Bust A Royal Move

If royal weddings were more like this, I'd probably drag my butt out of bed at 5:00 am to watch.



Personally, this time around I'll just wait for the highlight reel. Haven't bothered to get up for one of these things since the Andrew and Fergie fest way back in the 80s. Don't get me wrong, I have a soft spot for the Royal family but are they worth losing precious, precious sleep over? Nah. How about you, will you wake up for the festivities?

Frankie the Rock Lobster

We went to the Museum of Natural History this weekend where we saw the remains of one of the largest lobsters found off the shore of Nova Scotia. His (her?) name was Francis and he obviously had a stay of execusion from a fate of boiling water and melted butter since his (her?) shell never turned rosey red. I'm not sure how they knew the lobster's name was Francis considering every lobster I met was just called 'dinner' or the more reverend 'church supper'. Perhaps it was tattooed on one of those massive biceps? How about I just refer to it as Frankie from now on? Yes. Frankie it is.

I Want A New Drug* (This was supposed to be a decorating the Christmas Tree post but it's not)

Yesterday at 4:45 am, I woke up in unbelievable pain. Pain that didn't seem like it could get worse yet it did. It was right under my ribs and at first it was like the worst runner's stitch ever but while I was describing it to the Telehealth nurse over the phone, it became stabbing. She said "get ye to an ER posthaste" except not in Ye Old English because that would have been weird.

So I walked back into our bedroom and said "dude, I'm going to get me some good drugs at the hospital." That woke him up fast. He bundled me out the door into a cab, with hugs and kisses and promises not to worry about the home front.

In the ride over I was trying to decide if it was a twisted ovarian cyst (been there, done that so many times but each time I'm reminded OMFG THIS IS PAINFUL) or a ruptured appendix (haven't been there or done that but I imagine it's painful). By the time we pulled into the ER, my skin colour was a mix of grey green and I was pretty much in tears. I staggered into triage like DRAMA was my middle name and I figured I must have done a great show because I didn't have to wait. I was immediately banded and told to stagger down the hall to follow the yellow line.

Yellow line in internal medicine, blue line is orthopeadics, green line is xray... can you tell I've been to this hospital many times? Thanks kid.

Anyhow, I walked down into that area and there was a young guy at the desk. I handed him my chart and he said "I'm putting you in a bed right away." Well that's not the first time a random guy has said that to me but this was the first time I was grateful to hear those words. Then he said "I'm ordering an IV right now and then we can figure out what's wrong with you". Oh my word, he was a doctor and I wanted to french him despite the searing pain that riddled my body and my devoted love of my husband.

Well I didn't french him but he made me delirious once he ordered that morphine drip.

After a brief exam, a zillion questions, and poking that resulted in me pretty much slapping him, we were both stumped. The pain was in a strange place -- maybe my gallbladder was about to blow. An ultrasound was pulled into the room and revealed nothing except my insides are way pretty.

So another ultrasound was ordered, this time with radiologists attached to it. You know, the folks who can tell me more than "you've got real purdy insides lady". But that wasn't going to happen for a while so I was allowed to wallow in my opium stupor and grab some zzzzzs.

Then I thought I need to give my family an update. I had no idea what time it was and as I fumbled for my phone with the one good arm I had left after being attacked by the bloodletters, I asked the staff member left in the room "Can I make a call?"

For the record, he was standing right by a HUGE sign that said "NO MOBILE DEVICES TO BE USED UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES" and it had a picture of my particular model of phone right next to the huge RED glaring words. All it needed was "This means YOU motherbumper" to drive the point home. But it didn't say that and the dude said "I won't tell".

So I called my husband and gave him the lowdown. After speaking for a few minutes -- I was kind of shocked at how crappy I sounded -- I decided to send an email to Catherine to let her know where the hell I was. Then I noticed that there was a whole bunch of "where the f*** are you emails in my inbox" and I felt overwhelmed. I couldn't answer these all.

Then I suddenly felt really alone plus overwhelmed.

So I tweeted.

"I'm in emerg on a morophin drip for mysterious pains. This must mean one thing: it must MONDAY. Mondays suck hard. Bah."

Grammatically incomplete but still, I got the point across. Anyone who knows me on Twitter knows I hate Mondays so it just seemed fitting.

And suddenly DMs and beautiful messages started pouring in. The feeling of alone and overwhelmed started to dissipate. My love of Twitter was once again renewed since it's been bashed beyond recognition for me by recent events.

Twitter CAN be filled with love and this renewed my faith.

I tweeted because I needed my friends and they were there.

For that I say thank you more loudly than you can imagine. Actually I will say it softly because I'm still in pain.

Oh yes, back to the pain.

Eventually I had the ultrasound where it was discovered that among other things, I had a kidney stone the size of a Buick that couldn't be treated except with drugs to facilitate it's exit and dull the pain. *sigh* They are giving it seven days to leave my hallowed halls which means knowing my luck, it will arrive just in time for Christmas.

OH JOY, IT'S THE CHRISTMAS STONE! GOD REST YE MERRY, STONE!

So now I'm home, afraid to go far for fear I'll be birthing a fire-baby stone in the streets, and taking copious amounts of boring drugs.

I love how the last one says "May Cause Dizziness". In truth it should say: Take this and fall over like a drunk kitten ALL THE MO'FO TIME. Because that would have been more accurate.

Anyhow, this is my long-winded way of retelling what happened yesterday and believe it or not, this is barely a tenth of what happened. I'm saving the funny part for another post - one that I can write when the freaking DIZZY SPELLS END. I don't do dizzy well.

* I'm quoting Huey Lewis and the News which must mean the morphine hasn't worn off just yet.

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.

This isn't a BlogHer Recap (alternate title: Viva La Siesta!)

Random lines from posts I've started but failed to finish:

(1) Hi. My name is motherbumper and I'm a "booyah" abuser. As in, I use the word "booyah" to punctuate too many thoughts in a "yada yada yada" kind of way.

(2) My deep-dish and uncomfortable thoughts on free stuff. When it comes to free stuff, I don't go looking for it but don't get me wrong, booyah! I luuuurve free stuff. Hell, if swag lands in my lap and it's of use to me, into the bag it goes. In fact, I pack light going to BlogHer because so many generous sponsors and party hosts give tokens of appreciation for attending their party. Attending being a very key word in that sentence. It is never expected but damn it's nice and I know it's going to happen. But if it didn't happen, it wouldn't change my weekend.

Anyhow, the swag thing at BlogHer was weird this year. There was a very small number of the generally awesome population acting like freaks. Freaks as in committing blackmail over shoes or like in my personal experience while working the door at The People's Party where I witnessed something small but strange. This incident kind of set the tone for me on the subject of free stuff over the weekend.

Let me explain it the best way I can: As a hostess of The People's Party, I was handing out drink tickets and big welcoming smiles and/or hellos to everyone I could reach as they surged (literally SURGED) through the doors. When the surging had died down to a well-heeled stampede, I witnessed a woman come in, make a beeline to the swag bags, grab four (!) (as in two on each arm), and then promptly turn around and march out. The only reason I remember her so specifically is she totally didn't make eye-contact with me when I tried to hand her a drink ticket -- she put her hand up in a blocking / dismissive way and marched on by. So I watched what she did because I was taken aback (what can I say, I'm sensitive). When she breezed on past me after her bag scoop, I stepped outside the door to watch her leave and she proceeded to walk away from the party crowd towards what I'm not sure... the elevators? Her friends? They weren't anywhere near the party, that's for sure.

I told myself, she's probably just grabbing it for other people and bringing it back to the room. I seriously tried to convince myself that she did because I didn't want to get pissy at my own party like my name was JLo or something. But then I thought about all the people who were here, not getting or caring about bags, and staying because they were there to meet people. Because you know, that's the purpose of The People's Party.

But my observations are full of total conjecture and it was just odd to watch. I could be totally wrong. Maybe she had already had her free drink and her friends had sent her in to grab the swag they didn't get the first time around and ten minutes was enough time at the party for all of them.

Yet I couldn't help myself and felt compelled to record this encounter because regardless of her reason / plan of use with the bag, it was somehow appeared more important to her to grab the free stuff than to just come to the party and meet with other bloggers. Instead she appeared to be doing a free stuff recon pre-party attendance. Because the free stuff is just a nice perk, not the purpose. It left me with an icky feeling.

(3) BlogHer is a mindfuck.

(4) Can't wait to do it all again in New York.

(5) Damn everyone looked good at BlogHer this year. Especially you.


(6) All Hail the Unicorn Cake from the planet MamaPop!

(7) This week during my BlogHer detox, I had grandiose plans to clean and reorganize this entire home while SB and G were out of town but after making a mental list of everything I needed to do I took a nap.

Then I woke up, decided to add doing an internal cleanse while eating nothing but fruit and veg because I don't have to prep any meals for others all week, and felt proud that the nap gave me such clarity. Viva la Siesta! Then I promptly sat on the couch, ordered a pizza (online! no human interaction! if I could have shoved an envelope under the door with the money, I would have!), and after eating more than half of the damn thing, I fell asleep.

So to recap: this week I've accomplished nothing but a post about Joe Jonas having his heart smashed in seventeen places by Camilla Belle (which I first read as Camille Paglia and let me tell you, I was very confused) and also I managed to go pee. Oh and I also managed to make myself into a Mad Men avatar (what do you think - did I get it right?)

(8) BOO-YAH!

I Was Wrong

Well look at that: the cat isn't trying to kill me as originally thought when the act of cleaning my face almost sent me to the hospital. My bad on the accusation front because it turns out it's my daughter who is trying to do something to the cat and he was probably hiding from her when he made face washing deadly. And I'm not sure exactly what my daughter is up to but here's an example:

Today I caught her trying to duct tape the cat to the coffee table and because he's a cat, he slept through a majority of the crime. But basically she started to tape his napping a*s down like a druid sacrifice and he really didn't notice until I yelled "DON'T DUCT TAPE THE CAT TO THE COFFEE TABLE PLEASE!" [points for remembering to use my manners but immediately lose points for using my outside voice]

Let me tell you: the cat caught on quickly that something was amiss.

Of course why was my daughter playing with duct tape? I think it's part of her tiny bag of tricks.

Literally, she has has this tiny bag that I must check daily because OH MY WORD the things I find in there e.g. tape. Or pictures of my huge pregnant belly which are totally NSFNS (not safe for nursery school) yet somehow made it to the hands of her classmate recently.

Now those little kids sure do crack me up and sometimes they might act totally clueless or nonchalant but nothing slips by them.

Nothing. Nada.

And while it really makes my heart sing to hear a kid refer to me as "Gigi's Mom" as in: "Gigi-Mom, why so big in that picture? You're huuuuge", I also must state the obvious: kids are brutal, BRUTAL I say! I think I told them all to cut me some slack and oh look, is that an ant?

If that ant hadn't worked I'm sure I would have gone on the defensive and explained that sure it took me three years to lose the thirty plus kilos (*cough* 70 lbs) that I gained thanks to my pregnancy support team of Ben and Jerry but I'm close enough now so whatever. And because it worked so well many times before, Ben and Jerry have once again generously offered their support in cooperation with Team Lays who have pledged to build a bigger and better motherbumper. So far I'm resisting but dammit, I feel some weakness coming on (must remain strong because I love my new jeans dammit.)

Anyhow, from the better late than never files:

The following people won free rice in the Let Them Eat Rice draw and you can clearly see I used a totally on the up-and-up process called "too damn lazy to write numbers on paper" or maybe the "look at me being all green - if you ignore how much electricity it took to power the laptop in order to actually generate the numbers versus how much human energy it would have required to just use a scrap of biodegradable paper and some ink to randomly pick five numbers out of a hat" process.

Winners! You are all WINNERS! of rice!
7 - where there's a willer...
9 - cool zebras
10 - playa minded
4 - cheaper than therapy
11 - mama tulip

And the world said I never gave it anything but shit shine and shinola. Take that world.

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?

Hampered by a Facial (Alternate Title: I think the cat is trying to kill me)

It seems to be more than a week has passed since that Gigi had a dreaded eye infection. But I checked and it really was only a week ago when I noticed her eyes were all yucky. Time once again alludes me.

Anyhow, upon noticing her yuck-filled eye, I was all "ARGH -- THE DREADED PINK EYE! OMG BURN THE SHEETS! BUY A BUBBLE! YEE SHALL ALL BE CRUSTY-EYED BY DAYBREAK AND WE SHALL ALL SUFFER" because I'm totally hysterical over eye infections. Ask anyone who knows me at all -- eye infections make me so freakin' squirrelly that I need to be slapped a la Nicholas Cage in Moonstruck.

Ewwww eye infections... yucky slime and lots of overachieving germs just raring to spread pus-filled joy to any other eye it can infect. I felt so bad for my daughter and was so proud of her ability to resist touching her eyes at all. She's stronger than me.  Of course, it turns out it wasn't the dreaded pink eye -- that would be too normal for my offspring. She had some eye/ear combo that made the doctors all go hmmmmmmmmmm but not before quizzing us on all our bovine or swine relationships in the past month. I responded by objecting to my husband being referred to as swine but they didn't get it. Their loss. Anyhow, they declared "this isn't pink eye" and then went hmmmmmmmmmm she's going to be very sick for a few days.

But as usual, I'm getting ahead of the story in fact, so far ahead that last part wasn't even necessary.

So back to before my tangent, when we still thought she had pink eye and I was all OMG red alert, red alert, danger danger, it's pink eye, piiiiiink eyeeee! I set about gathering up all the sheets, pillow cases, and towels in current circulation plus anything else obvious to wash in order to purge them of their filthy pink-eye germs with lots of hot water.

Of course Murphy's Law dictated that this infection happened on the same day that I actually had ALL the laundry done for once. All of it. Every last stitch. A phenomenon that hasn't happened in years. All the hampers were completely empty around the home.

Hampers, who's contents I had only MERE hours before laundered. Hampers that made me declare outloud how happy I was for their utter emptiness because OMG! I had all the laundry done. Done. Finito. As in no soiled fabric that could be stuffed in a drum to be found on the premises. Fait accompli.

Or not.

I think my mistake was marvelling in the bleakness of the hampers and not taking into consideration how the hampers might have felt about being empty -- because what else could possibly explain this punishment of multiple loads appearing all at once? Seriously, what?

*head hits keyboard*

So now I had full hampers of laundry to do and when you are at the mercy of a laundromat as opposed to your own in home washer and dryer, it just compounds the crying more. Squares it even. Just like a trash compacter.

Between tears, I replaced all the towels in the bathroom with new fluffy ones and decided this was as good a time as any to wash my face.  Why not? After all, I felt grungy and possibly infected plus the laundry-induced rage needed cooling. So I lathered on the nice cleansing cream, rubbed my temples and made my skin feel fresh again.

After thoroughly soaking my shirt while rinsing my face (I'm a spaz with my eyes closed)(even worse in the dark)(I'm highly entertaining in enclosed spaces) I blindly reached out for something to dry my face, found the towel I had just hung on the back of the door moments before and sunk my face into it's no-name brand spring fresh softness. All was good.

But pulling away, something felt wrong and I turned to the mirror while opening my eyes to see why my skin felt even dirtier than before.

There was something greyish, sticky, and ... fluffy all over my freakin' face.

What the? These were fresh towels and it looked like dust balls all over my face. As I leaned in close, something tickled my nose... then my eyes.

My towel was covered in cat hair. CAT F*&^$ING HAIR.

Turns out someone has been sleeping on the clean towels.

What's your point woman? stop interrupting my nap

Have I ever mentioned I'm actually allergic to cats? Yes I know I have two and I've pretty much had them all my life, so I'm not highly allergic, just mildly allergic and I love them (though I'm reserving judgement on that last statement for the time being). I've always managed to live with them as long as I don't touch my face after petting them and I don't know.... stop doing stuff like drying my face with a blanket made of their fur?

It felt awful. My nose itched for hours, my eyes felt sand-filled, and I was on the verge of bringing up a furball. Beautiful.

Anyhow, Gigi's eyes & ears healed quickly and I didn't bring up a furball post fur facial despite pulling a kitten's worth of hair out of mouth. And now once again, I'm behind in the laundry.

Should Have Been Mine: Wordless Wednesday Edition

Back when I was in Nashville, I went with the crew to a store that sold cowboy boots and these, these beauties should have been mine. But the cheap and practical side of my brain talked me out of it. Damn you cheapness and for the record practicalness, I've come up with at least a dozen scenarios to wear these desert roses, so bite me practicalness. BITE ME. I'm not listening to you again.

Yup, failed again at Wordless Wednesday.

Looking for more words? I'm over at Canada Moms Blog today talking about THE HAIR WARRIOR.

deep cleansing breaths... well that is if my lungs don't rise up, rebel, and demand a dental plan

Do you ever do those internal cleanse thingimaboppers, you know, one of those pill combos that does a "liver, colon, digestive, scrubadubdub, the organs are clubbed if you do this with a sensible diet and many, many litres of water to you know, jump start the system and cleanse out some crap" kind of cleanses?

And when I say sensible diet, I mean: instead of buying the jumbo size large bag of Salt & Pepper Lays, I just buy the regular size large and hide it from my family because the jumbo size large bag is hard to hide.

Which makes buying the regular size large bag sensible for my diet.

Follow my logic?

Same applies to chocolate, candy, licorice, and of course: cookies. It however does not apply to ice cream. Though if you know a way to have ice cream sensibly, please share and if you don't want to share it with me, think of the others, the others who may understand my certain brand of sensibility and will revel in your obvious genius. The world doesn't seem to talk much about the shortcomings of the modern day furniture (are freezer compartments that hard to install?) but it's obvious that bedside tables are woefully equipped and designed. I'm sure this is all a shameful secret of the furniture industry and they obviously need more people like me and George Costanza designing the more practical and multi-purpose pieces of furniture in this time of recession.

Anyhow, regardless if you've tried one or not, SB and I have found a cleanse is a good way to kick start the feeling of better plus yadda yadda yadda and it works for us blah blah blah and even if the feeling good kick-start is the results of some pricey placebo or the precursor to some monstrous shock to my organs where they band together and rise up in some kind of cyborgan rebellion, I don't care and don't want to know. I like and I'm gonna keep doing it.

So yes, to get slightly back on track: I'm not loyal to any particular brand of cleanse, I've tried a few different ones, and I usually buy two sets of the same kind so that my partner in crime can lend some of that good ol' support. Support meaning I have someone to blame when banned substances like Ben&Jerry's crosses the threshold. And while that type of transgression where SB is the transgressor has never actually happened, I patiently wait for the day when I can be the one to give the dirty eye followed by exaggerated roll combined with deep, disappointed sigh. It will happen one day, mark my word, he is human and it will happen.

But yes, the cleanse. Anyhow, we get two of the same brand and while I know deep down it shouldn't make any difference, I still like to keep mine seperate from his.

So my civilized version of peeing on the property is to mark my bottle "MINE" and his "YOURS" and somehow this confused him because he thought "YOURS" was "MINE" and "MINE" was "HIS" and none of these were marked "HIS" so then I got confused because seriously, I don't know why he was so confused by "MINE" and "YOURS" and why is it so hard to explain it to him that "MINE" is mine and "YOURS" is yours, and why does he have to confuse me with this "HIS" business?

Why people call me difficult is beyond me.

Overheard on the subway

Recently, Gigi and I visited friend's outside the city. We returned on the train late in the day and when we pulled into Union Station it was around the time that Gigi usually hits the sack. She was a bit droopy but fortified with fun-filled day she had with her partner-in-crime.

I was selfishly glad she was tired. It meant for quiet travels and I'm kind of glad she wasn't aware of everything going on because we are full on knee-deep in the "why" phase of life, and you will see why I didn't want any "why" questions as you read on.

After getting off the train, Gigi and I headed into the subway station making our way to the platform. It was Saturday night and as I looked around at all the people obviously heading out for a night of debauchery, I felt a little bit wistful for my former days of dancing around Gomorrah.

But not as much as some people.

Two business types were standing next to us on the platform. They were chatting away though I was only half-listening due to proximity. Like the other conversations going on around me, it sounded like two adults in a Charlie Brown show (you know the nonsensical "mwa mwa mwa" way) until I heard the word "threesome".

Yah, I've never claimed to be mature so you say the words "beaver", "threesome", or "balls", I'm gonna focus on what I'm thinking is a naughty conversation [isn't that right Jessica, you said beaver in your latest post and got my attention]. Listen and learn folks: if you are trying to teach me something, listen and learn. If more profs in university randomly added the words "balls" and "booty" to their lectures, attendance and grades would probably reflect the perks of the new content.

ANYHOW...

These two rather square looking business types standing behind me were holding briefcases that I now think were filled with porn mags rather than spreadsheets because HELLO? Threesome? Hey, spreadsheets: that's a good nickname for porn, don'tcha think? Anyhow, these two guys were talking in totally normal volume voices and this is what I heard from the time the word "threesome" caught my ear.

Not so square dude #1: "So can you believe she did that? SHE TAPED OVER IT"
Not so square dude #2: "Over your threesome?"
NSSD#1: "Yah, she taped over the threesome we recorded and she taped over it with - get this - The Young and the Restless!"
NSSD#2: "NO WAY. Y&R?!? But that's on time shifting**"
NSSD#1: "I KNOW! And do you know how hard it was to convince her that Tammi* was going to go for it? All that planning and stuff and now the memories are gone."
NSSD#2: "You two had a threesome with Tammi? That's so cool. But isn't it weird to see her at work?"
NSSD#1: "Not really. She was the only one my wife would agree to let join in."
NSSD#2: "I'm impressed she let you tape it. Do you think Tammi would go for it again?"

* not her real name though if it was, I imagine she'd sign her name with a tiny heart dotting the "i"
** also, it's on demand so there really is no excuse to tape the Y&R which makes me think: wife did it on purpose.

I don't know what happened after that moment because I was too busy stuffing objects into my and my daughter's ear canals.

So ends another Saturday night in the big city with my kid.

I wish they did make hamster balls in my size

Standing in the grocery store line this morning [where I seem to spend an inordinate amount of time lately since management has taken it upon themselves to cut down on cashiers in the morning instead of perhaps taking out one of the three morons behind the deli counter who ignore everyone waiting for deli magic as if they are the Deli Wizards and you must earn their respect to get served], yes well while I was standing in this frustratingly long line waiting to pay for my precious coffee cream which I cannot live without [I'll give up chocolate before I switch to milk in my coffee, that's how serious I am about my 10% cream], the lady standing in front of me reminded me of a bus route I used to take when I was a kid.

I grew up in the 'burbs but went to school downtown so I spent a lot of time on the bus. Because we were in a newer 'burb, the routes to get home were limited: it was either the 16 or 80. My brother and I had nicknamed the 80 "the freakshow on wheels" because well, essentially it was. It was also always crowded, prone to strange smells, and once even held at gun point and no one really noticed [who robs a bus? really do you think the patrons of a bus carry lots of cash and gold?]

Anyhow, obviously the 16 was the bus we preferred to take whenever possible but it meant transferring, and to a lazy person like me, transferring sometimes required too much effort. But it happened during bursts of youthful vim and one day my brother and I ended up sitting behind a university student with the biggest afro you have ever seen. Seriously, the late seventies produced some of the best hair EVER.

Case in point:

 

So, this woman was sitting there reading her advanced calculus text with the window open on a fine Spring day - just like today actually - when a wasp flew in the window.

Only she didn't see the wasp. But we sure as hell did. My brother and I both leaned back as it buzzed around, maybe even swatting it away as it made it's rounds. Actually, I was probably frozen in terror. Eventually though, the bug decided to land and it chose the lovely lady's afro as it's surface.

I remember being transfixed on this bug, partially to make sure where it was AT ALL TIMES and the fact that it was like watching an astronaut walk on the surface of a new planet. It landed so softly on her hair and the woman, who made up the magma centre of this bug's world, was completely oblivious. Because HELLO! there was about 12 inches of hair between her scalp and this wasp, so there wasn't a chance in hell of her feeling it unless that bug was wearing boots. [for the record: he wasn't]

This bug landing incident happened very close to our stop, and due partially to my bug terror and my brother's and my total shyness, we didn't say a thing before we exited. And wouldn't you know it, that story has stuck with me and each and every time I see someone with their fly down, smudged mascara, bats in the cave, or any other situation like that. Because of that wasp incident, I make an effort to tell folks - even strangers - about whatever it is stuck to them, because I know that I'd appreciate it PLUS I want to make up for the fact that I never told this lady about the wasp that was going to make a nest in her lovely locks. Which I'm sure it did because that's how a child's brain works.

Anyhow, fast-forward to present day motherbumper mayhem: this morning the lady in front of me at the grocery store had beautiful (seriously it looked unreal) long, straight, shiny locks and as I admired her almost borderline Crystal Gayle locks something caught my eye.

OMFG she had a worm in her hair. More like a caterpillar actually (don't click on that link if you hate bugs - and this looked nothing like what was in her hair but I love scaring myself and then spreading the joy) - BUT IT WAS IN HER HAIR.

So after I threw up a little bit in my mouth, I lifted my shaky hand to tap her on the shoulder because I was fortified with idea of finally making up for the sin of leaving that wasp in the afro more than thirty years previous.

"Excuse me, you have something in your hair... I think it's a bug..."
[oh my... I just told a pretty stranger that she has bugs which isn't very polite methinks]

She looked at me, smiled, and shook her head - not hard enough to rid the bug but enough for me to know that she is giving me the "no English" head shake.

*gulp*

Redemption is going to be harder than previously thought. Do I smack the bug off her? Do I pantomime a bug in the hair (is that anything like charading snakes on a plane)? What to do, what to do.

Thankfully - partially due I think to the mo'fo' unreasonable line-ups at the grocery store - the man behind me spoke up in another language, stepped up behind her AND proceeded to knock it out of her hair. Also, being an obvious gentleman, he squashed it as soon as it hit the ground. I wanted to lick him.

But I didn't.

So... have I been redeemed? I'm not sure, but this is for certain: I know will begin wearing my bug suit each and every time I step out the door of my hermetically sealed bubble that I just ordered off of Amazon. The end.

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.

nip and tug

Last week on my blog roll call post, catnip inspired me to do what I hope is a great idea for my new blogroll.  Instead of a sidebar blogroll, I'm making the blog roll a post (as opposed to a page - because Blogger is too uncoordinated to include pages in the template - cheap bastards - and when I say cheap bastards I'm referring to myself in the plural because I'm too damn cheap to pay for a premium platform, so a blog roll post it is... and whoops, that would be the first tangent of 2009 folks, I'll get us back on track).

So yes, I will create a blogroll post AND update it on a regular basis so that the technorati love keeps giving and giving and giving and giving and we all get the recognition we deserve in the blogosphere.  And then we will all get free chocolate and autographed pictures of David Hasselhoff because I understand that's what happens when your ranking goes up.

Oh and when I say catnip, I mean the blogger catnip, not the weed my cats roll and smoka man, because if I'm going to do drugs, it's not going to be something as cheap as catnip - take my word on that.  Cats are notorious for selecting cheap & weak drugs to abuse but being control freaks AND cheap, they like to only ACT stoned, not actually BE stoned.  Cats are a strange and thrifty species.  But that's a post topic to tackle another day.

Today, I'm going to tackle the term "mommy blogger".  Do you like that term and do you apply it to your posty self?  Personally the term makes me squirm and my gut-reaction is to say "no, I don't like it".  But why do I dislike the term?  I'm a mommy (well... technically, I'm a momma because I'm raising a young Tennessee Williams) and I'm a blogger, so logically, I should be a mommy blogger and proud to wear the moniker.

But I'm not exactly comfortable with it and I'm not exactly sure why.  For the record, I also hate the term cougar which was a term my friends wore with some kind of warped pride back when we were all single and thirty-somethings and once again, it made me squirm.  It's not that I don't like cougars, it just seems so confining to define yourself by one small aspect of your life.  Unless of course you are a professional cougar who lives, eats, and breathes young men and crave their life blood.  For that, I can get calling yourself a cougar.

I think most of my uncomfortable feelings stem from resistance to being pigeon-holed.  Wow, saying "being pigeon-holed" sounds vague nasty and something that would cost a lot to have done extra *wink wink nudge nudge*.  Also possibly something PETA would get on your case about.  ANYHOW I'm more than a mommy and I write about things that are not mommy, yet I'm pretty damn sure I fall into the category of mommy blogger.  And there is nothing "wrong" with that (implying there is a "right" which I don't want to do so that's why I'm abusing the quotes).

Let's see:  I have cute (imo) pictures of my kid on my blog and I talk about how she outsmarts me on a fairly regular basis, but I still consider the mommy part as only one aspect of my blog, not my defining standard.  I have always thought I blogged about life in general and the fact that I am also a parent plays a part mostly because I work from home.

Plus I cannot forget how much I write about my insanity - perhaps I even write more about my insanity than getting outsmarted by a preschooler.  So maybe I should be a unstable blogger - now there is a label I can wear with pride.

But to be fair, I only started blogging because I became a parent so again I revisit the mommy label.  Would I feel better if I was called a parent blogger?  Possibly.  Mommy does scream I have a v*gina and I don't like to be defined by my sex.  Le Sigh.  Why can't I just be a life blogger?

So how do you feel about the term mommy blogger?  Meh?  Love it? Embrace it? Hate it?  Discuss.  I'll sit back and read the comments while eating my cheetos and gossip trolling for Binkywood.  Though if I don't get any comments, I'll assume no one cares.  It's probably been discussed to death elsewhere at another time and I'm just late to the party that I didn't even realize had been thrown.

In other news: have you read the roast of Tanis, The Redneck Mommy?  You may have heard of her before... on CNN or in mug shots on the wall of your local post office.  Her online roast started today over at Cynical Dad and trust me, that lady had it coming - this is what she gets for having such an amazing rack and using her powers for both good and evil.  So go read Part I, though in my opinion, Part III will be the best because that's where my contribution will be found*.  Don't worry, I'll linky love it when it's posted.  So what better way to spend a Monday than roasting another blogger, especially one as je-ne-sais-quoi as Tanis.  Now go on and get BUT after you tell me if your thoughts the term mommyblogger.

* totally kidding - totally totally kidding, the other roasters rule

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%.

predicting the unpredictable

Tomorrow is the big day and for the first time in her life, Gigi is aware what is going on and what the day will bring.  To say she is excited - well that would be an understatement.  And bless her, she has asked for only one thing: chocolate.  That's my girl.  I hope she's not too disappointed when she finds toys under the tree.

We are spending the week with family.  The house is full and we are enjoying our time watching Rudolph and Frosty while drinking caesars -  which I do believe are each equivalent to one serving of veggies so no scurvy on us this year.  BOOYAH, it won't be anything like last year *fingers crossed*.

Gigi, as you may know, is in the full clutches of THREE, which when set to full throttle, means no one or thing is safe.  THREE is unpredictable and I prefer to blame any injury (physical or mental) on THREE rather than my precious angel.  I know my child is inside the body that THREE occasionally possesses.  And when the possession is on, hell hath no fury like a THREE scorned.  Contrary and difficult are inadequate adjectives to apply to THREE but they will have to do because I left my thesaurus at home and I'm too lazy to right click.  Yes, I'm that lazy.

ANYHOW: we arrived at the family farm yesterday and within a few minutes of running upstairs, Gigi noticed a fold away travel bed in pink, emblazoned with Barbie's face.  Anything pink and with Barbie's mug is instantly stamped as hers and this bed was no exception.  She insisted it was hers and demanded someone put it together.  Being the kind of mom I am, I pretended I didn't hear her - because folks: I know better.

I know that my daughter will not - repeat: WILL NOT - sleep alone in a bed that isn't her bed at home and she will always insist that she sleeps with me when we travel.  Always.  There could be forty beds in the room and she will only sleep in the same one that contains me.  Trust me, I haven't been granted more than six square inches of bed space when travelling with her since she was born.  The word vacation does not apply to travel when I'm with my child.

So yes, I knew this bed was not going to be used and I was not about to spend anytime blowing up the air mattress because I hate hyperventilating without getting jiggy.  And one does not want to feel randy and in the mood when assembling stuff for the child because she's already been scarred enough by my antics .  So no freakin' way was I blowing that damn mattress up.

But she persisted and somehow convinced others to do it and there was going to be a witty end to this post but for the freakin' life of me, I cannot remember it.  But I swear to gawd when I wrote this in my head a few hours ago, I laughed and laughed and laughed and then congratulated myself on my wit.  I guess I should have written it down then but that gosh diddle darn parenting thing got in the way.

Anyhow, the ending involved something about how THREE has proven to be very unpredictable.  And despite this unpredictable sea of confusion-slash-parenting I've been swimming in for just over three years, there are some things I can predict and those things - those comforting predictable things - give me hope, hope that I might just be doing this thing right.

Maybe.

And on that note, I'm wishing everyone who celebrates it, a Merry Merry Christmas and a holy jolly day filled with love and candy.  And if you don't celebrate Christmas, I wish you a peaceful day spent with those you love or at least a tub of Ben & Jerry's.