lookin' for me?

spell dis suckers

I miss blogging like a normal motherbumper. Each time I start a post a whole pile of negativity falls out of my brain. I read what has been written down and the little baby Jesus cries. Or something like that.

Anyhow, I've got to move forward and tonight I'm blogging the National Spelling Bee live. Obviously definition is not part of the spelling bee requirements because a large group of those American "national" contestants are from Canada.

I'm doing this live blog with Chag from Cynical Dad because we both have such busy social lives that this is what we do on a Friday night. I'll be covering contestant fashion and he will be dissecting the politics of spelling. Links will be up later today. Come back because I know you'll want to see how many spelling mistakes I make (to be fair, Chag will be shouting pronunciations and definitions each time I'm stumped... like I was two seconds ago with the words pronunciation and definition).

Hey - and today is the last day to enter my super fantabulous Brain Age 2 giveaway over at motherbumper's lab. If you have a DS and don't have Brain Age 2 - you are missing out on making yourself smarter yo'. Draw will happen tomorrow and the winner will be contacted this weekend. Check it out.

And if none of this tickles your fancy, you can go read the gossip I sling each and every weekday (even when sick) over at Binkywood. Do it and you will feel more worldly and informed.

some nerve

My mole hill turned into a mountain last week.

"Don't sweat the small stuff darling" I heard too many times.

"Let it all go" I heard at least a dozen times.

"Relax" was a common response to my whimpers.

I tried and I failed.

The juggling clown dropped the balls.

The stress I carried became a bullet and it shot right out the side of my head. Literally.

Late last week I felt a pain by my ear. My neck started to swell. I dismissed it as a bug bite gone bad. It happens.

Hours later I was writhing in pain. My neck felt like it was full of gravel. Correction: tiny hand grenades that were blowing up in every direction. I dragged myself to the doctor and (drum roll) guess what? Stress can cause you pain. It can compromise your immune system, it can blow up all the nerve endings in your head and start a revolution led by tiny little Che and Fidel axons. It can manifest itself into tiny bombs and it can hurt your body just as much as your mind can.

So I've been ordered to rest.

Do you know how hard it is to "rest"? One as lazy as me should find it easy but in reality I guess I'm not really that lazy. Sure, I turned the ten second rule into the ten minute rule but when it comes to doing "stuff", I actually do a lot of "stuff".

Crap. I'm rambling and I don't like where this post is going.

In my head this post was going to be cathartic. I was going to scream about the folks who have been pissing me off. The folks who have been dragging me down. The people in my life who are such f**king passive-aggressive shits and think I take their antics in stride. Folks who think their actions go unnoticed because I'm too dumb, or too nice, or too stunned. People that ask for help and never say thank you. Oh I notice and no I don't take it stride. I take note and lie in wait. You hand me shit, I smile and write you name down. Really folks, I just play stupid in bloggeritaville but in real life, folks know not to screw with me because if you piss me off - mark my word: your time will come.

But of course, screaming about this solves none of my problems. It probably causes more because some vain creature out there is going to say "omg, she's talking about me, she must be talking about me" which then should make them think "how did I know she was talking about me". Probably because you did something you freakin' wanker. But no one who reads this blog is a wanker right? So I guess I'm not talking about you, am I?

I also wanted to talk about those loads I carry but cannot unload. I really want to share my stress because if it just lightens the load for a few moments and maybe helps someone else feel normal because they look and say "hey, I know that load, I carry that load, I'm not alone" - it would be worth it.

But I can't.

Instead I rest.

Who knew I would suck at "rest"?

Grrrrrrrrrreat... one more thing I suck at doing.

1 + 1 = meltdown

Okay - get this:

On a whim, today I decided to take my daughter to a city park called Riverdale Farm (it has animals, it's in the city, and it's free) and I took her without any of the following items:

• drinks
• snacks
• stroller
• cash
• and obviously, sanity

Did I mention we also did this via public transportation?

Clearly a person is insane when they attempt this kind of adventure with a high spirited, snack-happy kid who demands to be carried every half block. When I do give in and carry her, she refuses to wrap legs around me or position on hip, and instead chooses to dangle until the I just cannot repeat "please help mummy and please just hug with your legs" without the fear of adding expletives between each word. Then I place her down and force her to walk until the demands starts again at approximately fifty paces out.

Today our original plan was to get my driver's license replaced (long story - maybe later) and based on previous experience, I expected that it would take at least an hour or two. Because of the frequent long waits, I wanted to get us to the office early (we did all our passports last year and we were there for six weeks - we lived on Baby MumMums and condensation collected of the AC units).

Well today, we walked into the office, they asked me what I needed, they give me a number, and then proceeded to immediately called my number. WTF? I walked up in front of about 150 people and was out the door in under five minutes. I could actually feel some of the long range daggers in my back as I left the office.

Anyhow, the quick trip kinda left our day wide open, so after joining SB for an early morning coffee break I had the brilliant idea of going to the farm. Before it was out my mouth, Bumper was chanting "FARM" like a lunatic sports fan who worshipped team faaaaaaaarm. Well how could I deny that?

So off we went.

First mistake: I forgot which subway stop we needed to go to which resulted in walking three city blocks because I was sure the next station was on the next block (and so on, and so on). Then I got us on the wrong bus and ended thinking it was waaaaaay closer than it was and made the kid walk something like ten zillion blocks unassisted. This long range walking was a first for B and the fact that she survived that ordeal has proven that she can do it, so sorry kid, the free rides are over.

Anyhow, I was kinda hoping all this exercise would work in my favour and take the edge of her her usual endless energy. Mostly I was praying for this because I was beginning to realize all the items I did NOT have on me (see above). Sure I had the pull-ups/diapers and wipes (thank da *%$@ because I almost used them all today). But because I rushed us out the door in the morning, I forgot the basics.

Despite my short comings in the parental packing skill area, the farm was loads of fun. For two hours we ran around, saw the cutest damn baby animals, and walked what I'm sure was every path, all while drinking the water and juice I had bought with purse change. I figured we'd be home in time for lunch, and because she ate a big breakfast, we would be fine.

omg I'm so obviously delusional.

My child likes her snacks and no snacks means tantrums. Sometimes she doesn't eat snacks but I almost always have them on me - just in case. I figured I'd be able to find something healthy on the way, something that doesn't cost more than my purse change or a store that takes debit. While I'm sure that I passed a few of those places on our way in, I surprised by the lack of healthy or affordable snacks at the farm. So here we were, blocks away from lunch and my child had decided she wanted to STAY AT THE FARM - FOREVER.

Or at least that is what she told pretty much all of eastern Toronto when I tried to suggest leaving. Then I tried applying leaving and the full-throttle-on-the-ground episodes began.

Now I subscribe to letting tantrums run their course and as long as she isn't hurting herself or anyone else (or the place is completely inappropriate). I believe it's better than trying to suppress her emotions. Also I find when I do it this way the tantrums run shorter and in no time she is up and totally acting as if nothing happened. Which always makes me do a double take.

Well today, we can say I did many many double takes. I had to facilitate so many meltdowns, I felt like I was on an episode of Nanny 911 - except on Nanny 911 it's usually a montage of a meltdowns while ours seemed like they were one right after the other. I really felt for her, the poor kid - she was pushed to the limits.

There are about fifty other stories to tell about this adventure.

Like how she argued with me over the penis on the hen (there was no penis on the hen - trust me). She wouldn't let it go.

Or how she told everyone we encountered she was going to see where tweety bird worked.

Or how for every single baby animal she saw today produced the following statement from her "awwwwwwww look at the cute baby" in a total high pitched sing song voice.

Or how she has adopted a new laugh and it sounds EXACTLY like Pee Wee Herman's famous "hee hee".

But only one story is needed to wrap up this post. Tonight, at bedtime she leaned over and said to me "I liked the farm today mommy. Can we go again?". There is no way to say no to that. But next time, I'm packing supplies. Momma ain't no fool. Twice.

BTW - thank you so much for all the meme tags, supportive words, and nice stuff (even you Sage). I now have enough memes to stimulate the old brain hole and try to stop the stuttering. Thanks guys, it really is appreciated.

Contests and Cuteness

I can't stand leaving a depressing post at the top - even though it's really how I'm feeling of late.

So let me share some happy stuff:

First up - I'm having my first contest over at motherbumper's laboratory. If you have a Nintendo DS and are jonesing for a copy of Brain Age 2, I'm giving one away to some lucky reader in North America. I've recently reviewed both Brain Age and Brain Age 2 for the DS and love them both. It makes the body and brain goooooooooood... I swear. Also if you love Sudoko like me, well this is the game for you.

Second up - Kirtsy is having (another) cool contest and the prize package (worth over 1000 bucks) is making me drool. There is a gift certificate to Lands End for a new swimsuit, a Sony DVDirect (uh, it plays Blu-Ray folks), beautiful blankets and computer doohickeys and OMG a registration to BlogHer or BlogHer Outreach (oh my holy heck). I swear that those Kirsty women I work with are the absolute rulers of the universe when it comes to contests because their prizes always make me CRAZY. That's it, I'm sure they are sleeping around and taking prizes in exchange for one night in paradise because how else are they getting all this cool shit? [disclaimer: I know they aren't really exchanging sexual favours for cool prizes so don't kick me outta kirtsy, k?]

Third up - cuteness if I do say so myself. And this is what keeps me going most days. It really does.


I've received two meme tags so far and for that I say thank you Don Mills Diva and SciFi Dad. Keep 'em coming folks, I really do lurve y'all (except for you - in the back, with the flaming bag of poo - stay away, ya'hear).

MUB

Mandatory Unloading of Blogage*:

It would not be a stretch for me to say I've started this post at least a dozen times in half as many days. Yes, yes, you've heard that before from many bloggers but at least we all have that (hopefully) occasional frustration in common. Ain't life grand?

Seriously, lately it's like I want to scream out everything but not really because it's not mine to scream. I have a total admiration (and down right jealousy sometimes) of people that can just unload into the blogosphere and stand there, exposed, and inviting discussion. Discussion of their inner most burdens, fears, etcetera. Basically all the stuff I don't cover here.

Okay, so I whine and complain about this and that but I don't really tell "mah story" and that is something I have found very frustrating lately. Very frustrating. And somewhat stressful.

There is fine balance maintained among the baskets I carry, each basket contains another living, breathing soul and while their existence makes their story part of mine, I can't talk about x in basket because it's not my story and my part of the story isn't complete without theirs. Such is life.

Babble babble babble. Yup, one hell of a fun brook I am these days. You know I feel like I'm phoning it in all over the place and it's getting under my skin. Not because I'm really phoning it in, it's that I feel like I'm phoning it in, but in reality, it's more like I'm trying to text from a Maxwell Smart shoe phone and it just ain't compatible with my blogger account yo. I feel disconnected from what's going on out there and that bugs the hell out of me.

See why I didn't want to press publish on this post? I hate rainy days. But today is my day to piddle on the parade.

Regular blogging will resume shortly. Somebody tag me for a meme and pull me outta this mire, k?

* Mandatory Unloading of Blogage: necessary unloading of personal whoa is required from each blogger at least one per twelve month period, a period that begins from conception of blog. More than once a year is completely acceptable but more than five times weekly is not advised.

Oh Vicky you're so fine

Another Victoria Day weekend has passed.

This one was spent staying close to home and doing all sorts of that super fun home stuff. Like sorting out the six boxes of paperwork, four zillion piles of clothing of undetermined cleanliness, and countless containers of "stuff".

The sorting is not finished but boy did we make a dent. I think SB got the most exercise running up and down to the recycling room. Anyhow, enough about the manic cleaning events that I inflict upon my family.

When I was in university, this usually was the first full on camping weekend of the summer. I do realize calling it summer was a stretch but youth is so full of folly. Anyhow, most times we hit the weather jackpot and would gather up a huge gaggle of friends to hit the road, with crappy tents, leaky coolers, and beer as far as the eye could see all in tow. Like most events of my youth, alcohol always trumped food.

Hell, you can always gnaw on your arm or eat some toe jam, but neither will ever get you drunk ;) Oh I kid, a party bag of cheetos is all the nutrition a girl like me needed.

Anyhow, most of my girl friends packed like me: a few packs of smokes in a ziploc bag (only takes one soaked cigarette to never forget that packing tip), juice for mix, and vodka or rum depending on preference for poison. Oh and sunscreen. We weren't completely stupid.

When reminiscing - like now - one Victoria Day weekend memory always comes to mind first. It was the late eighties and for some reason not remembered, my roommate started hanging with these two delightful Deadheads and their equally fantastic girlfriends. They were brothers who were dating sisters and just two of the most wonderful couples I had met during those ol' hay days of studying the classics.

Somehow we all decided we were going camping at this cool provincial park about an hour outside the city. Joining us were three other girls we knew.

The camp grounds were not officially open but the gates were unchained for campers to use. The available and open sites were all around a huge quad. Each site was separated only by thin tree lines so we picked the one furthest away from everyone else because we wanted privacy.

We weren't asshat teens, but we were teens so take that for what it's worth. Anyhow, the most noise we made mostly involved butchering Cat Stevens and Midnight Oil lyrics over poorly tuned guitars strummed with two wanna-be James Taylors. The sun was getting lower in the sky and many parties were breaking out all over the quad.

Many trips had been made to the communal house, for water, ice and potty breaks and somewhere along the way, a group of people had followed one of the girls back to our site.

They seemed friendly enough, two couples joined us at our campfire with their own stash of really cheap red wine.

As time passed, I became suspicious of their motives. Mostly because one of the guys had blatantly got up and checked out all our coolers. Oh and after both stranger guys talking together offside post espionage, the other guy punched out John from my camp for absolutely no reason other than John was sitting across from him.

Yes, it sucked to be jumped by a group who turned out to have a truck. A truck to put our stuff in. When the heck did a truck emerge? I have no idea but there it was - maybe it decloaked, and maybe I shouldn't have had that last vodka and cran.

After noticing the truck in the immediate kurfuffle after the punch, a few other guys with some scary looking girls emerged outta now where, and we realized that our two guys with seven - albeit some as tough as nails - ladies were outnumbered. Thankfully, only some pushing and two punches had been thrown. Lots of slurred words were being exchanged and overall it was just a really loud and strangely surreal "land pirate" event.

Someone not from our site had already called the RCMP and just after the truck load of yee-haws had pulled away a la Duke of Hazard, a solo local park ranger pulled up.

Unfortunately he recognized exactly what had happened since he saw the peeling rubber locals pass on his way in. Apparently the locals did this at least once a year, usually on the first long weekend. What a tradition eh?

Anyhow, Ranger Bob said he'd be back in the morning and not to worry we were safe for the night.

Somehow we made the best of the evening, and after a quick inventory realized the yee-haws hadn't gotten away with much. And John kinda looked good with that black eye. Seriously the guy was like a really well built flower child and the black eye kinda made him look like a tough puppy.

In the morning, it turns out that the entire camp ground had heard the fighting which was unfortunate because it really sucks to hear people getting their asses whooped during a commune with nature.

When the Ranger Bob returned, he escorted us to these really cool back country sites that were just off the road from his cabin, so any yocal local yee-haws had to pass his camp to get in. We spent the last night in peace, under the stars, nursing a few wounds, and retelling the prior nights events.

So despite the memory of the local Summer hazing ritual, and what I remember to be a bad sunburn on my chest (the one spot I forgot), oh and also the soon-to-follow break-ups of the Deadheads and their rockin' girlfriends, that Victoria Day was one of my favourite group camping experiences.

I dunno, after that trip, all non-combative camping trips just seemed so anti-climatic.

************

And have you seen the baby yet? He's here and ready for world domination on his own terms.

Can't help myself: Tropic Thunder

I really want to see this movie:



Robert Downey Jr. is so wrong but so very right.

"just because it's theme music, don't make it not true"

I'm addicted to comedy movies but the good ones are so few and far between. I'm looking to top up my mail-thingy movie rental list, care to share your favourite comedies?

Also acceptable genres: mob, horror, sci-fi

I plead parenthood for not keeping up with the latest films. Now that's an incredibly weak excuse, a kitten could kick it's butt in two seconds flat.

Freaky Friday

photo source: raindog61 on Flickr

Each and every time I join my daughter in the sand with a bucket and shovel, I have this inexplicable fear that I might find a severed finger while digging.

Hasn't happened yet but spring has just arrived and we have a full summer ahead of us.

Hee, I said ahead - maybe that's what I'm destined to find. Oh please don't let that be true.

Anyone have strange irrational playground/toy-related fears? Lay on the couch and talk to Frau Motherbumper, Sigmund taught me everything he knows.

scenes from the subway

Act One:
While standing (crouching actually) on the platform, I could not resist nibbling and making munching noises all over Bumper's head. It's something I've done since day one. She is so delectably delicious, how can I resist?

Anyhow, as I made those (apparently) annoying num-num noises right next to her ear, loud enough for her to hear but not those around us, Bumper announced loudly "STOP".

I stopped and asked why.

"Stop nibbling on me mommy, I'm not that yummy".

She is so wrong.

couldn't resist then, can't resist now

Act Two:
This time I'm by myself and catching to the train to go pick up Bumper. As I sit down on the outward facing seat, I notice the man directly across from me is staring hard. Like creepy hard. Years of subway riding experience has trained me to not sit across from folks like that but I figured I only had one stop - what could happen in one stop?

HA!

So the creep leans over and said "a pretty girl like you deserves a better wedding ring than that".

WTF?

BTW - I picked out my engagement ring with my husband and wear it with a classic band. SB knew better than picking out the symbol of our impending nuptials on his own. But why the hell do I feel like defending it - the guy was an obvious ass.

He also had a shade of crazy in his eyes so I decided to just give him the glare that kills small woodland creatures on contact (not that I go around glaring at small woodland creatures). Why give that wanker the benefit of raising my blood pressure?

What would have you done? Seriously, he made me feel stabby. Dang, I wish I could have thought of a good comeback.

quirky

When I was kid, I used to spin things with my feet. No, not like a circus act, just a strange habit.

Stools were my usual victim and I would (using my feet) prop the seat upside down on it's side and holding the leg with one foot, use the other foot to spin the chair round and round. Continuously.

Carpet provided a nice cushion to prop the side without too much restriction. My toes clamped around the bottom of the leg as it rubbed up against my foot bottom.

I could do it for hours and I often did on Friday's when The Love Boat, Fantasy Island back to back episodes played. Not to mention Battlestar Gallactica or if there was a network special like Battle of the Stars. Oh yah, good spinning memories.

Cannot forget rainy Saturdays watching old movies on WLBZ from Bangor Maine. After school watching Eddie Driscoll and the Great Money Movies. Majority of time spent spinning.

It drove my mother nuts. Oh well, her issue, not mine. I think it was mainly because my brother was equally addicted to spinning and nothing beats two kids with furniture breaking habits. Between us, we probably broke every single one of those stools at least a dozen times.

They were mostly cast-off child-sized chairs or wood shop projects. But my Dad would always fix them, nothing some well applied wood glue and a strong clamp couldn't fix. Ain't that the truth.

Anyhow, I could go into my other habit of picking apart the armrest of the black vinyl couch in our rec room but I'll spare you. And uh YES, black vinyl and rec room - it was the 70's and there was also a lot of shag and orange involved - and an eight track player.

But back to the the spinning. It has been on my mind recently.

Bumper is a twirler. She twists and twirls her hair all the live long day. And I find it comforting for my own selfish reasons. I know I found spinning relaxing and reliable - almost like a special skill that I ruled at - a useless skill but a skill nonetheless.

And I think that's what she finds in twirling too: relaxation and comfort. She does it absentmindly sometimes, other times it's when she is faced with a new challenge, but mostly I notice it when she's asking a complex question - using new words. It's fascinating to watch.

So how about you? What was your comfort quirk when you were a kid (habitual behind locked door habits aside - I don't want to hear about that pleeeeeze). I haven't met someone yet that didn't eat paper or paste, bite their nails, split split ends, unstuff feather pillows or break lab slides in half (oh wait, that was me again) out of habit.

Now that's reality

Sweet juju, I have only just caught up on ANTM and now I'm working on Survivor (Translation: I will hunt down and leave flaming poo on the comment doorstep of anyone who tries to spoil it for me). How I love my PVR.

Without my PVR, I would never be able to erode my brain at the current rate and any changes in the accelerated process decreases my odds at having a pretty corpse. People need to think about these things.

Anyhow: the PVR was best decision I made while pregnant - I knew where life was headed and my precious idiot box needed some upgrades to protect itself from gathering a thick layer of dust.

Speaking of idiot box - reality TV is one of my favorite forms of brain candy. My favorite reality gem was the fake reality show Joe Schmo - especially the second cycle. I really hope they do that again.

For those who didn't watch it, basically there is only one contestant who thinks all the other contestants are actually contestants but in reality they are actors pretending to be contestants. Then the producers see how far they can push the envelope before, I dunno, the one and only real contestant's head explodes.

That show was absolute perfection in the reality realm of things. Save for that awkward and emotional breakdown by the first contestant as he figured out what was going on - all that captured on camera and broadcast for the world to see. Yes, that was a hard episode to watch. But watching him keep his hand on the porn star the longest in order to win immunity - now that was fun.

I guess you could say the show is like a light and playful application of the brainwashing techniques where what one believes is true, isn't and allows captors to screw their mind up big time. Seriously, if that happened to me I'd be questioning everything for years afterwards. I'd probably be looking for cameras in the flowers and microphones in the sugar bowl every ten minutes. Can't tell me that stuff wouldn't screw with your head.

So I guess you could say that inflicting a post traumatic stress disorder on contestants is a definite sign of a great reality show. Fear Factor was for wimps - those contestants knew they were going to be scarred by something but to have it done with your guard down - now that's entertainment.

You know I came to write a post about how I decided to kick back and catch up on some tv instead of doing anything blog related, but here I am, babbling about defunct non-reality reality shows. What is with that? Oh internetz, why can't I quit you?

Actually, I do have a lot to talk about but just haven't been able to spit out a coherent post that doesn't sound like a rant. OK, more of a rant than usual.

Seriously - my head space is just not in the right flying zone for posts. A bit disconcerting but I'll sort it out soon.

Right? Please figure that one out, Scoobie and the Gang - you're my only hope.

Iron Mom

A rare afternoon date was my Mother's Day gift.

In the pre-parenting life formerly known as "freedom to watch movies all weekend if one wished", SB and I would hit the theatres all the time. Now it is a rare event so we always take advantage.

This weekend's selection was a hit: Iron Man (thank gawd, because it sucks to catch a miss). It was really gooooooood, everything I expected and it was totally action packed. It stayed true to comic book style, which is how movies like this should be. Well done Mr. Favreau.

So long of short, we enjoyed what should have been an early matinee but it started 30 minute late. Holy crap, the ads kept running with the lights on in the theatre and OMG they made us watch this really bad, very loud music video over and over and over a la Clockwork Orange. Ironically the music video was called Mercy - kinda funny considering they didn't show us any. It was insane and no one knew what was going on.

Since I didn't feel like having my blood pressure tested by some disinterested teenage employee, I sat tight, refusing to let the torture get to me. Not on Mother's Day, no freakin' way was some thing like poor customer service going to get to me on my royal-highness, signed, stamped, and supported by Hallmark day. Thankfully the theatre redeemed itself by handing out free movie gift certificates with an apology for late start time at the end of the movie. Well played "overpriced but under duress since home entertainment is the preferred method of Hollywood ingestion" movie theatre, well played.

Anyhow, despite the poor start and my overwhelming urge to run out to Burger King, drink Perrier, trade my Mac for a Dell, and do it all while driving a Ford got under my "hate the sell outs but how else are they going to pay for all the explosions" skin - the movie never stopped pumping.

How can I hate a film that includes Suicidal Tendancies in the score along side Black Sabbath? Exactly. And Robert Downey Jr. will always have a special place in my heart. So overall? Mmmmmmmm yummy.

But I reserve judgement on Gwyneth Paltrow's role - I can't decide if she did her Pepper Pots to perfection or she just annoys the crap outta of me with her breathless girly character. When at one point she tiptoed through broken glass and actually made squeaky noises, I can't say I didn't want to drill her one upside the head. Okay, so I just rolled my eyes. She didn't play the role as a ditz because Pepper Pots isn't an idiot but something about it didn't work for me. And I also need to decide if she played the role in true comic book fashion - grrrrrr I have a dilemma. Oh if only each of life dilemmas were this easy to dissect.

Speaking of dilemmas, I still can't blog straight but that's alright, I will wallow in my nonsensical attempts at humour and shake things up here at Casa Bump.

Chuck is on vacation this week. But Chuck wouldn't go on vacation and not assign anyone his Monday Morning slot.

He asked Mr. T to fill in but Mr. T did not agree with the inspirational assignment - he thought a establishing your style assignment was a better idea.

He believes that Mr. T just standing in front of you is inspiration enough. Well despite the truth behind that statement, Mr. T would like to instruct you on stylin' and making a statement.



You will love Marta, she IS a real hotdog. And back off - Manny is all mine ladies.

Sad thing, I remember these days like they were yesterday. But on the bright side, even back then I would have totally recognized this for all it's bad 80's glory that it represents.

Remember kids, everybody got to wear clothes - if not you'll be arrested. Now if those aren't words to live by on a Monday morning, I don't know what words you need to hear. Nice buns perhaps?

Oh and in case you haven't noticed the kerfuffle swirling around the 'sphere surrounding a certain site I work with that was named after a piece of clothing I so rarily wear (bloggess said it so much better than me so read her post for the details on the mean women out who obviously didn't get much love during high school or something because what else would make you so freakin' mean and lawsuit-happy?) - well the new name for said site has officially been changed.

Today I am no longer a girl who wears a skirt, I am a girl who knows how to kirtsy:

Those kool kids at kirtsy will make a lady out of me, I just know it.

My In-Laws went to Colonial Williamsburg

and all I got was this totally kick-ass tea towel:

WORD

Thanks G&G, I'll hang it with pride over that crusty pot of spaghetti from last nights dinner and the milky bowls from (yesterdays?) breakfast.

I'm concentrating on Binkywood gossip today so check out the following if you are craving some brain candy (promises to induce drooling and stupidity - perfect for a Friday).

• Nick Cannon's wedding ring: girly or WHAT?
• Brit and K-fed: phone sex
• Paris is wearing fake engagement ring?
• George is hanging with the Beckhams
• Queen Liz is keepin' it real

Have a great weekend y'all! No house cleaning to see here folks, move it along.

the dreads

When pregnant, I made the decision that as soon as the baby was born, my hair was going to change. Something new, something I always wanted, one of those hair changes that just wouldn't go over fantastically at work considering what I did for a living when I made it to the baby-makin' stage of life.

Being paid to be a square squashed my want of tangible reminders of rebellion. I'm such a wuss.

Anyhow, when with child, dreads seemed like the logical choice. I had some dreads when I was 19 done on the library lawn by this punk guy named something original like Dan the Punk or Punk Joe. Whatever. He worked for smokes and it was fun sitting in the early summertime sun having my hair teased, backcombed, mussed up, and knotted beyond all recognition.

Of course maintaining it was impossible for a teen who loved bathing and spritzing as much as the next fluffyhead gal, so the dreads didn't last long, save for one that didn't respond to my daily assaults of deep conditioner. I kept it as long as possible. I called him Ted.

Each time I think of dreads, I think of The Doughboys and how much I wanted John Kastner's hair. For that matter, I wanted Slash's too but I digress.

Logical dreads were not to be had when the child sprung from my loins. Mostly because I had no time to have them done with a bambino hanging of my breast and PPD eating away at my initiative. And the dreads that formed naturally from the nose-dive in hormones were sparse (no seriously, I had two naturally knotted ones in my hair that made a hairdresser cry out in horror - not that it's hard to make a hairdresser cry in horror over my head). So I moved to the next logical, lazy, cabin-fevered choice - home hair dye.

I dreamed of having bright blue or cherry red hair. Off to the store I went, buying the best colours I could find. It is sheer luck that I live across from one of those hair salon stores that is actually open to the public.

Tubes and tubs of crayon worthy colours were bagged, bought, and dragged home. Test patches were done in hopes that I didn't need to use a peroxide treatment first.

Yah, I have medium dark brown hair that takes colour well but not that well. Blue made dick all difference and red just faded fast. Big sigh for the girl to lazy to peroxide her hair. That's something for the salon ($) and meant high-maintenance - something I wasn't prepared to do. I gave up.

The bag of dyes went to the back of the closet.

That was over two years ago and I tripped across the bottles and tubs this past weekend. Seemed kind of fitting that I started thinking about the hair again just when I started feeling that way again.

Identity theft by triads makes one want to exert their voice in the most strangest ways possible. I'm thinking a salon visit is in order.

In more positive news, I changed a light bulb yesterday. Not a high-skill task unless you are a punch-line to a joke, but to my pre-schooler (wah? she was a toddler last week) - to my child performing this chore garnered a "wow" with a deep suck in of breath (totally genuine). She then exclaimed "Mommy, you made it work". Yes my little Tim Gunn, I made it work. A little beam of pride burst from my chest and parted the dark clouds. I love this kid so freakin' much.

She Bangs?

I woke up in a foul state this morning.

And I'm not referring to my physical state and need for bathing but state of mind. Not good. So it pleases me I have something pleasant, or at least less confusing to post about. I like to post, I like to pout, I like to prattle on and on and on.

Anyhow, much to my relief and in some kind of twisted "hot or not" way, a meme has been born and unleashed it's fury upon the bloggysphereical thingy we call "read what I'm thinkin', yo" aka the interwebz. And I've been invited to play

You see, hottie mchotterson over at mothergoosemouse accidentally discovered that she had been deemed one of May’s Blog Babes over at a site called - wait for it - oh yes, the totally PC to the P and the C: Bangable Blog Babes.

OK, let's skip over the piece o' meat aspect of it all because uh.... you'd be right, but come on now - does it really hurt to be deemed bangable if you are a mom with a full dance card? OK, whatever, it's a total MILF thing - but still a meme was born, I was invited and I said "hell ya'".

Don't worry, the meme doesn't involve listing the most bangable blog babes. That would take too long considering I've met more than a few to make up a top five list (or for that matter, top fifty).

The drop dead gorgeous mothergoosemouse has invited folks to remember those days when we were at our most bangable (assuming it's not now because maybe it is, you hottie).

While this word bangable implies banged, in reality bangability usually meant the opposite to me. Bangability for me, translates to getting to the front of lines, never paying for drinks, free stuff, and fun stuff. Oh and honey, the air of mystery around "am I gonna get banged" makes for much more fun than the actual bang (there are exceptions to every rule).

Bang, Bang, Bang. Woah - how many times can I use the word bang in a sentence before invoking an email from my Dad calling me a shithead (just because Dooce's mom did it, doesn't give you permission there Gran'Bumper). Oh who am I fooling, he closed the browser at the first bang.

Anyhow - did I ever mention I worked with a guy named Bang? And we worked on a project together where in the client's cube farm I ended up sitting between Bang and a girl named Dimple. No sh*t.

Moving away from my tangent and back to meme:

My most bangable time was in my early 30s. I lost all the extra poundage of my 20s, my body was better than my teen years, I had money to burn, travel in my blood and I had a blast.

Seriously a blast. I was super confident, no longer stupid enough to fall for lines, saw through bullshit at 50 paces, and thinking outside the box made for awesome times without anyone doing a walk of shame.

I am cougar, hear me roar was my anthem. And roar I did.

Now it's more like I am MILF, hear me snore but whatever - that chicky up there in that photo has had a blast and still considers herself bangable - even with a muffin top.

Who to tag, who to tag?

Hmmmmm how about: the totally salacious nomotherearth and the completely erotic assertagirl.

Both completely bangable in my opinion (does that count for anything?). If you decide to play along (and please do) leave me a comment so I can come over and bask in your bangability (and as mothergoosemouse said - extra points for pics but not completely necessary).

Care to join the triad?

The truth will set you free.

Unless Chuck Norris has you, in which case, forget it.

Which reminds me, Backpacking Dad told me about this one that he heard about over at loraleeslooneytunes.com:

Go to google
Type "find chuck norris" in search
Then click "I'm feeling lucky".
Fun times.

Speaking of fun times, recently I have been reflecting on some of the primary yet nonetheless fascinating, aspects of depression.

For instance the always fun depressive cognitive triad of self, the immediate world around that self, and that so bleak, you gotta pull the shades, future. In each of those corners, the member of the triad surround and transfix on only those always supportive negative thought processes.

Anyone else thinking High Kong Underworld when I say triad? Didn't think so. Anyhow, when one sees glimpses of these mobsters of the membrane kind, one can only laugh in it's face because recognition is one step in moving past it. Some may not agree, but consensus is impossible to attain in matters of the brain.

Now there's a puzzle for you lovers of challenges: map and solve the riddles of the human brain in the next 10 minutes please.

Anyhow, that constant focus on the negative permeates everything. Just like that red onion I forgot to wrap and left in the fridge last week. Cupcakes with onion essence? Not so nice. The onion needs to be removed and presented to the Glad Man.

Dude, that was some stylin' hair on the Glad Man. Remember him and his gleaming white everything. Nary a speck of dirt on the man who takes charge and takes out your trash. Good gravy, why can't I find a picture of the Glad Man? Why did I just say gravy? Google you have failed me, what did I ever do to you?

Speaking of taking out the trash - the forgetfulness from having head up the backside is difficult to figure out. Ugly stuff and the extraction for such a problem can be a slow process. It's not as difficult when it's not wedged too deep, but this only happens when the owner of said head notices it is kinda dark in there and decides to do something about it.

Another fun thing to think about is that kooky depressive attributional style. Which strangely enough has NOTHING to do with the actual lack of style that so many of those people who get hit by the depression bus lose. Or should I say: they "lose all sense of giving a shit about" style? Sometimes it's a fine line.

Anyhow this kind of style is like having a best friend that wants you to look like a loser, an absolutely disorganized slob. And like an anti-entourage, this friend works to keep chipping away at the ice cap known as cool exterior. Chipping ice makes it melt faster in case you didn't know.

Arm chair psychology is so much fun. Everyone should try it at home.

For all the studying, research participation, hours spent armpit deep in others studies and hypothesis up the ying-yang, I never took any specific courses in child psychology. I figured I'd never need something like that. Kids, schmids - give me the abnormal folk - now there are some peeps I can understand.

Not taking Paiget more seriously than how will this factoid be posed as an exam question: mistake # 1,298,712.

Holy crap - this is the WORST Monday Morning Inspirational I've written so far.

Um so yah, sometimes the truth won't set you free. Some days it will make you clamber to the back of the cage and cringe.

If you are looking for something lighter, I am talking about Barbara Walters sex life over at Binkywood... oh wait... that isn't much better is it now.

SHOWER TIME: Two's a Charm

Okay so I'm talking baby shower, not bathing shower though I probably need one...

Anyhow, the lovely ladies Kristen, Liz, and Julie dreamed up a baby shower and the Playdate posse thought it was a FANTASTIC idea. The lucky ladies are Her Bad Mother, Mrs. Chicky, and Mrs. Chicken who are all having their second child sooner rather than later (most wish it was already over for Pete's sake but oh no, we all know it's up to baby).

The theme is "Share your favourite ass/advice (either your own or someone else's) when it comes to having two kids. What could you have done without knowing and what were you more than happy to hear?" (read all the details HERE because it's not just for those who actually have two or more kids - it's for everyone and there are prizes - super awesome prizes).

So what advice / assvice does a parent of one, like me, have to offer? Ummmm if I was looking for a slap around I'd say "sleep when the baby sleeps and then laugh hysterically like a hyena while the recipient cries because she realizes that advice didn't work with the first one, how's it supposed to happen with another child running around". But I'm not an asshole so let me think of something else.

How about "listen to your instincts, they didn't fail you the first time around and now they are rock solid because you are a rock star momma now". Yes, that's it. Take that expertise and tell the world to be damned.

That and also don't forget to take 10,000 pics of the baby like you did last time as not to create any feelings of inadequacy. I'm the third in the family and there are something like three photos of me before the age of 12. Trust me, I noticed that there are pictures of every-single-freakin' one of my oldest sisters naps, diaper changes, facial expressions, and other significant milestones. I noticed folks. Maybe you don't need to match bambino number one pic numbers, but don't forget to catch their moments too.

Oh I kid, who has time to take snaps while baby and tot wrangling?

Anyhow, I love all you ladies and only send you the most wonderful wishes and support. Remember to lean on your online blog buddies because that's what brings us together - common misery and love of the little things life has to offer and celebrity gossip (or is that just me?).

xoxoxo
motherbumper

So join in - all the details can be found over at Playdate.

Rockabye: from my treetop

The initial impact of parenthood snuck up and smacked me on the butt the day I discovered I was pregnant. Or I should say, we were pregnant. We both had talked about it - at length - in a very abstract "someday" kind of way but we were just married (and when I say just, I mean just).

In fact, before meeting SB I didn't even really think I'd actually be a mother. I love kids and had worked as a nanny while in university (now there is an awesome form of birth control right there - but I digress) but the idea of taking on such a huge responsibility, such a huge life changing event, just seemed so - so - so not me. I'm too selfish for that kind of commitment shit. I have too much to do, too many things left on my "list", too many things that rotate around the sun called "ME". I just got married for **** sake, I'm just wrapping my head around making joint decisions with my life partner. I'm not ready for this.

Or so I thought.

Obviously I'm a mother now. And I've gotten over the shock. Well almost.

It would be easy to say that the majority of parents that I encounter on a daily basis live by the so called "book" and for them that is great but that concept made me feel a little bit Stepford. I'm weird like that. Conformity has a place, just not near me. I don't judge those who do live that way, I figure whatever works for you and your family is the best thing for you and your family.

Anyhow, one thing I have learned in the past 40 odd months: motherhood is hard (no shit sherlock). It's especially hard and difficult when you don't follow the norm. Or the things that the media barrages us with on a hourly basis: make your child a genius, do this for your kid or they will be damned to be stupid for the rest of their lives, do that and your child will FAIL!

Nothing like having the toughest, most important job in the world, coupled with a constant fight against of tide of crap from mainstream media, assvice, unsolicited advice, and a public attitude that sometimes seems to scream "we know what's best for YOUR child".

Parenting is inspiring, exciting, and exhilarating. It's also exhausting, confusing, and depressing. Not to mention how you are sometimes made to feel guilty when you put yourself first. Can't mom just have a minute? ONE FREAKIN' MINUTE? Can't mom keep some semblance of her former life without having someone (albeit sometimes just the voice in my head) chime in "life has changed forever" in a sing-song patronizing voice? Yes, life has changed forever - life has changed for everyone because of this new life - but that doesn't mean I have to give up my identity. Does it? DOES IT?

Of course it doesn't.

So where am I going with these familiar themes that you have heard from many articulate parents in the blogosphere? I recently had the pleasure to read Rockabye: From Wild to Child, Rebecca Woolf's new biographical book. Yes, Rebecca as in Girl's Gone Child.

She has composed many of these personal debates, boiling kettles of turmoil, powder kegs of motherhood dilemma in a way that I could only dream of achieving. Because this lady can write. Readers of her blog know that.

Rockabye: From Wild to Child has some new and some familiar stories of preparing for and being doused in motherhood. Rebecca has no fear in stating the things that someone like me, has kept inside my aching brain. She opens her life up to the reader and shares intimate stories of her past - her wild days. She pours out her struggle with giving up the single life, dealing with the judgement thrown out from other people (real or perceived), the impact on her relationship with her husband and family. I could relate to so many of the stories she told - way more than I would ever admit because I'm shy like that.

Rebecca has a talent so many crave. She tells a story, in this case hers, and I listened. As I read, I hoped it wouldn't end because it was one of the most tasty morsels of life heard in such a long time. It's not a glossy giggly book about motherhood - though it did make me laugh in some places. But it also made me damp eyed, made me examine my experiences in motherhood, and definitely made me nod vigorously in recognition of familiar trials.

This book may not be the same kind of experiences that every mother has encountered but it's Rebecca's story, it's damn interesting and, it may make someone look at motherhood in a different light.


Oh and in case anyone needs to know what NOT to say to the a SWAT team when they have a gun to your head - turn to page 257. How many books on experiences in motherhood contain those kind of useful nuggets of information? Exactly. And it's things like that, that make this book unique and special.

A sincere thank you to the Parent Bloggers Network for including me on this book review tour. To read what others are saying, check out the "what they are saying so far" post over at the PBN blog.