Yesterday was an exceptionally busy day. I worked up quite a sweat washing floors and straightening up in the morning, then it was off to a ball wind-up and then to the fair. It was during the housework portion of my day that I began to notice an increased need for Kleenex due to the excessive sneezing and snot production. Then it was off to the ball park where I literally wanted to rip my own throat out. So so very itchy. So before heading to the fair I stopped at home and took some Reactine.
I must preface this by saying this is Reactine my son purchased when he went to Europe in April. They are much bigger pills than the stuff we get here in Canada. I was slightly concerned but the itchy throat and abhorrent mucous production involved made me a likely candidate to take just about anything. So I did.
Off we went to the fair which is really just a sociologist's dream. Or anyone who enjoys people watching. Why do some people look at the fair as an opportunity to shake what their mama gave them? I'm not saying they were actually dancing but I saw so many unsupported breasts and uncontained bellies it was just not okay. And always with the booty shorts. Please for the love of God unless you are under 25 and in shape and have all your own teeth and they are not rotten, please put the booty shorts away. It's not fair to me, to you, or your children or anyone else.
And the children. Suffer the children. I saw a four year old girl with a mullet. She had cute little jeans and a top on but a mullet. Hardcore mullet. No blending. So so very sad. She has no choice in the matter. Sob.
The carnies themselves are always a source of amusement and fear as well. Leathery skinned, toothless and bleary-eyed they are running contraptions we willingly put our little face-painted, sometimes mulleted children on and hope for the best.
Back to the Reactine though. After a long day of housework and child focused activities it was time for Mom and Dad to do a little recharging so we headed over to a friend's house for a drink or two. I, of course, took my very new bestest gal pal, Grape Vodka, and off we went. To be clear I only had maybe four drinks. I was home by midnight and made a stop at McDonald's on the way home. I ate a cheeseburger, six nuggets and some fries. Yes I'm aware I have food issues. Anyway, I was in bed by 12:30 at the latest and promptly passed out.
This morning I first attempted getting out of bed around 8:30. I am not nauseous, no headache, all in all I felt fine. Then I got up and felt like maybe I was in the Funhouse with the tilty floor. I staggered to the bathroom, remembered there wasn't any toilet paper and rather than get another roll, careened back to bed. What the fuck? I laid down where the bed continued to spin for a moment or two. Then I decided I really had to go so got up and tried again with more success. It comes and goes in waves. When I was cleaning up cat vomit this morning (I think my cat binges and purges) I had to lean up against the wall.
I'm blaming this entirely on the Reactine. I took it well in advance of the drinking (like eight hours before) but why else so dizzy? And given I have roughly 12 hours of laundry ahead of me and cupcakes to bake for a Kindergarten year-end party tomorrow, I need to get my sea legs back! Ha, I 'm not even sure that's an appropriate reference. It's the Reactine.
Damn you to hell Seasonal Allergies!
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Sunday, June 27, 2010
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Calves Don't Like Humping
Completed another road trip today. I swear to God, no word of a lie, I think in the last week I've logged close to 2000 km. I was going to Bengough today which is right in the heart of rural Saskatchewan. Well wait, pretty much all of Saskatchewan is 'rural'. Today though I saw something I really enjoyed. One calf was trying to hump another calf who was less than appreciative. I enjoyed this a lot. What I did not enjoy was trying not to hit the thirty-odd gophers and other rodent-like creatures hell bent on crossing the highway. I don't like these animals but I don't want to run them over either. Little fuckers have a death wish though. I hit one. Probably my first one ever. Sigh. It was sad.
I'm watching America's Got Talent which seems to be more 'Who has the Saddest Story and Passable Made-up Talent with which to Accompany It'.
MY EYE WON'T STOP TWITCHING. I didn't sleep well last night and to add to my stress-induced insomnia my three year old amped up the fun by peeing in my bed.
I also had to drive a Cavalier today so no music save for the radio. I tried to listen to the Gospel Hour but couldn't do it. As soon as they asked people to "pray for them or maybe even financially contribute to their cause" I was out. I don't think Jebus was a capitalist.
To sum it up I feel like the calf I saw being violated today...poor little fucker.
I'm watching America's Got Talent which seems to be more 'Who has the Saddest Story and Passable Made-up Talent with which to Accompany It'.
MY EYE WON'T STOP TWITCHING. I didn't sleep well last night and to add to my stress-induced insomnia my three year old amped up the fun by peeing in my bed.
I also had to drive a Cavalier today so no music save for the radio. I tried to listen to the Gospel Hour but couldn't do it. As soon as they asked people to "pray for them or maybe even financially contribute to their cause" I was out. I don't think Jebus was a capitalist.
To sum it up I feel like the calf I saw being violated today...poor little fucker.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
Father's Day
Father's Day. Blah. I know that's not very nice. I did get my husband a gift and cards and got up with the boys this morning and let him sleep in. Also, the dog decided, as he oft will on holiday type of days, to shit on the rug in the basement. So, with respect to Father's Day, I cleaned it up. I should add we went out last night and I was running on about five hours sleep and may have been a tad hungover, so cleaning up doggy diarrhea was a huge feat and show of love for my husband.
I attempted to call my Dad tonight. He wasn't home. He likely does not even realize what today is. He's not good with dates. In recent years I called him to with him a Happy Birthday on his birthday and he was not even aware that's what day it was. He keeps birthdays written down and in the last couple of years has really improved on remembering them.
My Dad and I aren't close. We now, at this point, have a sort of mutual respect for each other. On my part it's bred out of the realization he is my dad, he was there for my younger days and does the best I think he can at this point. There's not a lot of give and take between us. We see each other once every couple of years. He's seen my youngest child maybe twice and the second one not much more. At this point, that's okay. I'm not into forcing relationships and as it stands our kids do fine with this set up, so good enough.
When I was 12 I found out my Dad is not actually my biological 'father'. Because, at that point, I had decided I was not a fan of my Dad, and I had some help with this, I was thrilled. I imagined 'father' as a rich man coming along to save me from the depths of despair in my trailer in Elstow. The funny part is it never dawned on me there was any difference in parentage between myself and my siblings despite the fact they are both very Caucasian looking and I had a year round tan. My 'father' is from El Salvador. Anyway, he and I finally spoke when I was 18 and met in my early 20s. He is not rich. He is not poor. He did not save me and I don't want him to. When I separated from my first husband, he chose at that time, to separate from me. He is a very traditional Catholic Latino man. Our one face to face meeting included him speaking to my husband in front of me as if I weren't there and looking alarmed every time I voiced any opinion. I have lots of opinions. So not necessarily a match made in Heaven.
I've had bad luck across the board in this department. My Dad didn't come to my Grade 12 Graduation because he had a flying fishing trip booked. A-hole. My Graduation, I felt, was particularly significant given I had given birth during the second half of Grade 11, raised my son, sometimes on my own when his dad was away at school, and managed to maintain an average of above 90% for all four semesters of Grade 12. When the fish are biting, you've gotta do what you gotta do I guess.
Then came my University Convocation. He had a cold. Couldn't make it. That one, that one I could not let go. So I got half-cranked on wine one night and called him to share my thoughts and feelings on this. Again it may be prudent to add I am the first person on either side of the family to earn a University Degree but the event was pretty low-key. Which is probably why I will nearly kill myself making my children's various graduations and coming-of-age events into actual events full of fanfare, balloons and cake. It's why I'm the lunatic mother on the the sidelines of the soccer field, football field, volleyball court and soon, the ice, cheering to the point where they may have suggested I should tone it down. Actually my daughter's actual words were: "I can't hear the coach over you yelling 'Stay with it!'".
This is a self-serving, slightly self-pitying little diatribe so I will end on a more positive note. If there is anyone, besides my husband, I want to wish a Happy Father's Day to, but can't anymore, it's my Grandpa. He is the first man who made me feel like the most special person in the world. As a child (and maybe still now, truth be told) I had a really hard time saying the words 'I love you' out loud. Like I didn't say it. Ever. Unless I was leaving him. Then I mustered up every bit of wherewithal I had to make sure I told him I loved him before leaving. I loved him very much. He's been gone for over ten years now and I still think about him all the time. I think about him when I'm feeling proud of myself and/or my children and I think about him when I'm not proud of myself because I always always wanted to make him proud of me. He was a quiet man with an unbelievable sense of humour. He may have liked a drink or two as well. What matters is though, is I always knew he liked me. I knew I mattered to him. Last summer we sort of accidentally drove past the road leading to 'his' cemetery. I haven't been back since the day he was buried. We didn't stop that day because I felt my family didn't need to see my fall apart but I unsuccesfully fought back tears in the vehicle knowing I was that close to him. I need to go back. But when I do it will be with a beer for him, a beer for me, some Sen-Sen and the song Coca-Cola Cowboy.
Happy Father's Day.
I attempted to call my Dad tonight. He wasn't home. He likely does not even realize what today is. He's not good with dates. In recent years I called him to with him a Happy Birthday on his birthday and he was not even aware that's what day it was. He keeps birthdays written down and in the last couple of years has really improved on remembering them.
My Dad and I aren't close. We now, at this point, have a sort of mutual respect for each other. On my part it's bred out of the realization he is my dad, he was there for my younger days and does the best I think he can at this point. There's not a lot of give and take between us. We see each other once every couple of years. He's seen my youngest child maybe twice and the second one not much more. At this point, that's okay. I'm not into forcing relationships and as it stands our kids do fine with this set up, so good enough.
When I was 12 I found out my Dad is not actually my biological 'father'. Because, at that point, I had decided I was not a fan of my Dad, and I had some help with this, I was thrilled. I imagined 'father' as a rich man coming along to save me from the depths of despair in my trailer in Elstow. The funny part is it never dawned on me there was any difference in parentage between myself and my siblings despite the fact they are both very Caucasian looking and I had a year round tan. My 'father' is from El Salvador. Anyway, he and I finally spoke when I was 18 and met in my early 20s. He is not rich. He is not poor. He did not save me and I don't want him to. When I separated from my first husband, he chose at that time, to separate from me. He is a very traditional Catholic Latino man. Our one face to face meeting included him speaking to my husband in front of me as if I weren't there and looking alarmed every time I voiced any opinion. I have lots of opinions. So not necessarily a match made in Heaven.
I've had bad luck across the board in this department. My Dad didn't come to my Grade 12 Graduation because he had a flying fishing trip booked. A-hole. My Graduation, I felt, was particularly significant given I had given birth during the second half of Grade 11, raised my son, sometimes on my own when his dad was away at school, and managed to maintain an average of above 90% for all four semesters of Grade 12. When the fish are biting, you've gotta do what you gotta do I guess.
Then came my University Convocation. He had a cold. Couldn't make it. That one, that one I could not let go. So I got half-cranked on wine one night and called him to share my thoughts and feelings on this. Again it may be prudent to add I am the first person on either side of the family to earn a University Degree but the event was pretty low-key. Which is probably why I will nearly kill myself making my children's various graduations and coming-of-age events into actual events full of fanfare, balloons and cake. It's why I'm the lunatic mother on the the sidelines of the soccer field, football field, volleyball court and soon, the ice, cheering to the point where they may have suggested I should tone it down. Actually my daughter's actual words were: "I can't hear the coach over you yelling 'Stay with it!'".
This is a self-serving, slightly self-pitying little diatribe so I will end on a more positive note. If there is anyone, besides my husband, I want to wish a Happy Father's Day to, but can't anymore, it's my Grandpa. He is the first man who made me feel like the most special person in the world. As a child (and maybe still now, truth be told) I had a really hard time saying the words 'I love you' out loud. Like I didn't say it. Ever. Unless I was leaving him. Then I mustered up every bit of wherewithal I had to make sure I told him I loved him before leaving. I loved him very much. He's been gone for over ten years now and I still think about him all the time. I think about him when I'm feeling proud of myself and/or my children and I think about him when I'm not proud of myself because I always always wanted to make him proud of me. He was a quiet man with an unbelievable sense of humour. He may have liked a drink or two as well. What matters is though, is I always knew he liked me. I knew I mattered to him. Last summer we sort of accidentally drove past the road leading to 'his' cemetery. I haven't been back since the day he was buried. We didn't stop that day because I felt my family didn't need to see my fall apart but I unsuccesfully fought back tears in the vehicle knowing I was that close to him. I need to go back. But when I do it will be with a beer for him, a beer for me, some Sen-Sen and the song Coca-Cola Cowboy.
Happy Father's Day.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Karma?
Just as a point of interest, my assigned vehicle today was: A minivan.
ooo, one more thing: If you're 33 years old, as I am, you should be an adult. I mean obviously don't throw away your watter bottle microphones, but be a fucking grown up.
That's all I have to say about that.
ooo, one more thing: If you're 33 years old, as I am, you should be an adult. I mean obviously don't throw away your watter bottle microphones, but be a fucking grown up.
That's all I have to say about that.
Sporadic Bouts of Bitchiness
What does it mean if twice in one week you crave a cigarette? Well probably not much if you are a smoker but if you quit nearly eight years ago? Well then I think that means you had one fuck of a week. At one point today I was literally willing to peel off my own skin such was my level of irritation. Accompanying that was the strong urge to smoke. Happened Wednesday too; well not so much wanting to do the skin-peeling thing Wednesday but I had company for part of my travels today...hence the strong desire to rip off my skin.
The music didn't even help. Plus I'm a selfish bitch when it comes to music. When I hear a song I like, I don't wish to be spoken to. One should try to even keep the breathing to a minimum. My companion today would not have accepted that concept. My companion asked me, without exaggeration, nearly 14 times if we were there yet, over the span of ONE HOUR. Therefore we listened to the radio.
This is going to be a random post.
I saw a woman today who is roughly the same height as me but maybe 15 pounds heavier wearing a top with a tie around the waist. Now if you possess the much coveted 'hourglass' figure, this is a nice choice. Emphasize the waist.However, if you are built like me, and this woman was, it's a shape akin to a potato on sticks and the waist shall NEVER be the focus.
I was compelled to use my water bottle as a microphone upon hearing "Your Love" by the Outfield on the way home. Experimented with it as if I were an actual singer. You know how some artists have their lips pressed right to the mike? I was trying to see why. I learned I would probably sing with the microphone pressed only to my top lip.
I know. Scary.
Further frightening news: I bought throat lozenges this morning in an effort to keep my throat in tip top shape so I could sing for the next 7 hours I was going to spend in my vehicle. It worked. I did struggle a little through some Patsy Cline but I really think I nailed the Outfield song.
I also have rediscovered my love for Pearl Jam's 'Yellow Ledbetter'. I love love love the guitar in this song. I mentioned as much to my son the other day. His response was "isn't that the song where you can't understand anything he's saying?" Um yes it is but I tried really hard to hear the lyrics tonight and as per usual I was left swaying with my eyes closed to the guitar riffs with my water bottle microphone clutched to my chest and sang the line: "I know, I know". (Ironically the only part of the song I do know). The rest sounded like vowels and only vowels. Still and always will be a fan favourite though.
Best dancing song today: 'Say Hey (I Love You)' by Michael Franti and the Rebel Rockers
Best text I received today: 'JESUS HELP ME. THIS LADY KEEPS YELLING TO HER BOYFRIEND THROUGH THE WINDOW SAYING THINGS LIKE 'I miss you already' and 'behave'. (This incidentally came from my 13 year old daughter; she was on the bus. I like her).
Things I almost hit today: a deer, a coyote and a black Ford truck.
Well that pretty much sums it up. 'TGIF' my ass.
The music didn't even help. Plus I'm a selfish bitch when it comes to music. When I hear a song I like, I don't wish to be spoken to. One should try to even keep the breathing to a minimum. My companion today would not have accepted that concept. My companion asked me, without exaggeration, nearly 14 times if we were there yet, over the span of ONE HOUR. Therefore we listened to the radio.
This is going to be a random post.
I saw a woman today who is roughly the same height as me but maybe 15 pounds heavier wearing a top with a tie around the waist. Now if you possess the much coveted 'hourglass' figure, this is a nice choice. Emphasize the waist.However, if you are built like me, and this woman was, it's a shape akin to a potato on sticks and the waist shall NEVER be the focus.
I was compelled to use my water bottle as a microphone upon hearing "Your Love" by the Outfield on the way home. Experimented with it as if I were an actual singer. You know how some artists have their lips pressed right to the mike? I was trying to see why. I learned I would probably sing with the microphone pressed only to my top lip.
I know. Scary.
Further frightening news: I bought throat lozenges this morning in an effort to keep my throat in tip top shape so I could sing for the next 7 hours I was going to spend in my vehicle. It worked. I did struggle a little through some Patsy Cline but I really think I nailed the Outfield song.
I also have rediscovered my love for Pearl Jam's 'Yellow Ledbetter'. I love love love the guitar in this song. I mentioned as much to my son the other day. His response was "isn't that the song where you can't understand anything he's saying?" Um yes it is but I tried really hard to hear the lyrics tonight and as per usual I was left swaying with my eyes closed to the guitar riffs with my water bottle microphone clutched to my chest and sang the line: "I know, I know". (Ironically the only part of the song I do know). The rest sounded like vowels and only vowels. Still and always will be a fan favourite though.
Best dancing song today: 'Say Hey (I Love You)' by Michael Franti and the Rebel Rockers
Best text I received today: 'JESUS HELP ME. THIS LADY KEEPS YELLING TO HER BOYFRIEND THROUGH THE WINDOW SAYING THINGS LIKE 'I miss you already' and 'behave'. (This incidentally came from my 13 year old daughter; she was on the bus. I like her).
Things I almost hit today: a deer, a coyote and a black Ford truck.
Well that pretty much sums it up. 'TGIF' my ass.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Friends
Friends. I used to consider myself both lucky and not when it came to friends. Lucky in that the few that I had were of the highest quality; unlucky in that I didn't have a real wide circle of friends. I have a storied history with friendship.
When I was little, my very first best friend's name was Amber. I, however, insisted on calling her "Hamber". That's all I really recall about that friendship. Well that I do believe 'Hamber' had some cooler toys than I and I think I was quite bossy. Sorry.
Next was my friend, Jaycee. This is where my lifelong issue with comparing myself to others began. Jaycee had a Cabbage Patch Kid before me. Jaycee and I both got 'Preemie' CBP's the same Christmas. Then she got twins. She had like eight of those fucking things! I had two. Meredith Flora was the preemie and Mindy Theresa was my 'Cornsilk' hair Cabbage Patch Kid. She would've been fantastic had 'Santa' not thought it too cute to get me a CPK with glasses because I had glasses. Fuck. You. I hated my glasses. The last thing I needed was a reminder of the bane of my existence. So Mindy 'lost' her glasses pretty early on into Christmas morning. Anyway, Jaycee also had a kick ass collection of Barbies and cool Barbie stuff but still had the audacity to steal the skates from my 1988 Olympic Barbie. Anyway, I could never wrap my head around why she had so much more than I did. Then, in Grade 4, her Dad went to jail for "selling beer" and let's just leave it at that.
Next would probably be my friend Brigette. A friend who wholeheartedly embraced hair metal with me. A friend who let me bully her into playing dolls long past anyone else our age wanted to play dolls. In my defense, she was the youngest of five kids and she had some really cool dolls of her older sister's. Yeah, I know, still mean and still lame. I was mean to Brigette more times than I care to remember or share. She did not deserve it and I am lucky she never kicked my ass.
My point is, and I do have one, aside from those early friendships and two or three adult friendships, I have been known to say, on more than one occasion, that I prefer male friends to female.
I love men. In all regards. It always seemed to me they were more fun, less offended by my foul language, listened to better music and did not want to discuss, ad nauseum, "girly things".
Well now I'm 33. I still have my fair share of male friends, some of whom I'd consider best friends. Now though, I have a strong contingent of wonderful women whom I'm proud to call my friends and even prouder that they consider me the same.
Today, for example, I needed to get Justin Bieber tickets for my daughter but had a hair appointment booked for the same time the tickets went on sale. With that, I left my Visa with the girls and asked them to get the tickets for me. They did and got kick ass seats at that!! There was much drama and a little perspiration involved but they rock! These girls are not only great ticket-getters but these women I've come to know in the last four years, have taught me to really appreciate the privilege it is to belong to a female circle of friends.
At this point though, I think it's beyond boy vs. girl. All in all at this state I consider myself more than lucky when it comes to friends. Today, in particular, one friend who is the very antithesis of what I am, in that he is always positive, laid back and generally just makes people feel good about themselves; well, let's just say I'm glad he's my friend and glad he'll continue to be so for many years to come.
And finally, I can't blog about my friends without giving Vodka an honourable mention. Tonight she has upped the ante with a delightful grape flavouring. I really like her a lot.
Thanks a million times over to Trisha and Nadia. Get well soon to Ron. To everyone else, to quote the infamous and now sadly, nearly all extinct 'Golden Girls': Thank You for Being a Friend.
When I was little, my very first best friend's name was Amber. I, however, insisted on calling her "Hamber". That's all I really recall about that friendship. Well that I do believe 'Hamber' had some cooler toys than I and I think I was quite bossy. Sorry.
Next was my friend, Jaycee. This is where my lifelong issue with comparing myself to others began. Jaycee had a Cabbage Patch Kid before me. Jaycee and I both got 'Preemie' CBP's the same Christmas. Then she got twins. She had like eight of those fucking things! I had two. Meredith Flora was the preemie and Mindy Theresa was my 'Cornsilk' hair Cabbage Patch Kid. She would've been fantastic had 'Santa' not thought it too cute to get me a CPK with glasses because I had glasses. Fuck. You. I hated my glasses. The last thing I needed was a reminder of the bane of my existence. So Mindy 'lost' her glasses pretty early on into Christmas morning. Anyway, Jaycee also had a kick ass collection of Barbies and cool Barbie stuff but still had the audacity to steal the skates from my 1988 Olympic Barbie. Anyway, I could never wrap my head around why she had so much more than I did. Then, in Grade 4, her Dad went to jail for "selling beer" and let's just leave it at that.
Next would probably be my friend Brigette. A friend who wholeheartedly embraced hair metal with me. A friend who let me bully her into playing dolls long past anyone else our age wanted to play dolls. In my defense, she was the youngest of five kids and she had some really cool dolls of her older sister's. Yeah, I know, still mean and still lame. I was mean to Brigette more times than I care to remember or share. She did not deserve it and I am lucky she never kicked my ass.
My point is, and I do have one, aside from those early friendships and two or three adult friendships, I have been known to say, on more than one occasion, that I prefer male friends to female.
I love men. In all regards. It always seemed to me they were more fun, less offended by my foul language, listened to better music and did not want to discuss, ad nauseum, "girly things".
Well now I'm 33. I still have my fair share of male friends, some of whom I'd consider best friends. Now though, I have a strong contingent of wonderful women whom I'm proud to call my friends and even prouder that they consider me the same.
Today, for example, I needed to get Justin Bieber tickets for my daughter but had a hair appointment booked for the same time the tickets went on sale. With that, I left my Visa with the girls and asked them to get the tickets for me. They did and got kick ass seats at that!! There was much drama and a little perspiration involved but they rock! These girls are not only great ticket-getters but these women I've come to know in the last four years, have taught me to really appreciate the privilege it is to belong to a female circle of friends.
At this point though, I think it's beyond boy vs. girl. All in all at this state I consider myself more than lucky when it comes to friends. Today, in particular, one friend who is the very antithesis of what I am, in that he is always positive, laid back and generally just makes people feel good about themselves; well, let's just say I'm glad he's my friend and glad he'll continue to be so for many years to come.
And finally, I can't blog about my friends without giving Vodka an honourable mention. Tonight she has upped the ante with a delightful grape flavouring. I really like her a lot.
Thanks a million times over to Trisha and Nadia. Get well soon to Ron. To everyone else, to quote the infamous and now sadly, nearly all extinct 'Golden Girls': Thank You for Being a Friend.
The Eternal 13 year old in Me
I may have just had a small temper tantrum because I was trying to watch a clip of Eclipse but could not hear it because my husband as the audacity to be watching the freaking news and it would appear my six year old is attempting origami with an empty microwave popcorn bag.
Just thought you should know.
Just thought you should know.
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