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?

Lesson Learned: Never Tempt the Laptop Gods by declaring "it's fixed"

The laptop fates were tempted by my declaration of "IT'S FIXED!"

As I finished getting my precious little baby back on track this past Thursday night something else started to go terribly wrong.

I swear that I heard my laptop mutter "you had to speak so soon beeetch, didn't you?"

The battery started to haemorrhage and I'm no hardware expert but when the laptop is plugged into a power bar it shouldn't be running off the battery.  Especially a battery that is losing twenty minute chunks of charge like it was being eaten alive by a small tribe of electrical cannibals.

Upon noticing this, I did what anyone else would do: I swore like a sailor and screamed out loud "FINE I WILL HAVE NO NEW CLOTHES OR SHOES THIS SUMMER -- I'm going to BlogHer naked for the second f'ing year in a row.  And you are SOOOOOOO right little electronic device, I DID think savings accounts were already highly overrated because who needs money during a recession? NOT ME!"

I know, I know: there are worse things that could have happened but let me dance in my own pity parade because if I don't do it, who will?

Seriously, this little baby laptop provides my income and if she disappeared I'd have to become a phone-sex operator of epically uptight and boring proportions

"dude, I'm not saying that." 
"My gawd man, do you talk to your mother like that?  What did she do to you to make you that whacked in the head?"
"You want me to do what with what? Oh you are one sick mo'fo'. Did you ever read Oedipus because I'm getting some f'd up vibes from you dude."

I obviously have a few issues of my own but let's not go there. My laptop is now fixed (ducks for lightening) and the phone-sex industry is spared one preachy, prissy, uptight worker. Perverts everywhere collectively release a sigh of relief -- which is more than they'd get from me.

come on everybody...

Risky Business was on last night.  I have never seen this movie, nor did I watch it when I had this chance.  This never-seen factoid surprised my other half, he couldn't believe that I hadn't seen such an iconic movie.

For the record (and I know I've talked about this before but bear with me), I also haven't seen The Karate Kid, Dirty Dancing, or Ernest Goes to Camp.

Friends took me to the re-release of Grease back in the nineties and I once sat down and watched Xanadu at the world's most boring party when all I could find on the shelf was a copy of that movie.  I closed to the door to someone's room, sat down among the pile of discarded party-goer coats, popped the movie in and watched it beginning to end with my mickey and mix at my side.  Gawd I hate boring parties but at least I got something accomplished.  If you can call watching Xanadu an accomplishment.

I do remember at one point during the movie - during some muse dance number built around the magic of the Electric Light Orchestra- that a couple from the party came into the same room where I was enjoying my little bit of Kubla Kahn, to swap spit.  I thought this make-out session was horrifically inconsiderate but I just pumped up the volume, did a three-finger pour, and I was able to block out their incessant groping and tongue-wrestling.  Also that heap of coats on the bed provided a good visual block because by the sounds of their undoubtedly one-hit-wonder lovings, I didn't want to watch.  Even I have standards.

BUT LORDY, as usual I did not come here to talk Xanadu or Xenu.  It's just, I even find it strange that a movie lover like me hasn't seen some of the post popular movies out there.  Though for the record, I did see Ernest Goes to Jail.  In the theatre. Sober. Sad but true.

Anyhow, let's all pretend it's this past Monday m'kay?  Because I meant to post but life got in the way.  I know you know what I mean and to those of you that still managed to post despite the roadblocks life handed you - hats off to you and I really mean that.  I marvel at how people do it all.

But I'm getting off track again.... so... yes... IF this was actually last Monday, I would be jumping on the beautiful Schmutzie bandwagon - a bandwagon which I see in my mind's eye as looking something like the bus from the Partridge Family -  and after jumping on this bus, I looked for grace in small things.  Grace in small things "is a daily reminder to take notice of the positive things we tend to overlook."

I will try to do this every Monday Thursday so often because life needs more of this over that.  And I won't go into what "that" is because all I need to say is that in this case, "that" is the opposite of this.

1. The barrista who referred to me as "miss" three times during our exchange of precious moneys for equally precious coffees. It took all of my strong marriage to not ram my tongue down that young man's throat in precious thanks.  Thirty-nine does that to you.
   
2. The endless possibilities presented upon opening a brand new, virgin notebook.
3. Large print books. I now buy them and I'm not too proud to say so.  They help me concentrate on the story and not the sea of tiny letters that swim before me.  First to rib me about the association of ageing and large print gets a virtual wedgie.
   
4. New playdoh and crayons.
   
5. Recipes that are fast, fool-proof, and taste great.  Salsa chicken anyone?
   

And on that note, check out the photo I found while looking for the Partridge bus:

Damn. I miss the seventies some days.

Well it's about freakin' time...

Finally, it's back.

And it couldn't come soon enough.  You in? and who's your man?

call of the bliss

A mercifully short post (a reprieve from the one below) just asking one quick question: Who's all headed to Blissdom in February?  I need to know who I can hit up for drinks.  Also, I need directions to the Grand Ole Opry, the nearest Target, and Cracker Barrel.  And I'm serious about the last two.

roll call

I wrote this last night but never finished it... but I'll leave it in it's virginal state because I love to use the word virginal in relation to something I produced and I'm too lazy to go through and correct it - so pretend it's last night, m'kay, and everyone will get out alive.


So I think I muttered something about possible resolutions for this new year thing in my last post, ones that won't instantly turn to dust.  Speaking of dust, I just watched The Golden Compass (not Gilden) and if you've seen the movie or read the book, you get the dust reference.  If you haven't seen it, it was meh so I guess it really was Gilden.

Yes so it's New Year's Day, and so far my list of resolutions includes:

• floss daily

And that's pretty much it.  So I've got about an hour and forty-five minutes before that one fails and shit, I don't even know if I've got floss in the house.

I can't help it, with this distraction and all.  We got iTunes gift certificates and I'm rebuilding my 90s and early millennia with missing singles and CDs.  The ones that were borrowed and never returned, lifted when throwing house parties, lost with the relationships - the ones thrown from car windows along with a lot of tears and swear words - and smokes.  These are the ones that over the years have been unexpectedly heard again on the airwaves, usually prefaced with the word retro, and always made me say "I've got to get that one again" prior to drifting into a mind-blowing memory, rife with potential for tangents.  Those are the best kind of trips down memory lane - the ones with soundtracks.  Today it was The Charlatans and I'll leave it at that.

Anyhow, this brings me to a small request.  On my list of things to do before oh-eight ended was a template cleanse which is nothing like a body detox but I'll use the silly analogy anyway.  So when I slimmed down the sidebars and shoved them into a new pair of skinny jeans with lots of muffin top flowing in all unharnessed directions - a muffin top that I'm hiding with a cleverly draped t-shirt - I lost some stuff.  One of those things was my blogroll.

So I have decided on another resolution for 2009, one too accompany the massaging of mah bloody gums, and one with potential for success: I will build a new blogroll and this post will serve as an open roll call.  If I've never seen you before, I may debate the linkage but I'm nice so don't be scared of that disclaimer.

So basically: leave me your linkage, and I will more than likely provide some technorati love for 2009.  But no commercial ventures please - just personal blogs.  Discretion is up to me baby.

from the Hunter S. Thompson Motivational Poster collection

And I've decided to live my life according to Hunter S. Thompson: so free drugs to everyone who learns to really relax.  Not sure who's supplying the drugs, and those drugs might be Motrin or Beano, but it's free drugs that are free but not drug-free, so stop complaining would ya'.

Oh and I found some floss last night so when it comes to keeping my resolution, I'm right on target.  YEE HAW.

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%.

isn't seven a lucky number?

About four hundred and fifty-six years ago, FandPinLV over at (you guessed it) Fear and Parenting in Las Vegas tagged me for that popular "seven interesting things about me" meme.  She's a fellow city editor over at Savvy Source and she gets to cover a city that I'm pretty sure is warmer than mine right now and she probably doesn't get involved in even half the snowsuit wrangling that I have to deal with daily.  Yet I still like her and I'm pretty sure we were separated at birth  based on the fact that I could have written her seven things list about myself.

Anyhow - the meme.  She gave it a random / weird twist, meaning it's now "seven random or weird things about me" and that's fine by me.  She also said something about tagging other folks but I usually gloss over that part.

So here it goes, seven random or possibly weird things about me:

ONE
I get a kick out of having my fortune told even though I never really have gone out of my way to have it done.  It's more like, if the opportunity presents itself, I take it - I figure it's a "sign".  But sometimes psychics say things that make me chuckle with confidence that "that ain't gonna happen" and then something happens and I'm all like, HOLY CRAP.  Then I sooth myself with statistics.

But sometimes stats can't calm me down.  Like that time I went to a card reader with a group of friends and within minutes she was all over me, demanding what man I knew who would be surrounded by cars, lots and lots of expensive cars, and I was like "back off lady - you're the psychic and I don't know any guy surrounded by expensive cars or even Yugos for that matter".  Plus she needed to back off because was wearing waaaaay too much patchouli oil and the mirrored Wayne Gretzky clock behind her head was confusing me, plus she had crocheted - which I keep spelling crotched - doilies all over everything - even quite possibly a cat or small animal because I swear the doily in the corner was moving... or pulsating - so yes, I told her to "back off".

THEN the very next day I ran into an old university friend who I hadn't seen since school ended, and right after inviting me to the cottage for the weekend and I having me accept, he proceeded to tell me that he just established his business of selling high-end luxury car parts and worked out of Bermuda.  For the record: he was a psych major at school.  Then he handed me his business card that featured him standing among a fleet of luxury cars.  Yup, that freaked me out just a wee bit.

And don't worry, I'll keep the next six items on the list, mercifully short

TWO
I like peanut butter and bacon sandwiches.  I have no idea why or even how I started eating them but it started when I was a teen and I love them to this day.

THREE
I also love pickle and cheese sandwiches.  When I finally made it to England and walked into a lunch spot, I felt like I finally found a place where people really understood me.  Except I couldn't understand most some of them.  Hey, remember European Vacation when Clark Griswold was so proud of his multi-language translator doohickey and he tried using it on the Brits?  I thought of that scene many times in the UK but thankfully, the word pickles is easy to mime.

FOUR
When I was a young girl, I preferred silver to gold.  Now that I'm supposedly grown up, I prefer platinum to gold. That's what I call progress.

FIVE
I'm actually really sad that I finished watching The Wire last night.  We watched the entire series over the past few months, and as we hit the final season, we tried to space them out as much as possible.  But last night we reached the end, and I'm always sad when a phenomenal television series is over.  See also: Arrested Development, The Sopranos, Square Pegs

SIX
I get really agitated when the toilet paper is hung incorrectly.  Really agitated.  Then I feel silly.  And despite feeling silly, I still fix the roll because it is hung wrong and it agitates me.  This fact is both random and weird.

SEVEN
Planning my child's educational future is freaking me out.  That's all I have to say about that.  This fact would be something random about me, because I sure as hell doubt that it's weird.

And that concludes "more about motherbumper than you ever wanted to know" and if you want to play along, please leave me a comment and I'll link you up here.  TAG - you're it.

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).

return of the extra long post: don't look back in anger (oh heck, why not)

We have been at my parent's house since last Wednesday.  Whenever I come back, I dig through the old albums.  I want to ship them all to Toronto but it would be one more huge pile of stuff that would become more of a burden than a joy since I have no where to keep them in our tiny apartment.  So here they stay in my parent's basement until I can give them a proper home.  Let's hope my mom doesn't realize they are still here and go all purgy on me.

Anyhow, I tripped across The Boomtown Rats' I Don't like Mondays.  Way back in 1979 this was the best intro I had ever heard for a song (soon to be dethroned by Train in Vain) and I was instantly hooked at the wee age of ten.

*sigh* I wish I had a turntable to spin all my 45s on, just so I could go back in time for two minute increments.  Two minutes is better than none.

But that's not what I set out to talk about tonight.  I came to talk about strong emotions.  In this case: anger.

Some things shouldn't be done when I'm angry.  For instance, I have a personal rule that as a couple, SB and I should not go to bed angry.  I read that pithy statement in some relationship counselling guide and it stuck.  Why would I be reading guides and tomes on relationship counselling? Is my marriage suffering?  No, not one lick or cuddle - my marriage is great but thank you for your concern.  But why would I be reading marriage counselling 101 books?  Well one does these things when toying with training to be a relationship counsellor.

Hilarious, I know: Imagine me being a counsellor.  But ten years ago, it was one of the avenues my education offered so I looked into it.  So yes, imagine me as a marriage counsellor.

Hell, I'd drive the divorce rate up, that much I know.  Relationships can be so unhealthy, so full of malignancy that I'm sure I'd advise more than average, to cut the cancer out and be done with it.  I'd be all pronounce-y and say something like "why not loose that [insert spousal weight here] pound tumour you have attached to you by a piece a paper, and start fresh?"

Actually, I wish people had to do more for a marriage license than declare they are single and not Charles Manson.  I think there should be a test.  Something akin to being dropped into Jurassic Park while chained together, slathered in steak sauce, and the only way you can survive is with a little thing called cooperation and brains.  If you die, well one less marriage or divorce for the courts to process.

You wouldn't want to live in my world, would you?

ANYHOW - I'm once again off topic - sorta.

Back up to not going to bed angry.  Another thing I know I should not do when angry, is blog.  So I've been quiet lately and that has been a good thing for everyone involved.  And don't worry, I'm not mad at you (like you were worried gentle reader), it's just I've been angry at myself for regressing in my personal pledges.

[cue violins]

You see, years ago I felt miserable most of the time because I surrounded myself with unhealthy relationships - I can't bare to call them friendships.  Then I had a V8 moment and realized that these people had no respect for me, so I obviously had no respect for myself and I cut the fat and quickly felt better about everything, including myself.  It's not really rocket science, yet it took way too long to figure out.  I swore it wouldn't happen again.  But obviously it did.

So this past weekend, after talking with friends who I love, respect, and adore, I found my focus again, and started to trim the fat and purge the unhealthy relationships of my life.  And the reason I felt the need to blog about this seemingly self-centred and boring topic, is this: I geniunely like 99.6% of my readers (all four of you that aren't family, though I must admit I kept the family members in that statistic to boost the percentages, something my stats profs would curse me out for doing because OMG I'm skewing the stats.  Did I ever tell you that stats make me kind of horny?  Seriously I love statistics and rocked them in university like an air guitar. I'm a sick, sick woman.  And truthfully, my prof from stats 2080 for medical professionals would probably high-five my skewing of the stats because that's how you get a job at the major corporations, don'tcha know).

Oh I'm so off topic now... backing up... horny, stats, reader love *screech* yes that's where I was:

I like you and may I be so bold to suggest you do the same kind of relationship purge if you are feeling bogged down.  Examine those you allow to orbit in your universe.  Are they using you? Do they respect you? Why are they part of your life?  And then pull yourself up and say I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and... oh screw that crap: respect me or get the hell out.

That felt good.

Back to regular programming soon.

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.

lost

After preparing yesterday's meme, I cruised through the old photos.  It's hard to resist the lure of memories in technicolor.

If you've known me a while, this was my original avatar.  I love this photo.  Gigi was such a serious baby 67% of the time.  The other thirty-three were spent making me swoon or go insane in the membrane.

There is a distinct memory of being impatient for the appearance of more hair but trying not to let it get to me because it seemed too superficial.  Which it was because all I wanted to do was force her into cute little hairstyles before she started to tell me to back off.  For the record, she started to tell me to back off the moment she started to talk.

Anyhow, now it's screw superficial - it's all about being practical.  These days, I wish she had short hair because taming her locks is damn near f'ing impossible with the hand twirled dreadlocks that form on a daily basis.  And don't even get me started on her bangs which are in her eyes all the time - oh wait - so are mine, so maybe I'd better let that one slide.

So the knot-filled hair means basically I'm paying for that one superficial wish.   Karma can be a bitch.  Cripes, I wonder what would happen if I wished for lots of money?  I'd probably get robbed by a bunch of freak clowns right after receiving the cash.

Oh sorry, I bet you thought I was going to talk about Lost (finally, they announced when it's back) but no, I was just talking about how I got lost in the photos last night.  Boring I know, but you cannot tell me you don't do it too.  Seriously, doesn't everyone fall head first into their photo folders?

this is how I roll

Yesterday I opened a flyer and saw the bedside lamps I had been eyeing last month had been marked down.  If that isn't a sign that they are meant to be mine, I don't know what one would be.  I mean, doesn't that mean it was meant to be?  Oh I know those lamps and I were meant to be together, because why else would I take the time to read a sale flyer from my favourite store?  Don't shatter my delusional thinking please.  My methods of rationalization keep me happy.

Now for something completely different, yet not completely unrelated, I have a new addiction.

I love buying in bulk.

When fulfilling my new addiction, I must always keep in mind that we live in a very small three room space.  Buying in bulk must be done with restraint and realism, but still: it's so much fun and it makes my cheap side just squeal like a school girl seeing Chuck Bass.  OMG why am I so into that show?  Holy cow, I just can't get enough.  But back to my other addiction.

I cannot get enough of getting something in bulk.  I swear it makes me all giggly when I score.  Sweet juju, I'm a warehouse shopping junkie.

Currently, I have a drum of peanut butter, a mega block of cheese, and fifteen pounds of butter in the fridge.

I create functional furniture out of crates of diapers, which sadly is coming to an end with this blasted potty training.  That drop of product from our shopping may possibly force us into finding real dressers.

And now I'm trying to build a new couch out of palettes of toilet paper but so far I've only made a foot stool.

But next time I make it to Costco, I'm totally finishing that project.  I'm thinking that I should reenforce the couch bottom with KD and paper towel.  Those longer rolls make for better support don'tcha think?

And this is the kind of stuff that you find in my brain.

And if you are interested in stuff that makes me laugh, head on over to Mrs. Chicky's and Oh The Joys to see the winners of the October ROLFs. My nomination almost made me electrocute myself while reading, that's how hard I cried.  Tears on the keyboard is dangerous stuff, but if asked to read it again, I would if only to hear the word Qbert just one more time.  Totally worth risking death.

burnt bun boy and the intangible stuff

During the summer of 2001 while in South Korea, Burnt Bun Boy became a part of my life. Burnt Bun Boy's path crossed mine many times in the days leading up to our actual meeting.

I'd catch glimpses of him while strolling through the open markets on the side streets in Busan. Children would whip by sporting backpacks with his moon face staring forlornly into nothing.  He wasn't the usual kind of anime character that attracted kids.  He was plain, bland, and sad. And obviously burnt.

The pack of wild ankle-biters that made up my friend's class at the local English school tackled me each day after class and many of them carried notebooks, pencil cases, and other assorted stationary covered in this strange looking brown character.

Each day the students would first rush then pile on me, screaming at my face in English, throwing around random words like hippopotamus or automobile and other funny words their six year old minds could retain.  And while I tossed and shooed them away like the rabid butterflies they were, that little brown guy would call out to me.  He appeared to be the Pokeman of the moment.  He was everywhere I went.

That summer was hot and we were soon leaving for Bangkok, so I knew a good old-fashion hand-powered fan was in order.  I had purchased a Mary is my Homegirl fan before leaving Toronto, but had forgotten to pack it.  What that says about me trying to being blasphemous, I don't know.  Regardless, a new fan was on the top of my shopping list and finding one with this mysterious Kogepan on it would be perfection.

That was Burnt Bun Boy's real name: Kogepan.  It took for-EV-er to get his name straight - you can only imagine me in a local teenage internet cafe trying to decipher what the teenagers were trying to tell me, all while hopped up on fruit flavoured caffeine drinks.  Meaning we all were hopped up except the kids had the added jitter layer of playing Quake for 20 hours straight on top of the fruit-flavoured speed.

Finally I got his name and set out in the underground malls to find a fan.  It took me all of twelve seconds to find store dedicated to his ilk and he was mine.  I guess I didn't really need to interrupt those strobing kids back at the internet lair.  Anyhow, when I got home I found out more about Kogepan/Burnt Bun Boy and it's totally trippy man.

Short of long: Kogepan is an overcooked redbean bun who was rejected by his creators and peers, only to turn to smoking and drinking milk as beer to blot out the pain. The depth of his character and history made my childhood comic books seem very sterile and homogenous.  Perhaps because they were.

My Burnt Bun Boy hand-powered fan recently broke.  The pink handle split in two, and it was reduced to a thin Frisbee of plastic which looks pretty pathetic.  I know it's not like an heirloom or something of monetary value, but I wish I had taken better care of that fan, maybe storing it away from curious hands.  That particular trip is full of memories that extend far beyond any of the photos that turned out.  Burnt Bun Boy was part of that, and I can't see his sad little face without remembering so much freakin' stuff.

full metal locker

Each time I smell noxema or ten-o-six cleanser, I'm immediately taken back to junior high. Bonnie Bell, Love's Baby Soft, and Coty provided a scented soundtrack to those years wedged between being a kid and a full fledged teen. The word tween did not exist when I entered grade seven at the unripe age of twelve.

Each August, Shoppers would put out a teen pack full of all the things one needed to go back to school.  Full size bottles of Gee, your hair smells terrific shampoo, Listerine mouth wash, Close-up toothpaste - always in cinnamon - plus some other stuff all for five bucks.  Armed with that and an at-least-thrice-read copy of latest Seventeen magazine, I knew I was ready to face the school halls in September.  And the locker rooms.  At least I didn't have to go to school with stinky boys, but girls - girls can be the worst critics and one would not want to be labelled grungy.

They say that the sense of smell is the strongest trigger between your brain and memories.  Makes me wish I could have somehow rigged up my studying to scratch and sniff stickers back in school.  Who knows, I may have done a bit better.  Dealing with locker room critics coupled with not exactly stellar grades made for interesting times.

Noxema and all that other stuff, scented the period before the teenage years exploded into a massacre of black nail polish, hair dye, and Anais-Anais.

I love the smell of Noxema in the morning.

not want yet

OK - so tonight I was going to finish off a post I've been trying to write for two days but I couldn't because I broke my one of my own rules - yes, I have rules.  Rules that may be whippy and malieable but they exist.  There is one that perhaps is more rigid than the others and that's the one I broke: "under promise and over deliver".

Oh my god.  I just realized that my life rules were lifted from those awful motivational posters every single one of my managers and bosses had during the nineties, I kid you not.

Anyhow, for some reason during the last week I said yes to too many things at the same time. I'm barely out of the mire but at least some hurtles have been run in to and dramatically pushed away (I was never much for leaping).  So who wants to sell me a new identity so I can get out of everything else?  I suppose I could just delete my inbox.  That actually happened recently and for those hours it was gone I felt more than slightly liberated after the general panic and running in triangles was over - our apartment is too small for circles.


Yeesssssss, so this post was supposed to be Want: part 2 to finish Want: part 1 but that's not going to happen tonight.

Instead:  have I ever mentioned we have cats?

We have two cats.

I think one of them *cough* this one *cough* hates me right now.

Either that, or he is trying to make me cuckoo for cocoa puffs (or the generic choco puffed wheat I'm more likely to buy because I'm one of "those" moms).

All day, every minute of the day, or maybe I'm totally exaggerating but work with me, m'kay? I swear, our cat paws at the cardboard lid of the box of tinned cat food.

*scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause)

Always with the pause.

All the live long day.

For the record, our cats get fed three times a day.  They are just bored indoor cats. I know I should probably do something about that but trust me, they live very privileged lives I'll have you know: we feed them excellent food, give them top-notch accommodations, tolerate their crazy cat witching hours, bring in little cat hookers to keep them entertained, we do it all.  OMG why am I defending myself like this? ANYHOW - SPOILED CAT TRYING TO DRIVE ME MAD.

Oh yes, we thought we outsmarted him when we moved the box (that only took a few weeks for us to figure out) but it's difficult when you have an open concept kitchen like ours.  And by open concept I mean microscopically small with sh*t piled everywhere because there is no real place to put anything.  I should have been a real estate agent.

Anyhow... he just doesn't stop.  When the box is moved, he howls.

*meowrmeow*meowrmeow* (pause) *meooooooooowr* *meowrmeow*meowrmeow* (pause) *meooooooooowr* *meowrmeow*meowrmeow* (pause) *meooooooooowr* *meowrmeow*meowrmeow* (pause) *meooooooooowr* *meowrmeow*meowrmeow* (pause) *meooooooooowr* *meowrmeow*meowrmeow* (pause) *meooooooooowr* *meowrmeow*meowrmeow* (pause) *meooooooooowr* *meowrmeow*meowrmeow* (pause) *meooooooooowr*

So.  I have to chose between *scratch*scratch*scratch* (pause) or *meowrmeow*meowrmeow* (pause) *meooooooooowr*.  It's kind of like being asked "Dora or Diego?" when arriving in the eternal rumpus room in hell.

So. Who wants a cat?

Now for a motherbumper PSA:

If you live in the Toronto area and want to get spoiled for a great cause, this Saturday October 25th is the Sweetmama's first Mother's Day Off Spa-A-Thon for the SickKids Foundation.  For the price of an event pass, you will receive a kick-butt loot bag full of totally great gifts worth way more than the $75 ticket price, and in addition to the loot you also get spa treatments, workouts, yoga, and almost anything that is good for a woman during the four hour event.

Better yet, want to win two free passes? Go over to Playdate and leave a comment BEFORE 5PM on Friday October 24th to win.  Just leave a comment - at Playdate not here, to win.

Easy Peasy to get all Squeezy.

Feel free to leave a comment here to show some love but you win no prize, except for my eternal devotion (retail value: $6.80 CAD).

motherbumper on modern dentistry

Back in July, a mere 12 hours before I was leaving on a jet plane for that big ol' party in San Francisco, my daughter did what any child would do in the same situation (that situation being she's staying home while mommy is going out to have fun), she made sure that she did something worthy of an emergency room visit.

She took a swan dive off her bed and landed on her front teeth. Well actually, on her left front tooth. She smashed that puppy into next week, got up off of the floor, wailed like a mo'fo (rightfully so), and started bleeding like she was Carrie at the prom. I almost fainted and her Dad had to play the good cop.

Good lord, who knew a child could produce so much blood from one small tooth mangling.

After I recovered (I'm so selfish) we assessed the situation and due to the nauseatingly angled tooth dangling in her mouth, decided we needed professional help. Now if that's not a loaded statement, I don't know what is. But moving right along....

We spent the next four hours in the ER because her docs office had just closed approximately 20 seconds before the accident, thus forcing us to go with the masses. Of course a seasoned parent would have said suck it up kid and here is some ice for your boo-boo but I'm neither seasoned, nor should I have the parent description on my resume most days.

And guess what? They told us there was nothing they could do and that we should take her to a dentist in the next 24 hours. So I assigned that task to SB and we went back home to grab some sleep before I left for SF.

The next day, I tore around the apartment trying to get ready to leave. But I just couldn't leave without saying good bye to my Gigi, so I snuck in to give her a kiss. There she lay, looking like a cross between Angelina Jolie and a duck. Her lips were so swollen. I know there are some Hollywood ladies that would give their husbands left nut for that kind of pout but that is neither here nor there.

ARGH - how am I to leave my baby when she looks like a Jolie-duck hybrid? But I did (remember: I'm selfish and cheap and the tickets were non-refundable).

I remember sitting on the plane trying NOT to think about her, and getting to SF and trying NOT to think about her, and spending the whole weekend trying NOT to think about her. Each time anyone asked me "how are you?" I'd babble incessantly about the damn tooth. I'm sure it was annoying for many because I think they wanted to discuss my obsession with Chuck Norris and perhaps plan an intervention.

Anyhow, enough about me - Gigi saw a dentist who pronounced it okay and said to keep an eye on it for changes, and do the ol' wait & see.

Fast forward to last week. Gigi and I had just come home from a playdate when something caught my eye. I asked to look in her mouth and sure enough, that tooth had turn grey - like yucky dishwater grey. Oh gawd, it's happening... my baby is going to lose her tooth. She's gonna go years without a front tooth.

I kept picturing this:

But then I thought, perhaps we can work with this gap toothiness. Maybe I could get her one of these:


Or why stop there, why not get her this:


With the prospect of shopping for jewels on the horizon, I took Gigi to the dentist and tried not to think about any procedures they may have to perform in order to get us to the Glitter Tooth stage. I also tried not to think about how much she is going to hate the dentist after this experience. Because I hate dentists as much as I hate clowns so nothing I would say on the topic was going to help.

So off to the dentist we went. I won't bore you with the details but I cannot tell you how relieved I was that they decided the tooth can stay - even though it's as grey as all get go. It was debatable but examinations and x-rays revealed that nothing was rotting and the lack of an abscess meant that no infection was lurking under the surface.

I was so freakin' relieved. Apparently I picked the right freakin' dentist because he participated in a study at Sick Kids that proved that tooth removal in this type of situation may be too radical a procedure. Back in the day, a tooth like Gigi's would be removed as a precaution but he said the trauma inflicted on a young kid outweigh the chances of infection and tooth rot.

OH MY GAWD I PICKED THE RIGHT DENTIST. Score one for motherbumper's mothering mad skillz.

Though I must admit, I'm disappointed that we won't be going grill shopping. Damn. I wanted to get us mother and daughter matching grills along with some fancy ol' brass knuckles.

that's right kid, floss and keep 'em pearls nice and grey

from the vaseline lens

This post is for the Mo' Babies Shower - today is the last day to get posts in for the celebration of the impending babies for Kristen at Motherhood Uncensored and Rebecca of Girl's Gone Child - two women I adore. The theme of this shower is reminiscing about those new baby days - the good stuff. So here is my "good stuff".

I'm a woman of silly words. For example, each time I started this post it would read very soppy because feel good stuff doesn't come naturally for me. Everything I wrote came out all gooey and sticky. Great, now I'm craving cinnamon buns. Anyhow, I turned to the archives of 7 bajillion photos from Gigi's early days for inspiration and then decided those early day images spoke way louder than any flowery words I try to spew.

So here it goes... the just a few of those good things I remember from the early days.






So there you have it, some self-indulgent snaps from memory lane. Remember when they were so freakin' small and floppy? I wish I could get that new baby smell back - not that I don't enjoy the new exotic ones the preschool age offers - but mmmmmmmmmmm.... I love new baby smell. Best wishes to Kristen and Rebecca and here's to having all your early days full of good memories.

whipped

Yesterday I was called into the Gigi's school directors office.

I know, I know, who thought it would happen in her second week of school?

Surely it should have happened during the first week when I went to pick up Gigi and found her holding a boy twice her size in a headlock - but I never question authority and what they chose to address - I just run.

Anyhow, I was called to the directors office to discuss their website redesign because that's the committee I volunteered for at her school. It was that or making play clay every two weeks which sounded waaaaay too involved. I'd rather be doing familiar nerdy stuff than taking responsibility for making the consistency of dough just "so" for a loud bunch of ankle-biting critics. Those kids are brutal with their feedback.

So there I stood in front of the directors desk, sweating a bit due to flashbacks from my own childhood but replace "really nice director" with "Sister Mary Margaret Donaghy". I was trying my best to stay focused on what needed to be done for the school website and remember that I was not in trouble. Yet.

But I still had this edge of nervousness.

Now I don't know about you, but when I'm nervous, I do one of two things: I either shut-up and remain uncomfortably silent to the point where people ask who's the mute in the corner OR I babble incessantly and just share way too much information. Neither are attractive and I once again am reminded that I really need to find some new coping strategies.

Anyhow, at this particular moment I chose to babble incessantly and babble I did. We talked about sites that I've helped create, graphic work I have done, and that's when I slipped... I said I blogged.

Oh my gawd, did I just tell her I have a blog?

Before I could stop the crap as it poured freely from my pie hole, I babbled about blogging and tried to keep it just to my wonderful preschool stuff (eg. clean and clear of f-bombs) over at Savvy Source Toronto (though my most recent post was about drinking without the kids). But then I remembered my bio at SS. My bio contains links to my other blogs. My stomach dropped as I mentally reviewed almost three years of posts here at motherbumper.

Hey - has anyone else gone back into their archive to read old posts and said "sh*t, did I write this post? holy crap, what was I on?" No? Just me? Great.

I figured I had said nothing alarming about the school (except about that scary clown mural in the lobby) but I still felt kind of woozy from my self-inflicted outing. I wonder how do super heroes deal with this kind of shit? But then, I doubt many super heroes out themselves out of stupidity.

Anyhow, I was kind of hoping for the earth to swallow me up right then or there in the office, though I would have settled for a fire-alarm or small earthquake to change the topic.

Just then, I heard a loud booming voice from the doorway behind me. I turned to find the source.

There stood my daughter, hands on hips, with a look of suspicion on her face. Her eyes said "what are YOU doing HERE?" She had that eye-brow cock just-so. It was obvious that she was not pleased with my presence at her school, during her time.

"MOMMA" she declared loud and clear, "You must leave. Right NOW!"

I smiled at her and nodded. I knew enough to know not to argue with her lest I bring out the side of Gigi I do not want the director of the school to see.

Then I turned back to the director and smiled rather helplessly.

The director looked at me, then carefully asked "Did Gigi just tell you to leave?"

I nodded slowly and kept smiling that helpless smile.

Great - so not only does the director of my child's school now know I blog, she also knows that I'm completely and utterly whipped by my daughter.

Then I heard Gigi yell "MOMMA" again from the area outside the office. I glanced back to see her standing there giving me the perfect stink-eye that spoke volumes.

So I left.

I'm so whipped (hangs head in shame)

Frosh

Diary of a Nursery School Newbie
Day One: Friday September 5th, 2008

Why has my momma brought me here? Who are these other kids and why do I have to sit at this table - screw this, I'm taking off.

Sh*t. Why is momma telling me I have to hang with these kids and she gets to sit at the back of the room.

This sucks.

Hey, are those gold fish crackers and watermelon slices for me? Okay, maybe I'll stick around.

Day Two: Monday, September 8th, 2008

AGAIN? WTF?

Hey, can I play with those doll carriages and ride-on dump trucks - we don't have anything that cool at home. I can play with them?

Okay, maybe I'll stick around.

Wait a second - bagels and cream cheese. What kind of snack is this - did we move to NYC? I want the goldfish crackers again. F**k this sh*t.

Day Three: Tuesday, September 9th, 2008

What the hell? HERE - AGAIN? Look lady - you are no longer my momma - I just demand that you stay.

STAY. By the power of Greyskull woman - I command you to STAY!

Where are you going? Why are you smiling and waving? WTF?

Oh look, they have apples and arrowroot crackers.

OK, I'll stay.

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

Gigi is doing great at nursery school - her first drop off program. Me? I'm coping.

But I have a confession: I hate the fact that my daughter has fallen in love with her nursery school teacher (young, blonde, not overly perky and lots of fun). I also hate the fact that my daughter is doing stuff all morning long and she won't tell me what. I get the reports from her teacher but I don't get the low down I was expecting from her (eg. who's the nosepicker, who wet their pants/cut the first fart, you know - the gossip). I mean, she is the daughter of a gossip blogger after all.

But you know what... I'm pretty sure I'll get over it mighty fast. Like mighty, mighty fast. I've been for coffee with mom friends twice this week - during daylight hours! - and I could get used to that kind of lifestyle. Hell, I'm writing a blog post right now, while my child is working in a sweatshop or whatever they have her doing over there.

I just never expected liberation to feel so ouchy. And teary.