh6KqWV4rLGblnBhm_qC9EAk5NmrewnqBavslBFtRL2OCX15aQl4_T0e3QwF3Cr_KaiqkKSX9Wgyz_LkXgOE0u/s1600/cmas+2012+025.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIIXEYdePYzFWSDuP6wPV2aTYFZZO6x2vJimUDoSGRmnvZ5vr6ZT_jqOyh6KqWV4rLGblnBhm_qC9EAk5NmrewnqBavslBFtRL2OCX15aQl4_T0e3QwF3Cr_KaiqkKSX9Wgyz_LkXgOE0u/s320/cmas+2012+025.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Next, you'll want to coat your face with foundation. MATTE foundation. And, you'll probably be using a SPONGE. I never use a sponge to put on foundation these days. <br />
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OH, and don't think you should ever wash that freaking sponge. The grimier the better. After all, this is the 90's and you use whatever cheap garbage you can get your hands on. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEanNygU7GJadxIKahoJ86MUmb9ucsaR8NTfxol_CuLzP0FPJf9ZhmSSAzjJi0L6L8qtkxyiYWzIFuVC4kPk41VonWmXherF4NRyqT0vTZ-uYGP0ulWOV7h-dm2naoW2FQMPW46qAE1FCE/s1600/cmas+2012+026.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEanNygU7GJadxIKahoJ86MUmb9ucsaR8NTfxol_CuLzP0FPJf9ZhmSSAzjJi0L6L8qtkxyiYWzIFuVC4kPk41VonWmXherF4NRyqT0vTZ-uYGP0ulWOV7h-dm2naoW2FQMPW46qAE1FCE/s320/cmas+2012+026.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">eeew...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzXnDLDnfYt7gCpvW7jwFnutPha7GD3y9UTlygxuQ4rWNhD2ribUI8jN0aYxigSAgJgFTS1XLkjdSI6cwRErjJ5MGfNfkGnF8JfP37SlfqfAoQS8eeyeL96P91RltiEHeFUnQ1OPYhBG7m/s1600/cmas+2012+027.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzXnDLDnfYt7gCpvW7jwFnutPha7GD3y9UTlygxuQ4rWNhD2ribUI8jN0aYxigSAgJgFTS1XLkjdSI6cwRErjJ5MGfNfkGnF8JfP37SlfqfAoQS8eeyeL96P91RltiEHeFUnQ1OPYhBG7m/s320/cmas+2012+027.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">COAT THAT FACE! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeYjNlfs66r_OG7p_VwBPWVdBHFg3-hyCN7cHsfaKAW-qZu5JE-XGvv7Jga0qvk_kk6N-zu9VhybdauuuZmhuqHNykdF4lczKgGjQFfI8AZ5Clfz81ahi0dYzTOOH20SM_lqvWov48wZxN/s1600/cmas+2012+028.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgeYjNlfs66r_OG7p_VwBPWVdBHFg3-hyCN7cHsfaKAW-qZu5JE-XGvv7Jga0qvk_kk6N-zu9VhybdauuuZmhuqHNykdF4lczKgGjQFfI8AZ5Clfz81ahi0dYzTOOH20SM_lqvWov48wZxN/s320/cmas+2012+028.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There. All coated.<br />
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</tbody></table>
Next, you're going to want to line your upper and lower lids with EYELINER. And don't be thinking you're going to use BLACK EYELINER. HELLZ NO. It is THE 90'S, and since each subsequent decade is a reaction to the previous, there will be NO garish, bright, unnatural colours. <br />
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No. <br />
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You will only use EARTH TONES, like brick and brown, and some brown-y mauve, etc. <br />
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Even your mascara must be brown. You might go as far as black/brown, but let's not go crazy. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi23tsVVlqnV_9bGGxLgYh5CWCDV54eZeuzY8BLAVPb3Ir_yYAPpJTUiHn6brfbe1Nm51x-No_eEPKbmDWMX9VdFqrZYKBYCMXw1SjDQAp2hN8lkWx69oRBOra0PTAAyHw5bQ-fS7u-Jorx/s1600/cmas+2012+029.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi23tsVVlqnV_9bGGxLgYh5CWCDV54eZeuzY8BLAVPb3Ir_yYAPpJTUiHn6brfbe1Nm51x-No_eEPKbmDWMX9VdFqrZYKBYCMXw1SjDQAp2hN8lkWx69oRBOra0PTAAyHw5bQ-fS7u-Jorx/s320/cmas+2012+029.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">all lined up with the brown eyeliner.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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And the same goes for blush, DAMMITT. You must use some bricky, orangey, brown kind of colour.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglObxOgDWnQSb6T5UUoXiRpgTB0La_Ro2_XCvbEUfPHgKEgHjvFkLqki2NxEYPACJXwtWeOIi8Km_jhOorWErMKNYvDXG2o56KgwZ8xxlqr6G-AVQlQvZjZoyjSX1x8BNp5SZRm5Azv_xi/s1600/cmas+2012+030.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEglObxOgDWnQSb6T5UUoXiRpgTB0La_Ro2_XCvbEUfPHgKEgHjvFkLqki2NxEYPACJXwtWeOIi8Km_jhOorWErMKNYvDXG2o56KgwZ8xxlqr6G-AVQlQvZjZoyjSX1x8BNp5SZRm5Azv_xi/s320/cmas+2012+030.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">does the blush look any different from my naturally blotchy face? Hrm...</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Coat the hell out of your face with pressed powder. You need a COMPLETELY MATTE look. NO SHINE! SHINE IS BAD!<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTBta835wFH2ILcu0wrldWBACgAw77k5utplJUKUJ0BaSm6AXLNZjgKl8ZVg8rIwnHfENq49GdgxB_Pg-9NoQHQsbVQzLeow5fhdIlQLKoiElhg20Jgp-X5bBIZLRwTElDgu5SG2seWkgO/s1600/cmas+2012+031.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTBta835wFH2ILcu0wrldWBACgAw77k5utplJUKUJ0BaSm6AXLNZjgKl8ZVg8rIwnHfENq49GdgxB_Pg-9NoQHQsbVQzLeow5fhdIlQLKoiElhg20Jgp-X5bBIZLRwTElDgu5SG2seWkgO/s320/cmas+2012+031.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Next, you must line those lips with a SUPER POINTY, WELL-SHARPENED lip pencil. Wait...it's darker than your lipstick...OH WAIT! THAT'S OKAY! IT'S THE 90'S and that disgusting look is IN!<br />
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Oh...and don't forget to put a little foundation on your lips first. It'll help your lipstick last longer. Because your lipstick should never come off in the 90's. Never. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOZWy99OfNu2sEJQ1TszWw5oueX8_1iLo8c45rXOEbS5kbqJeeULOxIQSbeLlcXyhLOsCcOxe_TWQDcd_rD8CFUi4KwFOg6k_Z2kZzymJgWDLEqT4XmuuhFxVosUZTiHfvN-zA8fhRurv/s1600/cmas+2012+032.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEivOZWy99OfNu2sEJQ1TszWw5oueX8_1iLo8c45rXOEbS5kbqJeeULOxIQSbeLlcXyhLOsCcOxe_TWQDcd_rD8CFUi4KwFOg6k_Z2kZzymJgWDLEqT4XmuuhFxVosUZTiHfvN-zA8fhRurv/s320/cmas+2012+032.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">ew.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Now, fill in your lipstick. I have a poopy shade of browny...something called "Fawn." <br />
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Aren't you glad I've never listened to those boring experts who say you should always throw your old makeup away? <br />
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You're welcome. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8-ubSHEOBqhAYP0KRFPD5WLerHMHfPfycsrSGYleHb9VPCDBBFqlrUUG6Pj3gEW-ZijHopBSztloRNWhcM1UKQvU8lkcIQgoF2IE6gtZufNjboUUiFCIwuzjCEadGSxvXU5Uc8FLi4Nx1/s1600/cmas+2012+033.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8-ubSHEOBqhAYP0KRFPD5WLerHMHfPfycsrSGYleHb9VPCDBBFqlrUUG6Pj3gEW-ZijHopBSztloRNWhcM1UKQvU8lkcIQgoF2IE6gtZufNjboUUiFCIwuzjCEadGSxvXU5Uc8FLi4Nx1/s320/cmas+2012+033.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">oop...I see some shine on the face. Better re-powder.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
Okay, so lipstick's on, but there's one problem. It's a bit shiny. <br />
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In the 90's, SHINE IS THE ENEMY. You must not have a BIT of shine on your face, and definitely no shine on your lips. So, you actually mush your blush brush around through that pressed powder, and apply it over your lipstick. <br />
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It helps to make the SMOOCHY face before you apply that powder, so you can emphasize all the natural lines in your lips. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmEpKosJyH39-n4H7DSFDi2nuBIAHLBmR-cZ0XAZdIMwII22my8hVYsM3-I1e4-YLONdqrNjh3kVNIDk1Bk41v3jsgxelopbf2QSTw7aJFM2BMRydin9v3XbZUlsVQXJs5gjr8z_hiNO-_/s1600/cmas+2012+034.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmEpKosJyH39-n4H7DSFDi2nuBIAHLBmR-cZ0XAZdIMwII22my8hVYsM3-I1e4-YLONdqrNjh3kVNIDk1Bk41v3jsgxelopbf2QSTw7aJFM2BMRydin9v3XbZUlsVQXJs5gjr8z_hiNO-_/s320/cmas+2012+034.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">mwah!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
And now comes the worst part: THE HAIR. Oh, the stupid hair. Straight hair was super in. Now, part it in the middle. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUiMa4ytaWfMG_Y5GG-chYbqsnbIJAXMVkGNR1oEzs1a8M4LqvNt-qRs_zRlY6bhLuhRpyRDPPVE7Ah4DtDL3jIdU2KyTnSgYX6vYYP-BrAHCi-qF8uQfvsZVNAI7AJWNrlgveMjShP5U/s1600/cmas+2012+037.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjsUiMa4ytaWfMG_Y5GG-chYbqsnbIJAXMVkGNR1oEzs1a8M4LqvNt-qRs_zRlY6bhLuhRpyRDPPVE7Ah4DtDL3jIdU2KyTnSgYX6vYYP-BrAHCi-qF8uQfvsZVNAI7AJWNrlgveMjShP5U/s320/cmas+2012+037.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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That was not the middle. I was almost phyically incapable of finding THE MIDDLE. Try again. <br />
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Yes, that's better. Oh, and those chunky bangs will have to go. In the 90's, if you had bangs at all, they were WISP THIN. <br />
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No problem-o: you can clip your hair back with some stupid ass little butterfly bobby pins. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8aNOO2V9KAtKl56AxqR2IZy5p9dvK7N-ht1Xlmou-buMMqU0DNnQJiIEHkdsHDDQ_j-Y0SVCzSA5Nr0KnlH4dgQ6iFS2RiQPseJtKPXMNC6DTHxx9CwmsMz87_pB7u9BYLPTC308Bsjru/s1600/cmas+2012+039.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8aNOO2V9KAtKl56AxqR2IZy5p9dvK7N-ht1Xlmou-buMMqU0DNnQJiIEHkdsHDDQ_j-Y0SVCzSA5Nr0KnlH4dgQ6iFS2RiQPseJtKPXMNC6DTHxx9CwmsMz87_pB7u9BYLPTC308Bsjru/s320/cmas+2012+039.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">heinous.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Don't style your bangs with your hair straightener though. No. You must give them a light curl with the curling iron. <br />
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Godz...I've almost forgotten quite how to do this!<br />
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Oh, curl your hair under and forward too, because you'll want to emphasize that haircut you got. You know--you told the hairdresser to only layer it in the front? Yeah. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqPE0-j7jCx4KsinlvbrGwxyQtZ6EInKbhh8qHMrc3Opg2KDiPdLnKvzpg94aVwSxYlA8yqI69Bqj8KTdjlPi5XUG2kaqxfQmCW41iWT42RWFwM_1Ckvbm4hvaEJzH9aHuTsCL1MVOA-pB/s1600/cmas+2012+040.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqPE0-j7jCx4KsinlvbrGwxyQtZ6EInKbhh8qHMrc3Opg2KDiPdLnKvzpg94aVwSxYlA8yqI69Bqj8KTdjlPi5XUG2kaqxfQmCW41iWT42RWFwM_1Ckvbm4hvaEJzH9aHuTsCL1MVOA-pB/s320/cmas+2012+040.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
Oh goody! Time to get dressed! Do you have any completely sheer polyester blouses with a little tank top to go underneath? How about a ribbed polyester shirt in a nice burgundy colour? Maybe a ribbed crop-top with a cowl neck? <br />
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WAIT! HOW ABOUT SOME VELVET?!? Yes! THAT'S THE TICKET!<br />
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Just for you people, I have put on my burgundy velvet dress, circa 1998. <br />
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Oh, and don't forget the jewellery. It must be as teeny tiny as possible. Some stupid, too-tight necklace with tiny little details and MATCHING earrings will do just fine. <br />
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Good thing I also kept some of that crap too. <br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggzjlfPBDc8EkCdHHbhNkTW_pWZ35YQwW70H0AR2-6EVAw13XCGGmy-U-tCC3Q5YgwQVy-zEg0b00Q3Zd9T9Dpiq6BbgzuDzQzqBZu9xs9490QTNr7Q9Olkr-0gTZ5KxAhj9OIfZjqldFP/s1600/cmas+2012+042.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggzjlfPBDc8EkCdHHbhNkTW_pWZ35YQwW70H0AR2-6EVAw13XCGGmy-U-tCC3Q5YgwQVy-zEg0b00Q3Zd9T9Dpiq6BbgzuDzQzqBZu9xs9490QTNr7Q9Olkr-0gTZ5KxAhj9OIfZjqldFP/s320/cmas+2012+042.jpg" width="239" /></a></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
There! You're all set! <br />
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NOW GO OUT AND BE THE 90'S STAR THAT YOU ARE!<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiheIb97bytku5UFnXtqcv1yRuOga2pnBNgOcYzhsnn2IjxP1DaTOSUtuFy_1-YTMcsWj1zyhnDMaOWMgchABHJyZvGx5fWwk0K15MGlwkVRNyEjISOL6z3J_ZjNjFEC4H1YzLh2zwHxMe6/s1600/grungekaren.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="323" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiheIb97bytku5UFnXtqcv1yRuOga2pnBNgOcYzhsnn2IjxP1DaTOSUtuFy_1-YTMcsWj1zyhnDMaOWMgchABHJyZvGx5fWwk0K15MGlwkVRNyEjISOL6z3J_ZjNjFEC4H1YzLh2zwHxMe6/s640/grungekaren.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>DIE GRUNGE, DIE!!!</b></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKk_CR1pHVFmaFl887sYugx1RBlQdR45b5fULUKMU6qrX5dPjBrsWTI99RR0YswCy1uSu7cnv6uqg9KPsL4eWweQWB-j5n-WI8coyb9DJDHTAJw5iVX_0k4peTQVcmgTbley6vYnoTpJs2/s1600/karenfriends2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="298" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKk_CR1pHVFmaFl887sYugx1RBlQdR45b5fULUKMU6qrX5dPjBrsWTI99RR0YswCy1uSu7cnv6uqg9KPsL4eWweQWB-j5n-WI8coyb9DJDHTAJw5iVX_0k4peTQVcmgTbley6vYnoTpJs2/s400/karenfriends2.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Hey, I'll be there for<b> YOU.</b></span></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6jy_1o5WRlJt4DTx2tvl2ZDJ_hwhWDag0x6ERQCFETe3a0y0P3jl3qwnXXWwS_-lc6TEEmWlGhD7d6lbnarjkoFRN3NuPE3tcOD4lznR3wQ2vhK0hsUv7q4FZFrqCVxhzN54RE4-JLExV/s1600/spice+karen.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6jy_1o5WRlJt4DTx2tvl2ZDJ_hwhWDag0x6ERQCFETe3a0y0P3jl3qwnXXWwS_-lc6TEEmWlGhD7d6lbnarjkoFRN3NuPE3tcOD4lznR3wQ2vhK0hsUv7q4FZFrqCVxhzN54RE4-JLExV/s400/spice+karen.JPG" width="380" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">SO TELL ME WHATCHA WANT, WATCHA REALLY, REALLY WANT</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdG25Kl7gz9OapXal3yrf7q90ghCfGTAwtkdmlOkVZ9UYsDC92_FC8G9ylbVeH7f2ySU5xIGnwPOoZUuykC1gJERxDHX0fsPJkgnjQ36LtTW_rnoakNfvNxQQy49ZBzjXYl5kSZUW2ldKS/s1600/pulp+karen.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="306" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdG25Kl7gz9OapXal3yrf7q90ghCfGTAwtkdmlOkVZ9UYsDC92_FC8G9ylbVeH7f2ySU5xIGnwPOoZUuykC1gJERxDHX0fsPJkgnjQ36LtTW_rnoakNfvNxQQy49ZBzjXYl5kSZUW2ldKS/s400/pulp+karen.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">It goes to show you NEVER can tell.</span> </td></tr>
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<br />karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com27tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-68540608038738274142012-12-28T18:57:00.000-05:002012-12-28T18:59:09.740-05:00OH JUST TRY IT ALREADY! Have I been slacking off here at angst land a little? Yes. Maybe. Perhaps. Noooooo....<br />
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whatever. <br />
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It <i>was </i>Christmas too...let's not forget <i>that</i>...<br />
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The point is, I've been happily, peacefully <a href="http://myboringlifeinpictures.blogspot.ca/2012/12/stupid-glitter.html" target="_blank">drawing really crappy cartoons with my computer mouse</a>, and a cheap program that comes with everyone's computer. And I've been laughing at my own stupid jokes. <br />
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Yes. <br />
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That is what I've been doing. <br />
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But, I want you guys to <a href="http://myboringlifeinpictures.blogspot.ca/" target="_blank">drop in too</a>! So, I cordially invite you to pop by my other, newer, fresher, more vibrant <a href="http://myboringlifeinpictures.blogspot.ca/" target="_blank">blog</a>. <br />
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No! Wait!<br />
<br />
I know what you're thinking--<i>not another new blog</i>, but this new one's okay, because unlike the old, super verbose one, this new one only takes you SECONDS to peruse and enjoy! THAT'S GOOD, RIGHT?!? <br />
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So please, won't you drop by <a href="http://myboringlifeinpictures.blogspot.ca/" target="_blank">my new blog</a>? I'm having so much fun over there, but I feel like there aren't many people at that party yet. Sniff! <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="http://myboringlifeinpictures.blogspot.ca/2012/12/christmas-is-exhausting.html" target="_blank"><img border="0" height="347" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg50VOAhoTn1mNQ9QwQnecxr0DYEqLxc4DwXb0vx0Ig4RAInLTct9bBTvFzg3gVxyhH2M8y73Q7yfZjU6ThJ9ngM_UtJ3wsRxnXXkgpTzgBGbFRGD_XaYm46iNgIEWWedaqpiWmfnozMCUm/s400/tired7.JPG" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://myboringlifeinpictures.blogspot.ca/2012/12/christmas-is-exhausting.html" target="_blank">My Boring Life In Pictures</a></td></tr>
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Shamelessly whoring myself for your love!<br />
Can't wait to see you there! <br />
xoxo<br />
<br />
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<br />karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com17tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-60993517569511083602012-12-18T11:34:00.000-05:002012-12-18T11:34:32.194-05:00Festiveness at karen's<br />
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Everyone! Look! I, karen the uninspired and uninspiring, made THE most fabulous, rustic Christmas-ish centrepiece! Hooray! <br />
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Okay, too many exlamation points. <br />
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I have this fabulous bowl/vase thingy with a bird motif on it, because I lurv birds. I got my girlie and The Man to go out and get me a bag of pine cones from a nearby park. I filled up the bowl with the pinecones, some cinnamon sticks, and some curls from the skin of a clementine. Then I set it on this crazy little silver dollar-store tray, added my little birdy buddy who I found in a thrift shop, chopped a branch off my golden cedar and VOILA, awesomeness. Oh, and I threw some oranges on the tray for colour.<br />
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You know you like it. <br />
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My mother in law was kind enough to give me a big hunk from her juniper bush. Apparently juniper is the good luck bush, and has some biblical significance, but I am NOT a bible person, so I'll leave that up to y'all to meditate upon. I like the Christmasy look of it. The smell is a cross between a Christmas tree and CAT PEE. HOORAY! <br />
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YOU CAN TIE A RIBBON AROUND ANYTHING AND MAKE IT FESTIVE, APPARENTLY.<br />
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That's a picture of my grandfather in Poland beside the juniper. <br />
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Oh! Everyone! Here's a romantic story for you! See those FAN-FREAKING-TASTIC rustic Santa stick guys in the square glass vase? WELL, one day I was looking at Christmas decoration stuff online, and came across a site that featured easy, do-it-yourself crafts. I freaked for the Santa sticks, and pleaded with The Man to make them for me. Then one night I went out Christmas shopping, and when I returned home, he surprised me with them. <br />
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He had sneakily collected some sticks at a nearby park one afternoon when he was out with the kids, and then he quickly painted them all up when I was out one night for a couple of hours. <br />
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ROMANCE AT MY AGE!<br />
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Damn, I love those crazy Santa sticks. <br />
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You have no idea.<br />
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At MY house, this year we fill the bowls with FRUIT, MOTHERF***ERS. <br />
THAT is how WE roll. <br />
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I don't know...it looks pretty, right? <br />
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Charming table of Santas. <br />
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Luckily, my son has stopped messing with the letters for fun. "LEON" does NOT spell "CHRISTMAS." <br />
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Oh Christmas tree, oh Christmas tree...<br />
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Do you know how much I lurv Santa?!? I FREAKING <b><i><u>HEART </u></i></b>SANTA. If someone gives me a card with Santa on it, that is GUARANTEED to be saved FOREVER. <br />
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I love you Santa! SNIFF! xoxoxo<br />
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I got this card a long time ago from a friend. It's a reproduction of a German postcard from the early 1900's. My son says he hates it because Santa looks like "a lady." <br />
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Whatever.<br />
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freaking Santa Claus....so awesome.<br />
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True story! I made this little clothes peg soldier when I was in grade 1. I concentrated so hard while I was painting it, that I didn't realise I'd painted the face sideways to the body. So, soldier buddy looks over his shoulder forever. This is not a big deal, but it IS so typically KAREN that it's a little bit painful. <br />
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suck it in....drink up all the Christmas...<br />
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o_P5TtZdWW0/UNB8BYvCRVI/AAAAAAAADsE/5dEBFPW1l94/s1600/HPIM2801.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-o_P5TtZdWW0/UNB8BYvCRVI/AAAAAAAADsE/5dEBFPW1l94/s400/HPIM2801.JPG" width="298" /></a></div>
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Stained glass Santa in the window<br />
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my poinsettia survived a whole year</div>
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hey! Any idiot can make RICE KRISPY SQUARES. </div>
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Why not make SUPER SQUARES?!? You know you want to try it.</div>
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<br />
yummy...<br />
<br />
<br />
<b><u><span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">karen's Super Squares</span></u></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">5 cups of HEALTHY cereal. NO glucose fructose, damn it! </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> ( I used: 2 cups honey nut cheerios</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 2 cups bran flakes</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> 1 cup organic bite-sized whole wheat )</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">5 cups marshmallows</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1/4 cup butter</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1 cup salted peanuts</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">1/2 cup chocolate chips</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">on medium heat, melt butter and marshmallows in a large pan</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">when that goo is melted, remove from heat and add cereals and stir quickly. Then add peanuts and chocolate chips and stir till combined.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">dump into a buttered 9x11 baking dish and press down to fit. When cooled, cut and use your hands to lightly mold them into rough, sticky balls. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Seriously--everyone loved them, and they are crammed with fibre. </span><br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vKU8uUh2fxE/UNB76KSlZpI/AAAAAAAADrg/hYu-34GMmyo/s1600/HPIM2786.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-vKU8uUh2fxE/UNB76KSlZpI/AAAAAAAADrg/hYu-34GMmyo/s400/HPIM2786.JPG" width="297" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Happy Holidays, everyone!</span></div>
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karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-82760328886317982932012-12-14T14:43:00.001-05:002012-12-17T14:13:53.362-05:00Christmas Goodies For Me And Amateurish Carols For You!Recently, my new bloggy friend Kelly had a giveaway. <br />
Actually, she's already had two giveaways, because she's not a total cheap-ass like I am, but whatever. And, because, somehow, the whole world has yet to discover how lovely and charming she is, and she's new to the blog-o-sphere, she only had three followers at the time of her first giveaway, and two of those followers entered the contest. I was one of the two.<br />
<br />
And THAT my friends, is the only way I am ever going to be able to win ANYTHING. <br />
<br />
BOO YAH!<br />
<br />
No, actually, that is not true. Even with only two people entering a contest, I am quite certain that I still would have lost. But, Kelly's husband said that because there were just two of us, we both should win, so,<br />
<br />
BOO YAH.<br />
<br />
Who doesn't like getting packages in the mail?!? I LOVE packages!!! Make jokes about love of PACKAGES on your own time. <br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2J_rYWU1zFExlGhvjCnZGckFvyw4QSVxU-YgBgqVC64wW16Mtf2nRD9N82Ze_zprikq3O3lWdUWZZ0Ft0GXk5-emg2Na9PqzZGS_ilfcbqeCYYi6ADI12SVI3J7kV3vE9b74E-zhvtgGI/s1600/gitch+model+with+package.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2J_rYWU1zFExlGhvjCnZGckFvyw4QSVxU-YgBgqVC64wW16Mtf2nRD9N82Ze_zprikq3O3lWdUWZZ0Ft0GXk5-emg2Na9PqzZGS_ilfcbqeCYYi6ADI12SVI3J7kV3vE9b74E-zhvtgGI/s1600/gitch+model+with+package.JPG" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">the package says "urgent shipment", <i>hur hur hur</i>...</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
Aherm.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
So, finally, my package arrived! EXCITEMENT!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGwa_Tju3IOI481NX07W4yp94cThVojF9S07hPnhep-3APPBM6mYzanpLTMIFXFp_1NR70VNaTX-a8QS0PH4TMaS1dF6XykCIzylb15jjDkmyHGFkROsw-GDUTNR5NBRaC9cl79qUY3iQ/s1600/HPIM3317.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiGwa_Tju3IOI481NX07W4yp94cThVojF9S07hPnhep-3APPBM6mYzanpLTMIFXFp_1NR70VNaTX-a8QS0PH4TMaS1dF6XykCIzylb15jjDkmyHGFkROsw-GDUTNR5NBRaC9cl79qUY3iQ/s320/HPIM3317.JPG" width="317" /></a></div>
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Damn STRAIGHT, "CONGRATULATIONS!" <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgGPtKeSgLvRQohUcLM-djX877UulWADtMnvxLG1lKAk9RD_buq6fbIh-scIeatWh-SEnZ0cer0H78-X_ZQWRqvE5TmOOjO48Sgw4Kped0z5zNVvRS9Et5aqxlmnqYy2dHC5tR6Ch_hd3D/s1600/HPIM3314.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="239" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgGPtKeSgLvRQohUcLM-djX877UulWADtMnvxLG1lKAk9RD_buq6fbIh-scIeatWh-SEnZ0cer0H78-X_ZQWRqvE5TmOOjO48Sgw4Kped0z5zNVvRS9Et5aqxlmnqYy2dHC5tR6Ch_hd3D/s320/HPIM3314.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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HOORAY FOR PACKAGES! OH LOOKEE! TWO PACKAGES! The second box came straight from Melton Mowbray England, home of the famous pork pie. <i>The Man</i> loves <i>The Pork Pie</i> better than he loves me, perhaps. My brother is currently obsessed with making pies: meat pies, fruit pies, pot pies, <a href="http://britishfood.about.com/od/cakesandbaking/r/cornishpasty.htm" target="_blank">Cornish pasties</a>, and because he is the freak that he is, he even found this online tutorial to make a real Melton Mowbray pork pie for The Man's birthday. But, he didn't have a "pie dolly" to make one, which is a hunk of wood that you form the crust around and...<br />
<br />
oh shit, that's boring. In the box is a wooden <a href="https://www.google.ca/search?q=pie+dolly&hl=en&tbo=d&rlz=1C2AFAB_enCA446CA455&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ei=uC_KUMCtOIizrQGgwoDIDA&ved=0CAQQ_AUoAA&biw=1360&bih=673" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">pie dolly</a> from England. Nuff said. <br />
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But here's what <u style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">I </u> got!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqp-1A_9e7N7d_saGxAbD-siX-MENwxpSJZFDkcQE-NbU0cToxxKmqiZdrmpoRG9asltLuHgk7e_xXtiJifnB-CIQ9ER6aeQsIHFmsdVGUH0_7O2mFlKFgRNBj8iPZUZg4i-WeZRaHKxjE/s1600/HPIM3315.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="297" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqp-1A_9e7N7d_saGxAbD-siX-MENwxpSJZFDkcQE-NbU0cToxxKmqiZdrmpoRG9asltLuHgk7e_xXtiJifnB-CIQ9ER6aeQsIHFmsdVGUH0_7O2mFlKFgRNBj8iPZUZg4i-WeZRaHKxjE/s400/HPIM3315.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
- a fab little tube of Sephora perfecting eye primer, and a little kit of Sephora lip glosses in various sparkly, lick-me colours,<br />
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- a tube of amazing "Soap And Glory" hand-lotion, that turns dish-pan hands into SOFT dish-pan hands!<br />
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- some super-dark chocolate triangles and pink Himalayan salt from Trader Joe's<br />
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and some sketch pads and pencil crayons for the kids.<br />
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YAAAAY!<br />
<br />
And do you know what? We do not have this mythical, magical store known as TRADER JOE'S here, so that is super duper cool.<br />
<br />
Thank you Kelly, Christmas came early!<br />
<br />
There! Wasn't that nice?!? YES! IT WAS RIDICULOUSLY NICE! <br />
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Thus, in the spirit of GIVING, I am going to give a gift to you people. It is a crappy, grainy, amateurish video of me singing the karaoke version of one of my favourite Christmas songs. <br />
<br />
You must ignore my mugging and crowing and pay attention instead to the general background CHAOS that I live with on a daily basis. Yes, it is a small sampling of my life here in ANGST LAND. You will be relieved to know that The Man is having a TICKLE fest with the children, and is not pulling legs off, as one might imagine. And yes, that is my son screeching at me to "STOP SINGING" at one point.<br />
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Who says I never give you anything?!? MWAH!<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dzCqK0U2MkvrNszC_Pbx2SDLF9e-_bJSf26sUAswIQ-lxWLDKf3zEfP-spRlVBqMoA6LwDHKysUOMs0p7TTfA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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Oh yeah...I suppose I should say that I do not own the rights to this song, and blah blah, I don't intend to use it for money making purposes, or re-distribution, or anything like that, and as far as I know, it's still legal to sing a song you like in this country. <br />
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There. All better? <br />
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Happy caroling my friends!!<br />
<br />
<b><i>**</i>Update:<i> Sorry everyone, but you won't be able to find Kelly's blog. Due to personal reasons, Kelly had to delete it. So, I removed the link. Sniff! </i></b>karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com25tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-8081762581089495892012-12-10T14:41:00.000-05:002012-12-10T14:41:18.962-05:00Oh Hormones, You Suck FOREVERI don't talk about PMS too much anymore, do I?<br />
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I don't think I do at least. Remember when y'all were so sick of hearing about my period, and the PMS that preceded it, and all my problems with the lady paraphernalia we have to choose from during my Lady Tsunami? <br />
<br />
Ah...the good old days. <br />
<br />
Well, I used to suffer so much from PMS. In fact, I suffered so much that I learned from my bloggy buddies that it was more than your garden-variety, run-of-the-mill PMS. It was actually PREMENSTRUAL DYSPHORIC DISORDER! Hooray for disorders! Actually, boo. <br />
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On the side bar of my blog, there are always links to my posts about trying to conquer the PMS monster. I found a good, over-the-counter herbal supplement at my local health-food store, and that thing changed my life. Instead of having two solid weeks of either wanting to die, wanting to kill someone with strangling hands, or wanting to eat chocolate with cheese melted on top, I had just a few days peppered here and there throughout the two weeks leading up to my period. <br />
<br />
Improvement! <br />
<br />
But, I have to let you guys in on a little secret: I haven't taken that supplement in MONTHS. Why? I'm an idiot? Maybe. But in this case, no. I found something that works as well as the supplement. You're not going to like it. I don't like it. But, I'll tell you anyway:<br />
<br />
EXERCISE. <br />
<br />
(and slightly disheartening, but very healthy changes in diet)<br />
<br />
Frigging exercise. Yes, I find exercise fairly unpleasant, but I am going to unapologetically tell you that exercise has improved my life dramatically. I actually have a libido now. A freaking libido. I haven't seen that guy since I was in my 20's. <br />
<br />
Ew. You don't need to know this. <br />
<br />
Also, I have all-day energy. All day. Well, with the exception of that black-hole time of day between 4 and 5 PM when I have to swirl some crap together in a pan and transform it into dinner, when all I want to do is have a NAP. <br />
<br />
I found that diet and exercise manage my PMDD as well as the supplement.<br />
<br />
But<br />
<br />
there are still those tricky two weeks leading up to my period. I'm not so filled with rage for fourteen days anymore. I still get three days of pure, she-hulk anger though. I hate that. <br />
<br />
And then, there's my favourite: the apathy. I don't give a crap about anything for two weeks. I want to be left mostly alone for two weeks. I don't even sign in to my blog for two weeks. I don't want to write anything. When my sister says; "when the hell are you going to do another blog post?!?" I say "pppfft...someday when I FEEL like it again." I don't want to email anyone. I can't even reply to the email you might have sent me. Libido dries up COMPLETELY. I just want to be left in my peaceful, vegetative state. <br />
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This month has been a bad one. Do you know what it's like to have PMS while living in a house with a high-functioning/probably has Aspergers son? It's HORRENDOUS. The kid has PMS RADAR. He can tell the second I am less than my usual, crusty but lovable self. He needs me to be his emotional weighted blanket. All. The. Time. You'll have to google "weighted blanket" yerself. <br />
<br />
And when I'm not the emotional ROCK that my son needs, he is relentless. He badgers me. He taunts me. He is sarcastic. He mocks me. He pushes me until I snap. This month was really bad, because I had four days of the worst PMS I've had in a long, long time, with debilitating anger and frustration. By Monday night, my little guy had broken me, and I was sobbing against The Man's chest. And then, The Man was doing the dishes, and sending me off to Zellers. I went too, with my red-cry face and bags under my eyes. Hard days. <br />
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I have noticed that around the same time every month, I get a message from my lovely friend <a href="http://laughingmyabsoff.blogspot.ca/" target="_blank">Sherilin</a>, basically asking where I've "disappeared" to. Warms the cockles of my heart. <br />
<br />
And then there's my new bloggy friend <a href="http://nittygrittymomma.blogspot.ca/" target="_blank">Kelly</a>. Seriously--why aren't you reading <a href="http://nittygrittymomma.blogspot.ca/" target="_blank">Kelly</a>? I love her writing, and her raw honesty. But I'll be talking about Kelly more in my next post. Anyhoo, in one of Kelly's posts, she mentions how losing weight is a struggle [for her personally] because thanks to her hormones and such, she only loses weight for two weeks out of the month. Well, my jaw dropped. A lightbulb went on. It was a freaking EPIPHANY. <br />
<br />
When I hear about people losing weight, it seems to me that they tend to lose it much faster than I do. I would puzzle over this, knowing that I bust my ass every day with exercise, and am so well-behaved with my eating, that it's ridiculous. But, then it's two weeks before RED BUDDY, and suddenly I order The Man: GO OUT AND GET CHOCOLATE." I have to have some junk food. I become the crack-whore of junk food. I can't get it off my mind. I must have it. And even though I still exercise every day, I can feel the wheels of progress grind to a hault. <br />
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Oh, but please don't think I'm trying to say that Kelly has PMDD too. I'm saying that some of us just have EXTRA good fun with our bodies. <br />
<br />
Great story karen. What's the point? HORMONES. No matter what I do, I have reconciled myself to the fact that this is who I am. I suffer from Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder, and this is just my life. I will never take prescription medicine to deal with it, so this is pretty much just who I am. It's comforting, in an ironic way, to know this, because it's so damn difficult to understand our SELVES.<br />
<br />
So, to all you other girls out there who are MISSING IN ACTION fifty percent of your life, just know that I'm right there with you. <br />
<br />
...but email me about it AFTER my period. Thanks. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-2219478655273587292012-11-30T14:14:00.001-05:002012-11-30T19:34:51.143-05:00Oh my god. Remember THIS?!?Do you REMEMBER all the Prince protegés in the 80's?!? <br />
Too much.<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/bfLZfyphg0M?rel=0" width="420"></iframe>
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<br />
So sad everyone: "Vanity" had to quit the group in 1984, so she was replaced by Appolonia. Come on--you remember Appolonia:<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/4Qvs1a1Xuzw?rel=0" width="420"></iframe>
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Is that not HORRID?!? Come ON! You have to watch a few seconds of it.
My favourite though, of all the girls Prince "created" was Sheila E. She was so cool when she hit those drums:<br />
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<br />
<br />
<iframe allowfullscreen="allowfullscreen" frameborder="0" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/XeJLZi0uyJw?rel=0" width="420"></iframe><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
She had the other girls beat, because even though she might have been wearing a teddy, she could sing AND play the drums.
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://userserve-ak.last.fm/serve/252/36422149.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Vanity 6 </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="400" src="http://cdn102.iofferphoto.com/img3/item/478/610/895/l_apollonia-6-2419.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Appalonia 6 (<a href="http://ioffer.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">source</a>)<br />
note the teddy bear<br />
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</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://imgc.allpostersimages.com/images/P-473-488-90/59/5967/1A5QG00Z/posters/apollonia-kotero.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://allposters.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
you know you lurv it
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img height="400" src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSfurrMX0Y33GJHhFF3BH-3fgvVunGbly0SFk9eqWwLlBmTx_Ky" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="283" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://tumblr.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank">source</a></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
oh, and don't forget about Prince...
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSZoHvz-69HbjapO-2vI3-l3KqeeP9cP_bCPNVBPX59nlFjVE5VRg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">this was "sexy" in the 80's</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
Don't you miss all that lacy, lingerie CHEESE? Oh, the 80's. <span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;">I want to know which of you had PURPLE RAIN style. </span></div>
karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com24tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-67820888858310424182012-11-27T10:05:00.000-05:002012-11-27T10:05:14.012-05:00The Weekend After I Found Out I Wasn't Going To CroakYeah, yeah. You people think I'm soooooo virtuous. You think that all I do is walk around like a militant anti-junkfood despot. You think it's all salads and antioxidants here. <br />
<br />
Well, I have news for you: I'm not a total robot! Yeah, I avoid as much processed food as possible, and yes I am militant about fructose and I never ever have artificial sweeteners, and I exercise 6 days a week and blah blah. <br />
<br />
But...last Friday after a month of stress, I found out my hooter didn't have a tumor in it....and....and well....<br />
<br />
I drew it for you.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
So...right after I found out that the little bumple they biopsied in my hooter was benign, I was soooooooo happy and relieved. So was The Man. He decided we should immediately celebrate. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2bqnEAMgKKfBSaROwL2L62yh-RS1VOBrwNFO23LVw6qIS-SIHx5IYLyxdlHKsDJMIYvLAEhFRg3hJTKAc9t7wrrTYP6n0_ZkiMfH5yxAV2s5-okkMd9sRZVrNycg9twmaPaahM-Vakuzv/s1600/celebration+weekend1.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2bqnEAMgKKfBSaROwL2L62yh-RS1VOBrwNFO23LVw6qIS-SIHx5IYLyxdlHKsDJMIYvLAEhFRg3hJTKAc9t7wrrTYP6n0_ZkiMfH5yxAV2s5-okkMd9sRZVrNycg9twmaPaahM-Vakuzv/s320/celebration+weekend1.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br />
I NEVER get coffee and a donut. I mean, I make coffee at home, but...well, whatever.<br />
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<br />
Then he thought we should REALLY celebrate! HOORAY FOR TAKEOUT FOOD!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3OJ9bwr5KMWK-ULiaT5NUiAlN42pnNL-58A75wEydPOyVkfpaC-fO3ZmHmPQZLQi16u-QBLucGOyojp9eQIDhqTfAczJpZnNtyqHyoFLGF2OOqMfci3ZgbPJJcPsmhB9U25ZaqzIo0LDM/s1600/celebration+weekend2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="265" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3OJ9bwr5KMWK-ULiaT5NUiAlN42pnNL-58A75wEydPOyVkfpaC-fO3ZmHmPQZLQi16u-QBLucGOyojp9eQIDhqTfAczJpZnNtyqHyoFLGF2OOqMfci3ZgbPJJcPsmhB9U25ZaqzIo0LDM/s320/celebration+weekend2.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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Saturday. The Man bought these chocolate croissant thingies. I never get too horny for store-bought goodies, but whatever. I'd give it a try with my morning coffee.<br />
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Ermahgerd.<br />
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<br />
Crack. It was chocolate pastry crack.<br />
<br />
<br />
Later I was checking the pathetic, run-down state of our near-empty liquor cabinet. Mon dieu! What's a liquor cabinet if you don't even have the ingredients to make a CRUSTY WIFE! <i>(you can find the recipe <a href="http://karensomethingorother.blogspot.ca/2010/12/how-i-went-down-toilet-after-christmas.html" target="_blank">HERE</a>) </i><br />
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So, I told The Man that he was simply going to have to fork out some big bucks to re-stock that cabinet.<br />
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<br />
<br />
And then, when he got back from the liquor store, it was like freaking CHRISTMAS<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW35XeRTfiCEDaE1mDGu3qddjp0fPhREw0aqhzYgY9Il7iMfemgSAsWCqI7c4fB0UETQkA6X1oQzzCpdsWsVJRTcD-ly43VvicmYV7MfKMgxupa_StHpSPvLxXT6kTDOr6FKA26TO7BaTI/s1600/celebration+weekend6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhW35XeRTfiCEDaE1mDGu3qddjp0fPhREw0aqhzYgY9Il7iMfemgSAsWCqI7c4fB0UETQkA6X1oQzzCpdsWsVJRTcD-ly43VvicmYV7MfKMgxupa_StHpSPvLxXT6kTDOr6FKA26TO7BaTI/s400/celebration+weekend6.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br />
Then my dad came over for late afternoon cocktails. Do you people know how long it's been since I've had a RYE AND COKE?!? DO YOU KNOW???? NO! HOW COULD YOU POSSIBLY KNOW?!? YOU HAVE NO IDEA!!!!!<br />
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<br />
WHISKY AND COKE GOOOD....SOO, SOOOOO GOOOOOOD...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6eVMyNrk6OaIfgGoi0sIwSZB_Lc-EWWelN3YYrcUoKD0_bRIx7qS7hmNyLsChIGP99TDtfjAdloTVi-eJI4PlEKPLTV6SXXygwShEKllpWQislJcWCT8dOxZ01ZkncrigVccKapCghp0x/s1600/celebration+weekend8.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="313" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh6eVMyNrk6OaIfgGoi0sIwSZB_Lc-EWWelN3YYrcUoKD0_bRIx7qS7hmNyLsChIGP99TDtfjAdloTVi-eJI4PlEKPLTV6SXXygwShEKllpWQislJcWCT8dOxZ01ZkncrigVccKapCghp0x/s400/celebration+weekend8.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<br />
Perhaps a little too good...<br />
<br />
<br />
Well, if you've been spending time socializing and enjoying cocktails, you certainly don't have time to make dinner. Luckily The Man is RESOURCEFUL!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbGOKbwll3UlIE1wUMLEMi0XifQj15nwAXQOxFwznDkizZmNw2spMJ6o8kBtr3FXiE04h5GeVQxqm1hocr-SxFstE62xeK0Sn1yLvVMsXmm4Zx1GuUiK0abBYJLM42ngVkXWBDFJnfVaDW/s1600/celebration+weekend9.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="331" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhbGOKbwll3UlIE1wUMLEMi0XifQj15nwAXQOxFwznDkizZmNw2spMJ6o8kBtr3FXiE04h5GeVQxqm1hocr-SxFstE62xeK0Sn1yLvVMsXmm4Zx1GuUiK0abBYJLM42ngVkXWBDFJnfVaDW/s400/celebration+weekend9.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
<br />
Yeah! HELL YEAH! WHY NOT? I'M ALIVE! <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibM-QffYAEnXWRwXxJmL00OFKYkI6pbPsgCek6qdcG3nVuGO9QzvYxDwILcbzos2OEYMl0qwCyXdCReA6wiKkPhujijrVLTPTsUNOwHXYp5C7926w42h7MZe1DTsnWGE8xoDlZwayN1i1c/s1600/celebration+weekend10.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="315" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibM-QffYAEnXWRwXxJmL00OFKYkI6pbPsgCek6qdcG3nVuGO9QzvYxDwILcbzos2OEYMl0qwCyXdCReA6wiKkPhujijrVLTPTsUNOwHXYp5C7926w42h7MZe1DTsnWGE8xoDlZwayN1i1c/s400/celebration+weekend10.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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By Sunday I didn't feel good anymore. At all. <br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0iASZ9s8cJ4v9CEnaC6Jk91MRIHXCXehDZujxmqndO3mktJ_aYTKRR0lBpOC_eHHcjtNvR3V6_FUeJSGTibwdO2LhgDm1W2bLPcBcECKEu6tQlPxK6IiUEVDFqzPlVXRf85Rzy92KI91Q/s1600/celebration+weekend11.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0iASZ9s8cJ4v9CEnaC6Jk91MRIHXCXehDZujxmqndO3mktJ_aYTKRR0lBpOC_eHHcjtNvR3V6_FUeJSGTibwdO2LhgDm1W2bLPcBcECKEu6tQlPxK6IiUEVDFqzPlVXRf85Rzy92KI91Q/s400/celebration+weekend11.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg548D5IWRADS91-B8UvfnOc-kiJAyvQ3HhVnK7gdWRWGkiSVVy2MOTRpVussTmo51EuoMbU5U-OP42FCNXVm54lyTgHjvG_a_h-DaQyoJJAGnkwI6P1zHDvPdeo3JBNQAh41NVETWjY1pr/s1600/celebration+weekend12.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="291" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg548D5IWRADS91-B8UvfnOc-kiJAyvQ3HhVnK7gdWRWGkiSVVy2MOTRpVussTmo51EuoMbU5U-OP42FCNXVm54lyTgHjvG_a_h-DaQyoJJAGnkwI6P1zHDvPdeo3JBNQAh41NVETWjY1pr/s400/celebration+weekend12.JPG" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-25411358936805832252012-11-23T13:58:00.004-05:002012-11-23T13:58:51.302-05:00Boob Saga Part 6 - DIAGNOSIS<object classid="clsid:D27CDB6E-AE6D-11cf-96B8-444553540000" height="40" id="gsSong3350809571" name="gsSong3350809571" width="250"><param name="movie" value="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" /><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=33508095&style=grass&p=0" /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://grooveshark.com/songWidget.swf" width="250" height="40"><param name="wmode" value="window" /><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always" /><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=grooveshark.com&songID=33508095&style=grass&p=0" /><span><a href="http://grooveshark.com/search/song?q=Anjulie%20Brand%20New%20Chick" title="Brand New Chick by Anjulie on Grooveshark">Brand New Chick by Anjulie on Grooveshark</a></span></object></object>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGGtjMTeN7F5UlIv8ShiigwCSoIbUpoaTedtCKRZ-wWs0zZHwD8sI40aktg9C7DadtFD9TqJTQAp5mjzuhXdQzVJeCaeru9dGHxVCDC2hH78Kq9ksy4MqklkN6sHVPoYe28wXgvVV0l9jT/s1600/very+happy.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="550" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGGtjMTeN7F5UlIv8ShiigwCSoIbUpoaTedtCKRZ-wWs0zZHwD8sI40aktg9C7DadtFD9TqJTQAp5mjzuhXdQzVJeCaeru9dGHxVCDC2hH78Kq9ksy4MqklkN6sHVPoYe28wXgvVV0l9jT/s640/very+happy.JPG" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b><span style="color: red;">B </span><span style="color: #e69138;">E </span><span style="color: #f1c232;">N </span><span style="color: #38761d;">I </span><span style="color: #3d85c6;">G </span><span style="color: #674ea7;">N </span><span style="color: #351c75;">!</span></b></span></div>
<br />karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com47tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-62961070497038839812012-11-20T09:45:00.005-05:002012-11-20T09:45:50.648-05:00The Book That RUINED My Less Healthy LifeRemember the good old days? <br />
<br />
I do. <br />
<br />
It would be a Saturday night. I'd be comfy cozy on the couch. For some reason, there's this one angelic TV station that has been having Saturday night Sex & The City marathons for months and months and months. And you know, no matter how many times I've seen those episodes, I never, ever get sick of them.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="http://suitesculturelles.files.wordpress.com/2011/03/sex-and-the-city.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I will never, ever get sick of you. I don't care what<br />ANYONE says! SNIFF!<br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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Except for that season when Carrie dated Berger. Blech. I hated Berger. <br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcSlq_wk4-aL1fz5i445L7p4iPgEjBFc2IJm9HaoYGUXPDN60lKC" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">hey! I was so whiny and douchy and unappealing on the<br />
show that S&TC fans can't stand me in ANYTHING<br />
now! Now <i>THAT'S </i>good acting!</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
Yeah. Any season except the one with Berger in it. But then, I also hate when Carrie dated the politician who wanted her to pee on him...<br />
<br />
Wait.. what was I talking about? <br />
<br />
Oh yeah...the former life of a juicier, less concerned karen.<br />
<br />
It would be Saturday night, I'd be all cozy on the couch with a giant bag of Doritos on my lap, and a rye and coke at my right, ice melting gently into the delicious, fizzy goodness. That's right: cramming orangey red corn triangles down my yap and washing it down with DELICIOUS POISON. <br />
<br />
But no. Not anymore. <br />
<br />
Last March I got into torturous, de-humanizing circuit training exercise dvd's. And then, on a whim, I signed this book out from the library:<br />
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AND IT WAS F*CKING HORRIFYING. <br />
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And I ranted the hell out of what I learned in <a href="http://karensomethingorother.blogspot.ca/2012/10/at-war-with-shitty-food.html" target="_blank">THIS POST</a>. Cuz I was FURIOUS.<br />
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*For the record, you should be furious too, because even though you're probably trying to be healthy with what you buy from the grocery store, chances are you are being SABOTAGED, and we're all bombarded by all the shit they put--not just in our food--in our bath washes, and that stuff they put on couches and rugs to make it stain-resistant and the awful plastics that are used for EVERYTHING AND<br />
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Okay, nevermind. You guys didn't get furious the first time, so I'll just keep my fury to myself and hope that at least a few people empower themselves from the evil powers that be, and try to rid themselves of as many toxins as possible. <br />
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Oh yeah! Doritos! Well, the thing is, I found out that Doritos has SIX DIFFERENT GLUTAMATES in it. Sure, you've heard of Monosodium Glutamate, or MSG, right? Ooo...bad...avoid MSG! Yeah, and just imagine: those chips that I loved so much I composed a <a href="http://karensomethingorother.blogspot.ca/2011/12/carol-of-doritos.html" target="_blank">frigging SONG</a> about them? They have SIX of those bastards. <br />
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And glutamates are BAD! If you consume enough of them, they actually damage your brain. <br />
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TASTY!<br />
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Dig this shit:<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #4d4d4d; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">The third most used flavor enhancer in North American food, after salt and pepper, is a drug. Glutamic acid, most commonly found in the form monosodium glutamate (MSG) is classified as a food additive by both the Health Canada and the US Food and Drug Administration. It is actually drug-like in its effects, despite attempts by both government and industry to convince us otherwise. </span><br style="background-color: white; color: #4d4d4d; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><br style="background-color: white; color: #4d4d4d; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;" /><span style="background-color: white; color: #4d4d4d; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">Everyone is susceptible to the toxic effects of glutamates. Glutamate is the most common neurotransmitter in the brain; that is, it is responsible for transporting chemical signals from neuron to neuron. To do this job, glutamate is rapidly released in minute quantities and then rapidly re-absorbed. If there is a high level of glutamates in the bloodstream, glutamate can enter the brain and cause the neurons to misfire, causing physical and psychological problems, and in extreme cases, permanent damage. </span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4d4d4d; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;"><br /></span>
<span style="background-color: white; color: #4d4d4d; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 20px;">(from <a href="http://www.alive.com/articles/view/16543/all_glutamates_are_not_created_equal" target="_blank">All Glutamates Are Not Created Equal</a> )</span><br />
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And I know what you're thinking: karen's such a DOWNER now. She's all <i>nutrition this</i> and <i>nutrition that</i> and I just want to eat my greasy fries and not have her harping on me like someone's hellish mother<br />
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DAMN RIGHT I'M GOING TO HARP! That shit's f*cked up! And now that I know all about it, I can't eat it any longer!!! I haven't had Doritos in MONTHS!<br />
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And as for that delicious rye and coke? I love whisky! I want to marry it! Come on! You've seen the <a href="http://karensomethingorother.blogspot.ca/2011/04/its-weekend-btches.html" target="_blank">ridiculous whisky love festival</a>, right?!?<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://karensomethingorother.blogspot.ca/2011/04/its-weekend-btches.html" target="_blank">JUST CLICK HERE</a></td></tr>
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Yeah. I lurved whisky. I still LURV IT. It hates me though. I didn't read anything scary about whisky. I mean, booze in general is bad, and if you're a lady and you have more than two measly drinks per day, you raise your risk of getting breast cancer ridiculously, but har har, whatever. <br />
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My problem was <a href="http://karensomethingorother.blogspot.ca/2011/04/on-weddings-and-3-am-super-sonic.html" target="_blank">waking up with a racing heart</a>. Yes, and when you're up at 3 in the morning, and you're fervently praying not to die, and you're NOT EVEN RELIGIOUS FOR CRAP'S SAKE, then there is something very wrong, my friends. <br />
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So, do you know what I eat now on Saturday nights? Or most nights for that matter, unless demon PMS wraps her cold, dead hands around my neck, starts to squeeze and hisses EAT SOMETHING OR I WILL KILL YOU...<br />
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Do you know what I eat now?<br />
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Nothing. A big, shitty plate of nothing. <br />
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Because I read that if I eat before bed, my body is sooo busy pumping out insulin to mop that shit up that I can't produce enough growth hormone while I'm sleeping to look healthy. Is this even true? PROBABLY, but the point is<br />
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I'm like THIS NOW<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">PLUG ME BACK IN! <br /><i><b><span style="font-size: large;">PLUG ME BACK INNNNNNNN!!!!!</span></b></i><br /><br /></td></tr>
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THAT'S <i><b>RIGHT</b></i>! I'm freaking NEO from The Matrix now! I've just been cut out of my nice, warm, slimy pod of blissful ignorance, shot down a dirty tube into a river of sludge called <b>REALITY</b>, and now I'm in <b>REALITY</b>, which in the movie is called Zion, and everyone else is still plugged in to the <b>LIE </b>and they're eating their Doritos and sucking down their HIGH FRUCTOSE CORN SYRUP, and washing themselves with gorgeously scented chemical-laden bath washes, and it's sunny, and they wear cool clothes and they're HAPPY but nooooo not me....<br />
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I'm in ZION wearing RAGS and eating HEALTHY GRUEL and drinking bullshit cocktails with real juice instead of pop<br />
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AND MY GOD...I CAN'T EVEN HAVE COFFEE MATE ANY LONGER! IT HAS TRANS FATS AND A WHOLE SLEW OF HORRIBLE INGREDIENTS! AND I LOVE COFFEE MATE! IT MAKES COFFEE CREAMY IN A WAY THAT FRIGGING CREAM NEVER CAN<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>AND IT SUCKS! SOMETIMES IT <i>SUCKS</i>. <i>SO</i>. <u><i>HARD</i></u>.</b></span></div>
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I do feel pretty damn good though.<br />
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But damn, it sucks so hard. <br />
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<br />karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com31tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7954083667216359005.post-46766054547122849062012-11-17T11:03:00.001-05:002012-11-17T11:03:40.064-05:00Boob Saga Part 5 - The BIOPSYSo! If you've missed the story, or whatever, just click the label "breast saga" at the bottom of this post.<br />
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On Thursday, after much bullshittery and phone tag and such, I went for my biopsy. <br />
I was unaware that Monday November 12 was a holiday for some and not for others. Who knew that some people still got a day off for Remembrance Day? This pissed me off, and I fired off a letter to the Prime Minister, because seriously--am I not important enough to mourn our veterans?!?<br />
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And incidentally, after I was reminded so many times that it was a holiday, all I could picture was a Friday afternoon hospital office filled with workers wearing party hats, drinking cocktails and dancing in a conga line to loud Spanish music. In the meantime, faxes are pouring through for procedures for sick people, and they're falling on the floor as everyone screams LONG WEEKEND! HOLLA!<br />
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Don't get all mad at me if you're a hospital worker. I don't really believe this happened and I know you work hard. I was just feeling sorry for myself, OKAY?!?<br />
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But whatever. The point is, it was a long weekend, and I was told at least four (f*cking) times that because last weekend was a STAT HOLIDAY, things got backed up, and even though they submitted my request for a biopsy LAST FRIDAY, it was A HOLIDAY, so haw haw, you know how it goes. And even thought it was TUESDAY and I'd heard nothing about my biopsy appointment, I might not hear from the receptionist at the specialist's until THURSDAY because she was only there until NOON on Wednesday. <br />
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Did this deter KAREN? Hellz no. Be PERSISTENT, ladies. I was on that phone. I was that lady's new best friend. And lo and behold! I got me my appointment. Nevermind that my x-rays were sitting on the radiologist's desk and he wasn't even planning on looking at them until FRIDAY but the specialist I saw for the consultation got on HIS ASS and bottom line<br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><b>COME TOMORROW AT 10:00. BE THERE FOR 9:30. NO BREAKFAST. </b></span><br />
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GAH! That was the call I got on Wednesday. It may take a while to get through the system, but every time they've called me back finally it's been all COME TOMORROW or COME TODAY...and do you know what that creates, people?<br />
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INSTANT DIARRHEA. <br />
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But did you need to know that? No. <br />
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So, this past Thursday, I grumbled and wondered why the hell I couldn't eat anything?!? In case I hurl on the table? I was allowed to eat when they poked my thyroid! Sniff, sniff!<br />
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Anyhoo....<br />
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I was super nervous as I walked with my dad into the hospital. Jelly legs and all.<br />
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Then I waited in the waiting room for not very long at all, before I was called in to get changed into one of those gorgeous blue robe thingies. At least at the hospital they actually COVER your hoots. Yeah, I'm talking to YOU, Dr. Specialist.<br />
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Then I had to go lie down on the bed in the ultrasound room, which was FREEZING and wait a few moments for the radiologist to come in, as he would be the one doing the biopsy, with an ultrasound technician to help. <br />
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Waiting was HIDEOUS, and I wished like crazy that I'd taken my last <a href="http://karensomethingorother.blogspot.ca/2012/05/that-magic-pill.html">MAGIC PILL</a> that morning. STUPID KAREN! STUPID!<br />
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FINALLY, the doctor arrived, and he thought it would be all helpful and shit to explain EXACTLY what he would be doing: wash the area, mark the area, freeze the area, make a small incision, insert the needle/chompy thingy that would take off bits of tissue for samples and...<br />
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<i>SMALL INCISION?</i><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">SMALL INCISION?!? YOU'RE GOING TO CUT ME?!?!? </span><br />
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This is when I felt like shrieking<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-large;"><b>DON'T TELL ME WHAT YOU'RE GOING TO DO! JUST DO IT!!!!!</b></span><br />
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Okay, so he did all that and I figured out that he would have to send the needle in on a angle so he could find that teeny nodule with the camera at the same time. The needle made a noise like a 'stapler' and every time it made a little staple noise, I felt like growling YEAH, YOU GET THAT THING!!! GRRR! <br />
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And then it was done! It was WAY less hideous, in my opinion, than a thyroid biopsy. My sister explained why, in a most scientific way:<br />
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"Sure, because that's your NECK. You use your neck to BREATHE and SWALLOW, but your boob is useless. It just hangs there."<br />
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I was given a little ice pack and sent on my merry way. Jelly legs and all. <br />
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Sooooooooooooooo happy it was over! One more step DONE, BITCHES!!!!<br />
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Back at my house eating the McDonk's breakfast my dad bought for us...feeling good! Feeling relieved!<br />
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FEELING LIKE I COULD HAVE COLLAPSED RIGHT THEN AND THERE<br />
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But, I didn't. I felt like I could, but I didn't. Fun to draw though. <br />
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And now, I wait a week or so to find out the results. <br />
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Stay tuned!<br />
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<br />karensomethingorotherhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14476544335741075497noreply@blogger.com26