trash heap

In case you haven't noticed, it's Monday.

You know, I figured once I was out of the cube farm routine that Monday wouldn't be as sucky-yucky anymore.  But guess what? Mondays still almost always suck and yuck.

Know what else sucks and yucks? Laundry.

In fact, the pile of laundry in our home may be no where near the epic Everest proportions it has achieved many times before, but this particular pile that recently cast a long, wide shadow over our marital nest, well that pile has achieved a new record holding title: most fragrant. Which is the very polite way for me to say that our stuff stinks to high h*ll.

In fact, the other night was when I first noticed the eau du laundree.  I was lying in bed, doing the daily review of things that I once again didn't get accomplished (self-flagellation is best done when horizontal to the ground and under a duvet) when the fragrance of spilled yoghurt drinks combined with towels, socks, and other smelly garments reached my nostrils and did a dance of pungent voodoo.

So I did what anyone else would have done in my situation: I pulled the pile of laundry into the living room.

Problem solved.

Such is life when you live at the mercy of a laundromat.

Hey, I can't be alone in this laundromat buziness... can I? Do you all own your own washers and dryers... omg if you all say yes, I'll cry.

Yes, I realize this post is light and fluffy but I'm debating burning the laundry pile and starting from scratch.  That requires some planning - more planning than actually doing said laundry, but a controlled indoor laundry fire is so much more fun, don'tcha think? And so much less to fold.

And to extend the joy of a limp fluff post, I'm also going to do some shamless self-promotion: I'm hosting ANOTHER Johnson's Baby Canada giveaway over at Drugstore Cowgirl so if you didn't win the last time, please enter again.

Oh and to be clear, I'm giving away neither babies or Canada but some yummy Johnson's Baby products to a Canadian.  It took me a while to figure out they didn't want me to give away Canadian Babies (because HELLO! Ultimate Giveaway) and instead some lovely, NICE smelling products from the Johnson's Baby line. Now that we have that all cleared up, I can go on ignoring my laundry and trying to figure out how many babies does it take to make a bottle of baby oil.  Anyone want to hazard a guess?

spill the beans

I'm over at MamaPop today talking about my guilty obsession with the team members from Paranormal State. Please (please) come over and visit; I have this fear of getting no comments and that is a shame I cannot live with.  Strangely enough I can live with the shame of publically stating that I would have totally gotten it on with a total square given the right circumstances, but that is there not here.

Anyhow, on with the motherbumpin' show....

The other day Gigi and I were on the subway travelling to meet SB. It wasn't rush hour when we left but it was in that pre-rush hour twilight where most seats are taken on the train. In other words, the crowds had not reached sardine status yet. Gigi and I had a seat together, she was on her knees looking out the window and I sat looking forward, trying to find zen during her extended period of distraction.

Her "but why" questions had ceased for the time-being and she was more interested in people watching. It is moments like this that makes for good public transportation with a preschooler. That is, until they invent teleportation devices built into strollers. They had better be working on that one, and if a parent is in charge, you know they totally are.

Anyhow, during this lull in what I frankly consider normal, if not exemplary preschooler behaviour, Gigi started the chant. You know, the repetitive chanting of a word or two that renders the word completely meaningless and instead turns it into a weapon of mass sanity destruction.

beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad 

It wasn't loud, she wasn't yelling, she was just chanting those words in a normal voice.

I knew where those words came from: beans for lunch, daddy was waiting for her. Two unrelated thoughts just being hammered into my skull with a technique worthy of Stockholm syndrome methodology.

beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad 

Actually it would be more accurate to say that to the best of my knowledge and understanding of human physiology, this chant was being hammered into my skull and all the loverly passengers who had operational ears devoid of sanity-saving buds on car 5591 on the TTC rocket.

But I still found zen. It can be difficult to achieve sometimes but over three years practice has gotten me to this point. So there I was, in that space I found in my mind's eye.Everyone else on the train seemed to be able to block it out, or at least they didn't seem too disturbed by my daughter's mantra of paternal musical fruit.

Alas, this zen is fickle and it doesn't take much to unbalance. In fact, one errant breeze from any direction may just force me to alternate resorts - like sticking a fork in my thigh to painfully symbolize how done I actually am.

beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad

As the chanting continued, I was in a calm place that the keyboard cannot describe other than to compare it to a tight-rope many parents know too well. For me, one misstep can plunge me into an abyss full of snapping barbs that fly from my mouth without restraint. I must remind myself that everyone has a story, everyone has a reason for being cranky, even if that reason is they just are.

And so I remain balanced and focused.

beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad beans dad

Then the woman sitting kitty corner to us, turned, leaned towards us, and hissed "SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHUSH" right into our faces, perhaps in case we weren't aware who she was aiming this gesture towards.

*snap* The tight-rope just shook and I'm plummeting towards the thorns.  But somehow I reach out and grab the rope above.

With that flail and recovery, I took out the aforementioned fork, stuck it in my thigh, swallowed back the barbs, and just smiled a real honest-to-goodness smile at this shushing woman. I hope the smile was just wide and not maniacal.  We locked eyes for a good ten seconds before she cast her peepers downward and retreated into what I assume was her internal zen room.  And with that, I retreated again to mine.

Finding calm may be incredibly difficult some days but always worth maintaining.  For that much I really do know.

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

PSA shameless flogging: Last day for one lucky Canadian reader to win a basket of Johnson's products over at Drugstore Cowgirl. Enter now!

drugstore cowgirl: an explanation

True Story: About a month or two back I was sitting with another bloggy friend talking about my review site.  I know, how boring, eh?

But there I was, droning on about how I love doing reviews and love saying yes to trying new things (insert dirty joke here) but hate writing the actual review,.  I'm often left wondering if I would have actually tried the product if it hadn't been offered to me gratis.

Anyhow, as I watched my friend's eyes glaze over from boredom, I kept talking about my small quandary.  She kept quiet, probably lost in a nice daydream, but that didn't stop me talking and eventually I came up with an answer to my reviewing dilemma - all - by - myself:

I decided that I am a drugstore cowgirl and that's the way things are going to be around my review blog from here on in.

Let me explain what the drugstore cowgirl is about.  Back in 2005, I had this vision in my mind that when I became a parent, Gigi would be an all organic baby, one of those totally natural kids that would only use products that came from the health food shops.  The health food shops I frequented back when I had a steady job and income - and that really cool stuff called disposable income.  Friends had gone the all natural route and thought: "that's me, I'm doing it up all natural with my baby, baby".  Yes folks, I actually speak like that in my head.

When my baby (finally) arrived, I was trying all the new all natural creams and lotions, buying samplers from every line and trying them each out, first on myself, then on her.  And many products were good (many were also yucky but I'm not here to talk about that) BUT many of those good products were also really expensive, and my wallet didn't agree with my product choices.  Like seriously didn't agree.  Yes, yes, my baby is worth more than the moon and stars put together, but I can't make money appear like magic. Yet.

So I decided to go back to the drugstores and to the brands I grew up using, and made it my mission to find body-friendly products that don't break the bank or cause us to break out in a rash.  So began the painless birth of my inner drugstore cowgirl.  Why cowgirl?  Why not, I've always wanted to be a cowgirl plus I look good in hats and I love boots.  And I've always found comfort in moseying around the drugstore and rustling up new products to try, in fact, I love doing it in foreign countries (like the US - ohhhh exotic Walgreens) and revel in useful and affordable goods that are easy to find.

Thus begins a new era in reviews for me: stuff I actually would buy, be able to afford, and love.  Novel eh?  Anyhow,  I'm kicking it off with a bunch of giveaways for Canadian readers over the next few weeks so come on over and enter to win a basket of goodies from Johnson's.

I'm not fancy folks but I love to give stuff away, and if there is something wrong with that, well I don't want to know about it ;)