They got it wrong: Sunday's Child is Full of Face.

whine, cheese, and home reno

SB and I revisited the great "should we keep the digital box?" debate since as a family, we watch sooooo little tv and yet we pay all those heaps of important monies to maintain -- monies we actually rarely see and only appear as numbers on a screen somewhere.

Hey - do you ever think about your money and how it doesn't really exist and then you get scared because OMG what if the computers take over and cancel all your money because you just know they will hate the humans that built them. And then you freak because there is no more physical money save for the forty-eight cents at the bottom of your purse and then -- JUST IN CASE -- you might run over to the local ATM and withdraw as much as you can and stuff it under your mattress just because, you know, WHAT IF THAT REALLY HAPPENS? No? It's just me then?

Okay - back to business as "normal"

ANYHOW - we aren't really watching enough tv to justify the price. But the shows we actually DO watch we want to hump and make babies with.

So pretty much each time I get my moneyknickers in a knot, out comes the great finger to punch the buttons on the phone to cancel the damn digital box.

Then I instantly get the cold feet.

Arctic dogs and my finger goes limp.

So I do the only thing I can do. I take those sniffling pups over to the couch to watch HGTV and exercise my digits on the remote control magic wand.

Seriously folks, I know I can live on just the internet, I know I can. I don't need no stinkin' cable box to satisfy my need for A&E, HGTV, and *drool* FoodNetwork.

I think I can do it.

*sob*

Or maybe not.

Hi, my name is katie and I'm a home reno/design/real estate junkie and this is something like my sixth billionth self-inflicted blog style intervention on my inability to give up the friggin' digital box and omg, I want to punch myself in the face because this is the stupiest thing to get hung up on.

But on a lighter note: my daughter obviously has my home decoration addiction. Isn't that so cute -- in a co-dependence and potential strange mother-daughter issues kinda way?

Anyhow, Gigi, at the sage age of three, decided that we should swap the kitchen with her bedroom and she actually pitched the entire idea to me on the way home from the grocery store.

Then she proceeded to start the reno as soon as she got home.

Acting as foreman by doing nothing but barking orders from the sidelines I koboshed the whole "moving the stuff out of the kitchen" thing. That actually saved her a lot of time on the project plan so she moved to phase two: moving the bedroom into the kitch..

BEHOLD! The great kitchen / bedroom swap:

What's that? The fact that I drew an arrow towards the sink full of dirty dishes made you notice those dirty dishes? I'm new to this real estate business so forgive me. So let's move on.

Believe it or not, this used to be an apartment size galley kitchen.

I KNOW - it's hard to believe.

Notice the Italian gate-style door detail. These are made from recycled dining room chairs and lovingly fashioned into the perfect entrance to a dream bedroom.

Let's go in.

This room has everything you could dream up on your wish list --  from a bag of fruit to ... well what more do you need than a bag of fruit? Let's hear it for vitamins! No scurvy sleeping here. Fruit flies maybe but definitely no scurvy.

The room remained this way until dinner time when I discovered the gas hook-up she advertised in the bedroom-flip-kitchen unit was made of playdoh and lego blocks.

I filed my grievances at the local court house this afternoon.

He expects to hear our case sometime in November 2011.

Seriously, I have no idea when the cat went to law school.

Because Growing Up is Hard To Do (for everybody involved - EVERYONE)

After a brief hiatus from parenting (me BlogHer, she Grandparents), we are back to being a family unit. Truthfully, it's reeking havoc with my new found sloth sleep habits.

Oh my word I could sleep all day and work all night if being a parent would let me. Sun tans never suited me and vitamin D comes in pill form, right? They wouldn't put it in pill form if it didn't work, right? Not sure who "they" really are but I know they are everywhere. Obviously my paranoia-meter is registering on high right now and I'm totally getting off topic.

So yes, I'm back in the parenting/chain gang full time and I just want to know exactly who gave my daughter permission to grow up so much during the week I was away. I demand answers right now.

This morning she set about playing by herself, -- which in itself is a miracle of sorts -- telling  me she had to set up her dollhouse. I walked away picturing us watching HGTV matharons of decorating shows together in a few years, sharing our tastes, trashing those that obviously have none -- you know, the bonding stuff.

A few minutes later she summoned me (because trust me, there is no other way to politely describe how she demands my specific attention and we are working hard on that one) and asked my opinion on her set up.

After taking it all in, I told her it was reminiscent of Charlie Bucket's set up in Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory which still is one of my all time favourite films. That is some sweet and seriously, seriously f'd up movie making there and I ate it up every last morsel with a spoon.

But yes, I loved how the majority of furnishings in her four room house is crammed into the top bedroom, right down to the milk jug and flower vase. Usually my impulse would be to rearrange the furniture and set it up "correctly", but this time I didn't even feel the urge flicker. She was proud and she could explain to me the purpose behind each placement and decorating choice. And she did.

The only items not included in the room were the ninjas warming their toes next to the fire place in a rocking chair. Ninjas. Oh how I love my child, she makes me burst with pride.

A little Tarintino in da' house

After the presentation, -- where if she had been selling, I would have been buying -- we spent some time together, quietly talking and playing and before long she obviously was off in her own imagination.

So I sat back and tried to figure out, who the heck let my little girl grow up so much when I wasn't looking. Because sometimes I just don't think I can take it and I need to tell them it's not okay. Seriously, not okay.

**********

I'm over at Aiming Low today and it's my inaugural post. You may be disgusted by it, or maybe you will love my mad housekeeping skillz, or be dazzled with my relentless run on sentences. Regardless, you probably will feel superior somehow. Read it now.

Perhaps if I spent less time staring at the tin and more time cleaning, posts like this wouldn't happen

Am I the only one who thinks this variety of baked beans sounds like p0rn terminology?

Okay, I guess I should have kept this to myself but seriously, I think an industry that spawned such awesome terms as the money sh0t and fluffer might just be using this one too. If not, I wonder if I can charge them money to start using it? Yes, I'd give Heinz their cut but you read it here: it's my idea suckers.

Oh man, I've been resisting the urge to google those words since I bought these beans earlier this week. Mostly because I'm slightly afraid of what the search results it might bring back.

Now that I've gone there, I don't really want to eat them. Let's not talk about this anymore.

AND OMG, stop staring at the coffee splashes on the side of my fridge. STOP IT.

I don't have time for stuff like coffee stains people -- please stop whispering about my dirty fridge. Details like random splashes went the way of the dodo when my loins came to fruition and something like three year old coffee stains on an appliance I don't even own does not rank high on my "things I must do sometime in the near future" list.  Actually that list doesn't even exist. Instead of a list of things-to-do, I have been trying out the "random scrawls on scraps of paper in the purse" methodology (RSOSOPITP) and so far I've had mixed results with RSOSOPITP. I'd tell you the exact results but I can't locate them right now because there somewhere at the bottom of my purse.

Anyhow, I'm over at Canada Moms Blog today talking about butts and I cannot lie: it makes me want to die of embarrassment.

And yes, I'm still screaming LET THEM EAT RICE like Marie Antoinette on a diet -- and I'll be doing that until next Tuesday.

Now pass me my purse because I have no idea what to do next. Be careful, that clinking sound is mommy's little helper in convenient travel-size.

It's definitely Monday

We had a class trip this morning, to a farm outside the city so we could show these here city kids where their brie and water crackers come from.

The highlight: The ride on the big yellow school bus "just like the big kids"

The lowlight: The mother who didn't know she was supposed to pack her kid a lunch for the trip.

The lowerlight: I was that mom.

It's Monday, I just know it is. Can I go back to bed now?

panning for old

Lately each time I sit down to write, instead of cranking out a somewhat complete story of katie yore, it's been a pile of trigger-induced randomness that makes a whole lot of no-sense except to me. And then sometimes not even.

Now because I'm extremely kind, I've spared you any uber-silliness of random thoughts that are as f'd up as pigs in space. Though holy crow, I really miss Pigs in Space. Mind you Veterinarian's Hospital also brings back fond memories of televisions with dials and the notion that remote controls were something out of a James Bond movie. Have I mentioned that lately I find it slightly disturbing that I can remember the days before bank machines, remotes for televisions, and sweet baby Jesus, I remember the days before Betamax and VHS. I may have even had my first date before those items became the every day norm and I think I'm going to have a panic attack now.

Speaking of attack, I had my tunes cranked the other day and I forgot how easy it is to get lost in Massive Attack. How my fancy got hardcore tickled when I blindly chose the movie Go at the theatre one night.  Not only did the show give me a dead sexy Timothy Olyphant and Taye Diggs, it changed my mind about present day zombie girl Katie Holmes, all wrapped up in a tickity-boo soundtrack. That film is definitely on my top ten list. Which one, I'm not sure, but it's on one of my top ten lists most certainly. Probably the one that also has Very Bad Things. Yeah, I liked that movie and I'll admit it.

Oh and my official first date was to the movies. This is Spinal Tap. I remember being very confused because I wasn't sure if it was really a documentary or not (if you really think I thought it was real, tsk, tsk, I just play dumb online)(I have a bumper sticker on my back that says "my other job is neurosurgeon")

Hey, my daughter's current number one musical request these days is Yeah Yeah Yeahs Zero. She knows the words because she was singing along full blast today. Or at least I think she knows the words. I come from a long line of "excuse me while I kiss this guy" kind of folks and I'm kind of hoping she didn't inherit my talent to butcher lyrics or teeth for that matter.

Not that I butcher teeth, I just have bad ones and I hope my daughter hasn't inherited them. Did you ever see that episode of The Simpsons when Lisa needs braces and the dentist shows her the Big Book of British Smiles? Yeah, I'm stopping the free association theme right here before I scare everyone away.

Flexing the atrophed blog muscle is more painful than initially expected.  Next up: magnets for weirdness ~ anyone able to relate?

damn fine pie

Okay, so I know this story is going to be no where near as exciting as running over Kelsey Grammer with 96 rolls of toilet paper but it would be really nice if you stuck around. Plus: I've got pie.

In recent days we have been experiencing some Spring-like weather. Now I'm not completely oblivious to the fact that according to the calendar and mass media, and oh yes, those fancy scienceymatiffic folks, it actually is Spring, so I shouldn't be surprised by the overall weather being Spring-like. But I don't quite trust the weather gods just yet.

For all I know, there could be a metre of snow headed my way, ready to wallop all my over-confident actions so the gods can sit back and  laugh about it while pointing fingers at my lameness. Lame-labelling actions like packing away all the hats, gloves, snowpants, and parkas in the back of the storage closet, leaving the house without packing brandy chocolate emergency supplies, freeing the sled dogs loose for another season, etc. Because you never know when snow is going to hit and I usually don't stop worrying about flurries until at least mid July. Because by July I'm complaining about how flippin' hot it is and for those who don't believe it ever gets hotter than Hades anywhere in Canada, well those people have obviously never spent a summer in Toronto. Summers so foul and humid, that you can fry eggs on the sidewalk, remove wallpaper with a dirty look, and realize how pungent fellow human beings can get - and those are the ones who bathe on a regular basis.

BTW if that wasn't a tangent, I don't know what one is.

So yes trying to resume the topic track, nice weather brings out my neighbours (honest, that really is the topic). For the most part, I see a lot less of my neighbours in the cold weather months and I'm sure it has nothing to do with me refusing to leave the house for months on end. Because I may hide from the elements but I have windows people, AND binoculars, and I know how to use them, all stealth-like even. Anyhow, seeing so many of the neighbours during this past week was where I was headed in this "it shouldn't be this long yet it is" post.

So yes (still talking, which is unbelievable because once you reach the pie, you'll feel lightheaded. And by lightheaded, I might mean slightly resentful if you think of your time as being precious) I've been meaning to mention these neighbours for a while because they both always make me double take for no other reason than I'm prone to discrete rubber necking when it comes to famous or interesting looking people. Or at least I hope it's discrete. Oh great, now something else to be hyper paranoid about.

Anyhow, to make a completely short story longer than ever necessary, almost making it borderline criminal in preamble: For the past three years, I've been meaning to mention I live on the same block as the faux Bob from Twin Peaks and faux Wilford Brimley. Seriously. These two men are what one might call: dead ringers. Scouts honour. And of course I have no witnesses but my life is like a sitcom so I know I'll be proven right sometime by the end of the season and/or character arc.

Yeah, so the faux-celebrities of my life come out in when the thaw starts and I don't know much more about these two unrelated faux celebs other than faux-Bob wears denim all the time and his grey hair is always flying behind him plus he always looks kind of angry and faux Wilford hangs out at the local doughnut shop, wears a plaid shirt and fishing hat all the freakin' time. And he always looks like he's contemplating oats. It's whacked.

No wait, correction: this post is whacked.

Anyhow, on a completely unrelated note: my daughter was so angry with me the other day she called me a bee. She stomped her feet and spat at me with an accusing finger for emphasis "You. Are. A. BEE!" and I immediately thought "that's the best you've got kid? you have so much to learn my grasshopper." but I held my tongue. Sometimes I'm surprised by my own maturity. But that is always quickly cancelled by my lack of focus.

Oh look: shiny pie.

[image: green shock's flickr ]

This Horton does not help the Who

Insects. Arthropods. Ephemeral little fuckers. I have this completely over the top reaction to motherf**kin' bugs. It's not that when I think about them I get particularly squeamish or anything, I'm actually really brave in my head (exception: these guys and these guys, just googling these images made my hands fly off the keyboard when landing on that page.) But when I actually see a bug that is larger than say, a fleck of dust, I wig out. My Horton would not have helped that Who. When I set my eyes on something bug-like, I suffer a full body paralysis and I'm rendered helpless. How to rob me? Just throw a beetle in my direction and then grab my wallet - odds are, I will tell the police it was the beetle and cry to the point where everyone will be very uncomfortable in the room. I'm really good at doing that.

In fact, it's a rare occasion when I've been able to overcome this bug paralysis to snuff out the intruder - so rare that I can't actually think of a time it's happened - but I'm sure it has (well, I hope it has.) When I'm not rendered completely dysfunctional due to bug exposure, my only other reaction is to do what I term the "Scoobie-Doo run", where I actually run on the spot in mid air before disappearing over the horizon in an inexplicable cloud of dust.

While visiting friends in Korea they told me about this daily visitor they encountered and christened the "shit bug." He often entered through the screenless washroom window to land near whoever was occupying the throne and made a loud alien chittering noise. I lived in fear of meeting this bug and each time I went into their washroom, I made sure to be a quick as humanly possible. Let's just say I didn't skip my fibre while staying with them, for fear of extended visits to the throne room. Oh great, now I have Sade stuck in my head. Not that that song is about pooping (is it? She does say minimal waste, maximum joy). OK, I'm totally getting off track.

Anyhow, the shit bug got me but not in the washroom. I was sitting out in the living room when I saw what I thought was a sparrow fly in the window. It went once around the room and landed smack next to my head. With a thud. And I swear on a stack of bibles, it was the size of my hand and if you have ever seen the movie Starship Troopers (one of my all time favorites - hey, don't judge me), it looked EXACTLY like the BUGS.

Exactly. I swear.

And my friend said that I actually jumped up, and while suspended in air, ran like my name was Shaggy, and I had just seen The Stone Creature and The Ghost of Katazoma in episode two of season one of The Scooby-Doo Show called "The Fiesta Host Is an Aztec Ghost". What? You don't remember that episode. Well apparently I ran without the benefit of traction and that was the last time I sat in their living room without wearing a bug suit and carrying one of these:

What? You don't want to read about my bug phobia? You just want to know where I get off not posting for eons. Hell, I bet you don't even remember who I am it's been so long since I've posted. You are probably saying "who is this and how did she get in my reader?". Or not.

Yah, well... I will explain why.

Later.

Maybe.

Anyhow, nice to see you all, I'm just working in the motherbumper blogging muscles after an extended leave and I have a fear of over-extending myself. So I'll stop right about...here.

An Open Letter to Jen

Hi Jen,

I know you don't know me, and in fact I'm not even what one would term a "fan".  It's not that I don't like you, it's just I suspect that you are kind of needy.  But that is neither here nor there Jen, I'm writing this letter to you woman to woman.

Okay, I've got to be honest about two things: I'm way behind in my Jennifer Aniston gossip reading, and I really don't know anything about this guy John Mayer.  As far as I know, I've never listened to his music (am I missing anything? I ask that in all seriousness). Truthfully, the only things I know about John is he might be dating, marrying, breaking-up with or impregnating you at this very moment and also that many women think he's cute.  Congrats.

Now despite my obvious info-gap in all important current affairs in your life, and in order to retain my street cred, I really must explain that I do know all the other "involved parties" associated with you.  I haven't been living in a cave Jen, just a musical dark age that started around 2002.  So just to make sure this is clear: I'm very familiar with the couple that is often associated with you - the one formerly know as Brangelina (but I know I shouldn't call them that because they hate it). Brangelina, Brangelina, Brangelina (see? solidarity sistah).

Anyhow, I heard John was going to attend the Oscars with you this past weekend, which leads me to believe he’s 100% on Team Aniston [insert dirty joke here].

But is he Jen?  *raising my eye brows*  Jen, I think John needs to do some damage control on some of the comments he's made in the past before you guys can move forward into the future or you should dump his a*s.

There, I said it.

Here's just one example Jen: John did an interview with Rolling Stone a couple of years back and cracked the joke:

"Everyone thinks Brad Pitt has it great because he married Angelina Jolie. I think he has it terrible, because when Angelina Jolie is giving you a blow job, what do you tip your head back and think of to help you finish? You have nothing left — just Jesus on a polar bear in the middle of the snow, saying, 'You greedy motherfucker, I've got nothing for you.'"

So basically he is saying that your ex-husband is hooked up with the hottest woman on the planet and that the baby Jesus could make nothing more perfect for man to imagine when getting some.  Which, um yes, he was in his full right to say, and he did say this back before you were dating but hello?  If my current boyfriend had once said that about the woman who immediately, if not prior-to, hooked-up with my ex after our divorce – and she pretty much instantly gave him a mind-boggling traveling caravan of a family - something my ex was reportedly wanting but I was resistant to for obvious good reasons – and it’s pretty freakin’ obvious that I probably didn’t want to end the relationship as quickly as he had, well than I think at least one of my eyes would bulge out of my head if he didn’t somehow try to make up for that. In public.  Very public.  Like sky writers, Times Square billboard, and maybe an announcement from the throne or Obama.

Because seriously Jen, should I lie and say that if I was you, I'd think that was fine and totally cool because we are that cool and confident a couple even though we seem to break up every six weeks?  Sure, I'd like to think I was more confident than that, that my current relationship was cool enough to have that kind of witty off-hand banter fly around in a very public way.  Emphasis on the public way part.

But if my current boyfriend said something like that, about people we actually knew in real-life (as opposed to "who would you do if you could do any celebrity" kind of free ticket - that's the important difference), I have to admit that I'm pretty sure my confidence would be wounded.  And I'd make him take it back lest I feel stabby.  You know, the kind of stabby that hails from the kick-your-cute-ass-to-the-curb variety. I've never claimed to be over-confident in the game of love.

Look Jen, like I said earlier I've never really been on Team Aniston or for that matter Team Jolie, though to be honest, I'd probably join Team Jolie because she seems to be less, um... whiny boring I like her wardrobe better.  But that is neither here nor there.  Jen I'm going to be blunt: dump the boyfriend because (omg, I can't believe I'm saying this) he's just not that into you (I swear on a stack of People magazines that didn't come to me until I started typing that sentence). Dump him, eat a pint of Ben&Jerry's, make another romantic girl comedy - no scratch that, while I'm being honest, you are getting a bit mature for those roles - go find another The Good Girl or Office Space, and please for the love of shoes, don't date anyone.  Because as soon as you stop looking, he will find you.  Or at least that's what I've learned from reading all those Harlequin Romances I find at the laundromat.  Look girl, you don’t want to become the Rodney Dangerfield of the first decade of the new millennia, Paris was doing just fine at wearing that crown.

I know it's none of my business Jen, but I just had to put it out there.

Sincerely,
katie

PS - since I'm on a roll when it comes to talking to celebs, I interviewed supermodel and self-esteem advocate Emme over Savvy Source Toronto (for realz).

Edit to add: I forgot to also shamelessly promote the giveaway for Canadian readers going on over at my review site, drugstore cowgirl check it out for details on how to win a bunch of Johnson's Baby products.

not the post I lost earlier today*

* The title refers to the fact that I wrote a completely different post earlier today but it's gone.  I started it offline and then, like a tool, I finished it online, pressed publish, and Blogger promptly ate it. And I'm sure it tasted great with that side of fava beans and nice chianti you freakin' cannibal of a platform.  So instead, I present you with a completely different post that bares no resemblance to the highly probable oscar winning screenplay of a post that is currently somewhere in the pits of hell known as the error log on Blogger.  This one has been screaming to get out for a few days, so I unleash it, raw and all crazy-like.  Blame Blogger if you don't like it.

Remember back before we all had a mobile phone implanted in our head and used the interwebz to communicate every single brain fart 24/7?  Now we twitter when we pass gas in hopes that it amuses the masses.  What... that's just me? Well that's embarrassing.

Anyhow, do you remember when a PDA was something that made you uncomfortable if it was overused in public by friends - or worse, by strangers on the bus?  These days a PDA just provides amusement or frustration.  Like when you see some wired idiot chick walk into a lamppost because she was all caught up in twitting that she just grabbed grande caffe latte from the rudest little punk ever, and she needs to share it with the world.  Because I never do anything like that anymore, I don't think my plastic surgeon could save me again.  Or worse - when you see a caregiver on the playground answering something on their device that is way more important than stopping little Johnny from thumping all the other kids on the head because he's so desperate for attention, he'll do anything to get it.

We are so instantaneous these days, I find it kind of funny remembering the excitement I could barely contain the Christmas Day I received an answering machine, one that used  a microcassette *ooh ahhh cool 80s technology*.  I could leave the house and not miss my calls! WE WERE GETTING SO CLOSE TO THE SPACE 1999 ERA,  I could feel it in my the seat of my acid washed jeans.

Not sure why I have to say this but for the record, I actually never owned anything acid washed.

We now live in an era where you if you want to be found, you can be which is something I'm very thankful didn't exist when I was in my twenties.  GPS back than was probably just a STD.

Anyhow, when I was scraping the recesses of my poor overtired brain, trying to remember the details of the apartment from the Truffle post, I for no particular reason, suddenly remembered a weird incident that was creepy and pathetic.  And it made me think about how it would have panned out in this day and age of rocket ships, robot vacuums, and tiny portable telephone machines.

So begins my next rambling story:

After surviving the aforementioned small demented historical group of Katie's roommates from hell, I moved into a place on my own.  I lived in that same tiny split level studio for many years and loved having my space - albeit teeny tiny - to myself.  Though during times of extra creepiness, like the story soon to follow, it would have been nice to have someone around.  Thank goodness for security buildings is all I can say.

At that time, I had a friend, who I will call Carver for no other reason than I like the name, and he was from a super large family.  Carver had over twenty siblings, and being one of the youngest, he often hung out with his nephews that were older than him or the same age.  The ones I met, lived in the same tiny town and they loved to visit their big city Uncle.  Some would come down for weekends to party and every so often, I'd join in on the fun.  Well evidently, one of his nephews, who I will call Blaine, took a shining to me and decided he was going to try and woo me.

So one weekend, he came down from his rural home to get him a mountain bride take a chance at me.  It happened to be the same weekend I had decided to go camping with some friends.  When we went camping, we did back country, involving lots of portaging and walking ridiculous distances to be rewarded with kick ass nature, both stunning and painful. Worth every damn bug bite.  So I was gone probably four days, and when I returned I was pleased to see the blinking message light. Then I realized I had fourteen messages. That couldn't be good.

I remember thinking "who is this?" when I listened to the first message, which went something like this:

"Hi... it's Blaine... I'm in town this weekend... I was wondering if you wanted to catch a movie this afternoon... I'll try calling you back in an hour..."

Then the next message:

"Hi, it's Blaine again. Remember me? I'm Carver's nephew and I thought maybe we could catch that movie. I'll try back in an hour...."

Then:

"Hey, it's me again, I'm just across from your place and thought I'd try while I was passing by... I'll try again in an hour..."

Then

 "I'm at the theatre, I bought two tickets so I'll just wait out front here, that way we don't need to wait in line"

Then:

"Hey there, I wonder where you are? I wish you'd answer..."

Then:
"Look, I've called a bunch of times, why aren't you answering your phone? Where are you?"

This went for the rest of the messages, he was sounding pretty ticked, and way more than a little stalkerish.  Basically these calls spanned more than a twelve hour period.  Which is pretty damn wacky doodle.  And totally qualifiies as creepy in my books.  Plus, how the hell did he know where I lived?

I remember being stunned and totally freaked out.  Like someone was watching me and ohmyholyfing I need a knife.  Calling Carver was the next thing I did. He didn't even know his nephew was in town that weekend and he was super apologetic when I calmly told him what I had just listened to.  I specifically remember I couldn't believe how calm I was, because I also felt like screaming at him and letting all my terrified anger out on him.  But instead, despite feeling stunned, I calmly - in an almost threatening tone - told him that if I ever heard from Blaine ever again, in any way - ever - period - I would do something about it.

What exactly I would do, I had no idea, but I was really into Sam Peckinpah movies at that time.  My imagination probably ran wild.

And of course I know I shouldn't joke, but that is how I deal with things. And I'd be lying if I said this was the only time this happened to me, or was even the most threatening.   Regardless, I was completely creeped out and really pissed off. Pissed off because when crap like this happens, it's threatening - there's always that "what if I end up the story of the week on Dateline?"  Pissed off because "How freakin' dare he go all creep on my answering machine?"  Pissed off because how dare he make me think twice before answering the phone (because Hello, call display was still a rare feature on phones back in the olden days).

I was tempted to change my number after that but somehow I was pretty sure he'd never call again.  And I was right, he never did call again as far as I know.

But when I thought of this story recently, I wondered how that would have panned out in present day.  You know if I was twenty something now, I would have had a cell phone glued to my ear, and that makes me wonder if he would have been able to be all creepy to me more.  Somedays I hate being so accessible and in truth, I rarely turn on my phone.  In fact, I have no idea where my phone is right now.  And honestly, somedays I wonder if it was incidents like this, that made me hate the phone so much.

I dunno, this was a ramble down memory lane that made me wonder... anyone else have a similiar story?  Lots of freaks out there.  And for once, I'm not talking about me (or you).

breakfast of truffles

When I was twenty, I lived right next door to a very busy diner.  It was one of those classic greasy spoons filled with formica table booths, vinyl seats repaired with large weaves of duct tape, and a team of waitresses in matching uniforms the colour of baby poo.  I think they also may have worn those paper hats and had ruffled hankies pinned like a peacock tail behind their name tag, drawing more attention to the bustline than the stretchy polyester ever did - but that detail may be window dressing, care of my brain.  If they didn't have the hats and decorated busoms, they should have.  Trust me, it would have completed their outfits in ways that a coordinating handbag never could.

In the front of the restaurant was a row of stout vinyl stools along a counter where patrons could drink bottomless cups of coffee.  It was coffee brewed to a point that could only be referred to "chewy" if speaking in the positive.  There was also a large front window, greasy more than transparent, framed with curtains that never moved, and accented with wall-to-wall spider plants hanging on chains painted gold for extra class.  A real five-star place.

All I can remember about the menu is breakfast was cheap and the poutine was acceptable in a pinch.  The men who worked the grill looked the type that would say "No Coke. Pepsi" if you asked for a variation from their "speciality".  And if you get that dinosaur of a reference, you're my generation baby.  But that is neither here nor there because it was the diner that revisited me recently and not the oily men in hairnets or waitresses with heaving unibusoms.

I lived in a third floor walk up in a renovated row house.  The apartment was large, had a deep bathtub with claws (that was the clincher for the rental), and built in wall cabinets with glass doors.  My room was in the front, overlooking a busy street, and whenever the pizza delivery man pulled up to collect his next order from the joint across the way, the thumping of his techno music made my window rattle in protest.  My windows did not like his particular choice of fat beat, she preferred Nirvana.

That's all I remember about that particular apartment - well that and a roommate who was the first in a small, demented historical group of my roommates from hell.  She was the Hedy to my Allie a la SWF.  But she will be part of a future post, not this one.

Anyhow, I worked retail back then, so my mornings rarely started before nine.

*let there be a moment of silence for the days where I considered waking up before 9am a travesty and miscarriage of justice*

Once a week I would be startled and roused up at the unearthly hour of five a.m. by a loud truck pulling up in front of the diner.  Two men would jump out of the back of an open-back truck that looked like it was built from rust, gum, and popsicle sticks.  They would loudly roll out two huge empty metal barrels - without any consideration for my sleep - into the alley behind the diner.

BANG bang bang bang THUD.... roooooooooooooooool thud
BANG bang bang bang THUD.... roooooooooooooooool thud

And then, using a dolly, they would pull out of the alley two capped barrels.  They would grunt, swear, then grunt some more, swear some more, and eventually get these two obviously heavy barrels into the back of the truck.  Then one of the men would slap the roof of the cab to get driver's attention. He would spark the sparkless engine and off they would go.  Standing in the back among a group of like barrels.

Always at five a.m.. Always two barrels.

Being a city gal my entire existence, leading a charmed sheltered life, I had no idea what was in those barrels.  Nor did I care.  I only cared that these yahoos disturbed my precious precious sleep.  Something I still whine about to this day.

But one day, or should I say night... no, it was more like a night that morphed into a day, like it does, but without the benefit of my sleeping... I found out what was in the barrels.

It was a late night of partying, a night so long and prolific, cab fare was spent at an after-hours club - because a walk home seemed like a really good idea as a forked over my last five bucks for a double rum and coke.  A few of my party friends lived in the same 'hood, so we did the walk to sobriety together.

As we rounded the corner to my apartment, I saw that 5 a.m. truck coming up the street.  Waving my friends goodbye, I stood by the door to find out exactly what these men ferried in the barrels - even though up to this point, I didn't care.  Maybe I was feeling ballsy enough to tell them to be more considerate of my sleep, you know, being fueled with liquid courage as they say, but more than likely I saw this as an opportunity to learn exactly what was going on.  My intentions are always that pure, I'll have you know.  Anyhow, I stood in the doorway to my place, key in hand, trying to look casual and hoping I didn't sway too much as they pulled up to the curb.

And that's when it hit me.

The stench.

A stench akin to rotting flesh mixed with eau du the bottom of my locker which was always crammed with the rotting shitty lunches my Mom made (sorry Mom) is about as close as I can get to describing what eminated from this truck as it pulled up.

I couldn't stick around.  I fumbled with my key, trying to cease the need to inhale, and barely made it into the stairwell.  It was a rare weekday off and as I stumbed into bed, I heard the thump of a hand on the cab roof, and away they drove - without a doubt leaving their distinct perfume to hang in the air.

Not having a clue as to what these men were doing and why they smelled like that, I did what I always do when mystified - I asked my Dad.  Screw encyclopaedias - my Dad knows almost everything.  And of course, he knew.  They were pig farmers picking up slop.

So you ask, why tell this ever so exciting flashback from the annals of my mind?  I say "why not?"

Oh and recently I found a bag in my daughter's school backpack - a knotted plastic bag from the grocery store that had something wet inside.  When I opened it up, for a split second I was once again standing on that street, inhaling the stench of the pig farmer's slop in barrels - albeit on a small scale.  A small pair of three days wet underwear, left to ferment in plastic and pee had taken me on that trip back in time.

Ain't life grand?

warped flashbacks with soundtrack

Okay, so I'm sitting in bed right now and listening if I were a Carpenter which is like having a warped flashback with soundtrack.

The Carpenters Greatest Hits was one of the first eight-track Santa brought us way back in the seventies - the same year he left a groovy black and chrome eight-track player under the tree.  How my family loved The Carpenters.  Because of Karen, I always wanted to play the drums.  Instead I just dated drummers.  That little tidbit says something right there, folks - mark my between the lines word.

Yet it's not the Carpenters I'm listening to - it's Red Kross covering Yesterday Once More and Red Kross doesn't take me to the 70s.  Red Kross is early nineties and I'm perma-drink in hand party girl thumping in the front row while the McDonald brothers grab my fancy with Jimmy´s Fantasy. Holy crow, what I can actually remember of those times was mostly insane and totally unsuitable for this blog. And I had totally forgotten until just this moment, that it was Jason Lee in the video for that song.  Back then, he was no Earl, he was Airwalks and Stereo.

So yes, innocent childhood memories warped by a murky blackmail-ladened period.  Ain't life grand?

Anyhow, listening to this old stuff, regardless of the era it makes all shiny and perfect looking, is making me all cliché and forcing me to reflect on the past year.  What a coincidence that this is the end of the year.  Or maybe it's no coincidence that I'm doing all this reflecting and shit, because I recently compiled a list of the favourite posts I wrote over at Savvy Source, for the last list day of 2008.  And now that I think about it, that post probably had more to do with the reflecting on the past year, at least more than the music presently cranked in my buds.

ANYHOW... 2008 was an incredibly interesting year.  I try to refrain from the use of adjectives good or bad because sometimes the bad is good when allowed to age, n'est pas?  Yes, tho' it is true that sometimes the bad stays just that: bad.  But the good, good sometimes springs forth from a turd.

Oh wait - now it's Elvis Costello Everyday I Write The Book and I'm happily mired in the eighties.  Oh hell, now I need some Squeeze.  Back in the days that accompanied that particular score, failed relationships seemed like the end of the world, males were the only mystery, and everything else was melodrama circled with black eyeliner.  Now it's all about keeping sanity while pursuing the unattainable dewiness of youth.  Oh how things have changed.

Shuffle has taken me to Buffalo Tom Taillights Fade. Now there is a hungover roadtrip background.  Winding roads, salted wounds, razor blades, and unsuitable suitors - that's what that is.

Shuffle has made me her bitch: Talking Heads Once in a Lifetime. Oh please don't make 2009 same as it ever was.  Wait - that's not possible.  For some reason, I associate the Talking Heads with the first time I saw Eraserhead.  Now there's a cinematic cherry popping experience - perhaps that explains the evolution of my movie snobbery.  Woah, did you miss that tangent because I never saw it coming - that was a total blindside that made no sense.

So you know how the sense of smell is the strongest memory trigger?  I beg to differ.  iTimeTravel sometimes with clarity that hurts.  But that which did not kill me makes me stronger and go all Nietzsche on your ass.  Hey 2009, I [once again] proclaim to learn from my mistakes.  Word.

Care to join - what's your resolution(s)?  I'm writing a list of my other resolutions and probable failure rates for my next post.  My dentist will be proud - I put flossing daily on this list.  Little does he know that the probable failure on that one is 97%.

You'll see that life is a frolic and laughter is calling for you......

Confession: some days I dress like Mrs. Roper.

True Confession: I dress like Mrs. Roper daily.

Yah, I know, shame on me for not being truthful in my first confession but whatever.  I'm obviously working on it so give me a break.

So yes, I dress like Mrs. Roper and I'm both outwardly ashamed and secretly pleased.  And I guess if all my years of schooling tell me anything: I'm addicted because I know it's wrong, yet I cannot stop.

Why is it wrong? Holy crow, I'm barely forty yet I'm dressing like a Floridian retiree who clips coupons for Polident and then tries to pick up the bag boy at the Piggly Wiggly.  A bag boy who is trying to ignore me while he packs my cat food, denture adhesive, corn pads, and expired luncheon meat into first a paper bag, then a plastic bag as per my request (an excuse to talk to him really).  And then when I follow up with "can you carry those to my car, tiger" while reaching over to him with one hand liberally slathered in White Shoulders, I purr ~ which sounds more like a death knell thus permanently scarring this poor boy who is just trying to save up enough cash for an xBox.  Yet, I know I'll make it into his latest cheerleader fantasy because being The Roper gives me the ability to do this and I know how to use it.  Junior will be sniffing caftans and dreaming of a Walmart version of Zsa Zsa Gabor for years to come.  Rawr.

And that makes it wrong.  So very, very wrong.

Anyhow, I can't help the fact that I find mumus (mumi? mumues?) incredibly comfortable and liberating.  I never ever feel chafe from my mumu, my mumu never tells me that I ate one pint to many of Ben & Jerry's too much, and my mumu always loves me [does it or does it just enable me?].

But today I think I pushed the envelope.  Whilst prancing around the apartment doing some cleaning, ~ because if you are going to clean, you might as well prance, ~ I was wearing the most hideous (yet comfortable, oh so comfortable) of outfits.  And while a technically complete outfit is more acceptable than an undone nursing bra, I still should be a bit more considerate of my neighbours.  For today I took my prancing straight out into the hallway and down to the garbage chute (truth: the prancing was suspended, I walked like a "normal" person) and smiled and waved at no fewer than two of my neighbours.

On my way back to the apartment, the teenage girl who lives across the hall came home and while I waved and gave a friendly hello, I saw the look on her face.  The look that said "OMG, I never EVER want to grow up and dress like that".

And she was so right.

But too bad kiddo, it will happen.

Mark my word, it will more than likely happen to her.   And on that first day when she remembers me, it will probably be the same day she plucks that loose fitting, loud print garment off the rack and exclaims "this looks soooooo comfy, and it's only six dollars!".  And then she will think of me again, after becoming addicted to wearing this oh so comfy garment, for one day she too will answer the door wearing it and in her mind's eye, a montage flashback of all the major fashion violations involving unattractive loungewear will happen in a quick gut-wrenching moment. And there I will be, in my orange/black/turqoise/yellow/lime green goriness gloriousness waving hello like a crazy woman.

Perhaps I should stop scarring so many people.

Nah, I value my comfort over some poor kid's neurosis (even if I may have contributed to it) (omg, I AM an addict).

the magic show

Hey, remember how my daughter likes to test the limits in local language laws and find out what words can be said, and which ones shouldn't be said - ever - even when the parental units crack a quick giggle smirk before handing out a warning or a reprimand?  Yes, well, one must find the humour and love the mouth on three, because three be a wily one.

Picture it, just after dinner, Gigi plans a magic show for her dad, allowing mom to sneak off and do some laundry (oh to have my own washer and dryer... and dishwasher... and maid but if I had to choose one, I'll take the washer and never return to the building's basement laundry ever again).

ANYHOW, if you are still awake after reading my boring lifestyle challenges:  Gigi planned a magic show and even set up chairs for her audience (stage: her bed).  She put on many shows, turning every thing (or so it seemed) in her room into something else, it was apparently an amazing show (I missed it but did hear the dialogue - which was also an amazing show and YES I'm getting there).

At one point during the show, apparently during the audience interaction segment (she's really organized folks), SB decided to ask G about the doll she was holding on stage.  She told him it was her daughter, so he inquired as to her daughter's name.


Gigi gave a sly look and softly said "As*y".  SB asked for clairification, to which she decided to not risk a warning and replied "Bassy".  She then proceeded to laugh and laugh and laugh.  And so did her dad.

I really hope she doesn't pull these stunts at nursery school.  I really, really hope she doesn't (oh you know she does but the denial ain't just a river in Eygpt ya' know).

tgif

For the first time since I don't know when, I played hooky this afternoon.

Oh yes I did.

I took off in a flash like my last name was Cullen as soon as my beloved Edward SB came through the door.

And yes, in my afternoon of well coordinated freedom, I caught a matinee of Twilight.

Because I am a Twilight cougar, here me roar.

Damn Edward is hot.

BTW: I give it a thumbs up because it doesn't try to be anything but what it is: a teen movie based on a hot book.  And when I say hot, I mean the hottest thing without sex that I've read since I don't know what.  Sure there is canned cheese, but like I said, it's a teen movie and if I was fifteen I'd eat it up with a spoon.  Since I am not fifteen, I just enjoy the intense eye candy and the daydreams of what I'd do if I was Bella.  And trust me, I'd do lots if I was Bella (rawr) - but you know, if I could but wouldn't because HELLO: vampire.  But you know - a cougar girl can dream, can't she?

Oh yes, and look up, look way up, right up there in the address box of your browser.  Yup, I finally set up my own domain.  Only took two years.  DAMN I'M LAZY.

I swear it's chocolate, I swear

We are really working on Gigi's independence in these here parts. 

On school nights we are now planning the next day's clothing so there are no fights in the morning (how I dread the clothing fights).  If she approves a totally weather-suitable outfit, dressing seems to go way more smoothly for everyone involved (translation: me).

For a child who is more interested in being starkers than dressed, I'm pleasantly surprised that Gigi has also begun to exert independence in the actual dressing process.  She is putting on the under things, socks, and shirts like a pro but she still holds onto her hatred for leg covers of all kinds.  She loathes anything that confines her, so unfortunately a dressing method that requires me pretty much sitting on her or downright bribing her usually gets her adequately covered for the elements.

How I've dreaded these first snowy days of the season.

Anyhow, she's also really into doing food prep herself. Independence in the kitchen has taken hold and it threatens to make meal prep both more comedic and death-defying than it ever was.  So we've started slow: pouring cereal, pouring milk on cereal (which requires 100% supervision and perhaps some stealth guidance or we have a dairy-related disaster on our hands that would make a grown cow cry), but now she wants to butter and jam her own toast.

So being insane, I found these plastic knives that wouldn't be considered dangerous by school officials if say a child who likes to sneak stuff to school, took one to school to pull on the teacher when she least expected it.  You know, because some kids are really sneaky and end up sitting in class with dolls that were specifically denied entry to the school on prior occasions.  And yet, even after searching her gear, STILL these toys somehow show up on her person at school, during class.  And trust me, the teacher lets her mom know every single time it happens.  Yes, so these knives won't cause a panic or even cut water so I gave one to Gigi so she could learn to spread jam on toast.  They really are pathetic in the realm of knives, perhaps I should just call them spreading sticks.

ANYHOW, today the jam was nutella and the bread was graham crackers.  It was mid morning snack time and we'd had a good day, so why not break out the chocolate spread that makes me feel like I'm trapped in an annoying overdubbed european commercial.

I think I'll stop telling the story here because pictures work waaaaay better than words so let me leave it at: I swear that I only left the room for two minutes.

And yes, I really felt the need to explain that it was hazelnut spread before anyone jumped to the wrong conclusion.

confessional

I have a horrible confession to make: I kind of like it when my child has a cold.  WAIT! Don't call social services and start screamin' "WITCH, MUNCHAUSEN, no WITCH, definitely witch... wait, no... would it Munchausen by proxy?  Ack, screw it, she's just a witch".  Seriously don't do it because I hate seeing Gigi in any stage of discomfort or pain and duuuuuude, I'd never make her sick on purpose.  That would require a lot of work and planning and I'm too lazy to do actual work.  Let's not even talk about planning stuff, I'm already making excuses to get out of the plans and work that don't even exist.

Anyhow, yes, my horrible confession of liking when my child has an uncomplicated, totally straight-forward cold.

You see, we just endured the week from hell.  I know, I know, join the club but seriously, I haven't received official notice that it's over yet and I'm probably tempting the fates and gods with this post, so have no fear, someone will strike me down and my work will go officially from hell to a double order of hell, upsized, with chili-cheese fries on the side.  But no drink and the chili is made of poo.  And to think, I just added to your torture by making you read that last sentence.  You're welcome.

Anyhow (how many times can I say that word - lots more than you deserve to read), the most current week from hell showcased a brutal cold that included all of the usual suspects: hacking cough, snot - actually, it was littered with assorted bodily fluids, take your pick, extreme fevers, crankiness, loss of appetite, and my favourite: listlessness.  It was during this limp phase that I realized I didn't fully mind this particular cold because... well because of a truly selfish reasons on my part:  my daughter morphed into the most compliant, cuddly kid ever in the history of her existence on this planet.

Yes, yes, I realize it was probably in part due to the horrible fevers and maybe some fever-induced delirium but oh my holy fish, she just wanted to be snuggled up by my side and have books read to her, and watch movies, or just plain sleep.  We'd attempt to play with her dolls or colour but those activities required too much energy.  Oh and the NAPS, glorious NAPS.  Which of course were filled with doing things that didn't get done because she wanted to cuddle every waking hour.  But then I would be totally nervous when she was sleeping while so sickly, so I'd generally cuddle up right next to her.

Oh and before I forget, a warning to all my fellow lazy speed readers: When I was researching fevers online in order to learn the warning signs for potential doc office trips, I accidentally clicked on a link for Dengue fever.  After reading about 10 lines in I totally felt my own internal organs melt into a puddle of fear.  Then I immediately thought, "geeeez how the f' did Denguy get a fever named after him?"  Seriously, how do you get some brutal monkey-bite ebola-like disease named after you and where do I sign up?  That sure beats getting a star named after you, it's like HOLY CRAP, that entire city was wiped out by Denguy fever and you don't get that kind of publicity as a star, unless that star happens to fall out of the sky and destroy a city and you know, in that case you still got ripped off because DUDE your star totally fell out of the sky.  And to think, once your star fell out of the sky, your star is gone, but a thing like Denguy fever, well that's the fever that keeps on taking and taking for generations to come.

Then I realized it said Dengue.  The end.

Totally made you forget about my horrible confession, eh? d'oh

UPDATE: So apparently I'm far from alone on this sentiment. Backpacking Dad wrote about the same thing last week and said it a hell of a lot more eloquently because he one of those philosophical dudes. Isn't it wonderful how plagues bring out the prose in parents?  Also it makes me feel a hell of lot less guilty, thanks Shawn :)

esperanza

How lazy am I?  I'm so lazy that I've owned some domains for years and done nothing with them.  And if anything has taught me to stay lazy, then trying to do something with those domains proves once and for all, I should remain lazy in these situations.

Get this:  When I tried to actually do something with the domains, it turns out the company that I bought these domains from require a static IP to point to and there is no static IP to point it to, so why can't they use a DNS and blah blah blah and OMG my head hit the desk and caused a dent called frustration.

Then I got attacked by lazy again and forgot about it.  But a few months later (translation: last week) I thought I found a solution to the problem and was confident that I would have it completed within seventy-two hours.

I giggled in anticipation and salivated and did all sorts of nerdy things.  Domains would be updated, domains would be used. But that seventy-two hour deadline was up twenty-four hours ago and approximately twenty-four hours ago I lost it.  Coincedence, I think not:  it was a proverbial straw on that stinkin' paciderms back that even stand alone, far away from the other injustices in my world, this straw was worthy of an exquiste temper tantrum.

Thankfully I had another burst of unlaziness and am confident I am on the road to fixing the issue.  I think.  Or I might just melt down completely.

Anyhow, this is my long winded excuse as to why another lame post.  May I offer you my favourite fish?  I like to call her Esperanza and she loves Friedrich Nietzsche.

hello barbie, let's go party

and so it begins...

This unrealistic role model hussy vixen harlot mass-marketed-hysteria maker classic toy has made her way into my daughter's heart and there is nothing I can do to stop her.  She has Gigi by the sub cockles of her heart, and there is no letting go.

I know, I know, the problem is all mine. She's just a doll and we didn't need to let her in the house.  Hell, most of the population doesn't have a beef with her like I do (right? or do you all dread her too?)  I dunno, I'm just a little shocked that her fascination started this early.

On a related note but without the benefit of a segue: Barbie seems to have had a breast reduction but made up for it by having a butt lift.  Hey ladies, what another word for pirate treasure? That's right folks, this girl has booty.  Sadly, the anatomically clean nether regions have been replaced with disturbing unremovable flesh-tone fishnet panties.

I told you she was a hussy.  Where did she get the money for the body work?  She never does anything but lounge around in her PJs and listen to her iPod and watch TV all day (yes, she came with an iPod AND big screen tv).  Plus who wears fishnet panties? Hussies - that's who.  Sure, I can't remove them but I bet she can!

I need to get out more *smacks self in head*

dallas star

Today I actually chiselled away at my reader and made a dent of some significance.  Instantaneous stress reduction that was further helped by answer a few overdue emails.  Mmmm, the weight is coming off my shoulders.

You see that right there - that last line? That line is the one the gods are going to taunt me with when they smote me with a few lightening bolts, unexpected bills, or bad-blasts-from-the-past for admitting that my stress levels have reduced.

Can't wait to see what they throw at me this time.

Anyhow, Amy inspired me today.  You see, Rudy recently lost his balls, and his room mate Farley likes to pretend he's the reason CSI was invented.

And coincidently, our cat Dallas likes to pretend he's been shot, so I bet he'd have some good times with Farley.  Dallas was also upset that he wasn't featured solo on this blog so far in NaBloPoMo so I'm doing this post to avoid pootastic pucker-prints left by pucker-points on my pillows.

Some days I think I should have been that woman with one hundred cats, bad fashion sense, who prefers to eat spaghettios straight from the can.  No offence to my readers who actually qualify for all of the above.