Crying fowl

My house is a few blocks away from the city park, in the middle of which is a huge man-made lake. It's really pretty, when it's not ripe with decaying algae or your escapee dog isn't taunting you from the middle of it while you scream ineffectually from the shore.

However, for the last three nights, I have been roused from my precious slumber at 3am by ducks. What sounds like hundreds of ducks, or geese, having a waterfowl rave. Or maybe an orgy.

(A whole new meaning to the phrase "fuck a duck".)

What is the most disturbing part of this is that I can't get back to sleep again. Any kind of sleeplessness is highly unusual for me; I can sleep anywhere, anytime. But something about the nasal honking of hundreds of ducks (with maybe a couple of screaming seagulls thrown in) gives me anxiety. They sound...French.

(Uh, nothing against the french, of course. Though if thousands of them converged on the lake in the wee hours of the morning, I probably wouldn't be pleased either.)

I complained at work this morning and got informed that they were returning from their winter migration. So I guess they all have to talk about their vacation? Whether they got the all-inclusive or just did the hostel thing?

Do they have to do it at 3am, though?

I asked hubby if he would mind slaughtering the ducks on his way home from work. He works the night shift and he's driving right past there; it's not like it would be out of his way. He said he'd consider it, and then on his way out the door he said, "So what am I doing on the way home? Hitting ducks with the car?"

Because I'm not tired ENOUGH, now I have to lay awake worrying about whether he's going to drive our car into the lake while trying to be chivalrous.

Inconsiderate fucking ducks.

Tis the season for multiple homicides, fa la la la la, la la la

Today kicked off Happy Family Time, which is to say that hubby has a few days off and it finally feels like Christmas. I had big plans for today - we were going to wake up late, have some waffles and bacon, and go out and let our combined bonuses buy us a replacement for our tv, which is 20" and has a weird permanent splash of orange in the bottom left corner. Possibly we were going to have a group nap, and we were definitely going to get the tree up and decorated before the 23rd of December for once in our lives.

Naturally that meant the toddler woke up early and crabby, we didn't get waffles OR bacon, and we didn't get anywhere close to leaving the house. Other than hubby, who fled the scene (ostensibly to borrow a saw to saw off the bottom off the Christmas tree, because I know we have one but do you think I can fucking find it?) when I bellowed at our whiny 2 year old, "WE. ARE. HAVING. HAPPY FAMILY TIME!"

Our group nap was interrupted by an unannounced visit from the inlaws, who brought brightly wrapped presents for our son and then told him he couldn't open them. Of course. Because toddlers totally get that, right?

Anyway. Somewhere around then I pulled my own head out of my ass and decided to just roll with the punches, and it didn't even have anything to do with alcohol. (Though it might have had something to do with flogging my MIL through a snowy field pulling a 40-lb toddler on the sled she brought him, because I was *ahem* too busy taking pictures to pull him myself. Warmed my heart to see her getting some exercise, I tell ya.) Happy Family Time did indeed turn into actual happy family time, and I even got some cookies baked.

And we got the tree up on the 20th. SCORE.

I swear she doesn't have a heart condition

It's like a train wreck, you can't look away and people get weirded out if you start going through pockets: Random Tuesday Thoughts


Yes, folks, it's that day again. Time to belly on up to the Random Tuesday bar and let me pour you a shot of whatthefuckisshetalkingabout. (It's new, just got put on the shelves.) Then keep the party happening on your own blogs!

So, Disney bought Marvel Entertainment. I wish I'd known it was for sale, I'm sure I have 4 billion laying around here someplace. But anyway, who wants to take bets on how long it takes for gay and bisexual characters like Northstar and Rictor to get unceremoniously shoved back in the closet? Not that Marvel had a ton of them to begin with. But they were making progress. I know Disney's all family-friendly; at least, if it's the right kind of family.

C'mon, someone prove me wrong here.

On the other hand, hopefully this means they'll stop attempting to make Punisher movies.

I spend a lot of time on this site, horrifying myself by what's in the beauty products I use. Go on. I dare you.

Most disturbing Twilight fanatic stuff to date:

Edward shower curtain

Edward My Little Pony Mod

Twilight-inspired dildo

This morning I had a dream that I was trying to get frisky with hubby and he rejected me, getting mad and telling me I was a liar because I didn't really find him attractive. For the record, obviously I find him very attractive (and my dream self has a lot more energy than my real self in the morning). I told him about it; he seemed more interested in the frisky part than whether his dream-self was mad at me. But when I got home from work he offered me 12 roses, to apologize for his dream-self being an ass. Also to make it abundantly clear that he would not reject my frisky self under ANY circumstances.

I wonder what I can lie dream about tomorrow morning?

I totally missed my blogoversary. It was last Monday. So I'm having an extra glass of wine to celebrate. Feel free to do the same.

Who knew that I, with the attention span of a gnat, would manage to

Oh holy shit this is the funniest kid's toy ever!

Hubby also broke the computer chair the other day. He blames girthiness. I blame leaning further than crappy Wal-Mart computer chairs are meant to lean. Either way, now I'm sitting on a folding chair.

My butt hurts.

In unrelated news, this may be the shortest RTT ever. See, I told you it would be quick and painful. Now grab the button and link up!

Are you random yet? You should be random. Why aren't you random?


Wheee! It's that time o' the week - time to let all your randomness hang out. So c'mon - you've spent the weekend celebrating your independence, now join the damn crowd! Write a post that contains nary a segue, grab that funky purple button, and link up!

I'm tapping this out on my awkward laptop because I was working on a logo/business card for a friend (all my software is on here). The friend hasn't responded well to my usual approach to these requests, which is to ignore it and make excuses until they a) forget they asked in the first place, b) get pissed off enough to ask someone else or c) move on to some other kind of business endeavour. For some reason he keeps phoning no matter how often I grunt a non-response.

This friend is half responsible for my "I'm blogging" excuse, though. He was the one who said to me sometime last summer: "Do you have a blog? You should have a blog. Why don't you have a blog?".

Bet he's sorry now.

On a tangent that is totally unrelated because this is supposed to be random, that's pretty much how hubby and I got together. Someone said: "Are you dating? You should be dating. Why aren't you dating?"

And look how well that turned out. So, hey! High hopes for this whole blog thing.

Yes, I am highly suggestible, why do you ask?

You ever have a whole post planned around photographic evidence that turns out to not look that impressive after all?

I hate that.

If my son makes it to adulthood with all his limbs and eyes and the majority of his skull intact, I'm throwing a huge fucking party. You read it here first.

What brought that on? Oh, just, EVERYTHING HE DOES.

I've been getting a LOT of google searches along the lines of "what to do with your girlfriend". I'm going to take the high road and assume these people are looking for date ideas, but I have no idea how they end up here. Hubby and I don't really get to go on dates anymore, and even when we did, we spent a lot of the time with our backs to each other on separate computers, playing MMOs. We're those uber geeky people whose avatars get married in-game.

Well, except for the part where I would never fucking do that.

At any rate, I totally don't recommend suggesting that as a fun date to the majority of girlfriends.

(Just the awesomest ones. Heh)

In New Zealand, an ad agency created a billboard that bleeds when it rains to remind people to drive according to the road conditions. Um, am I the only one who would drive into the fucking ditch after seeing a bleeding billboard?

Okay, gotta go continue my charity work now. Random it up, ya'll!*

*I feel I can say this because I'm still drinking mojitos.


Five years ago today, all of my friends - even Politika, who lives on the coast - pulled up at my house in a limo. A "well stocked with booze" limo. I had spent the day shopping, I was sporting a new haircut, wearing new clothes. Nice, expensive clothes, without food or snot or tears on them.

(Clothes I no longer fit into)

The limo took us out for an expensive dinner, we dined and drank and laughed. Then it took us to every bar or lounge where we knew the bartender, which was...every bar or lounge. We celebrated and were celebrated, we charmed and acquired people in our limo and had shooters named in our honour. We were freaking rock stars.

We ended up at a club where we danced all night and closed the place down. At one point I pressed my face into the chest of the man who would one day become the father of my child, and moaned drunkenly and melodramatically, "I'm not going to make it!"

I spent the next day in bed, and didn't emerge until 4pm. That legendary evening was hailed thereafter as "The Day My Friends Tried To Kill Me With Alcohol".

Today, this year, I blissfully slept in until the unheard-of hour of 8am. I dozed and listened to the murmur of voices, tiny feet dancing, toddler giggles.

I got out of bed and the three-foot-tall light of my life ran up to me with a small box. He tripped away, laughing, as I opened it. And then the six-foot-tall light of my life, who had followed his son, asked me to marry him.

I said, y'know, I'd think about it.

We had breakfast and I went to the gym. I had a nap. I went out for lunch with my best friend and my favorite short person, then played in the garden for the afternoon. We had a great dinner, a glass of wine.


(I'm just fucking with you. Of course I said YES. Duh.)

Probably the one and only post where I talk about my uterus. You've been warned.

I've been a little distracted lately, not really blogging angst but I'm having a hard time coming up with things to post. Mostly because I'm thinking about just this ONE thing.

I've had some issues with the, uh, plumbing for a few months. Things are not, shall we say, regular.

Oh, fuck it. I haven't had a period since January. There.

(Apologies to my two male readers. Hi Captain! Hi Cameron! You're allowed to go watch the game now, have a beer and ignore the rest of this post. Although, you're both parents so you must have SOME idea of how this works).

I've also had some weird hot flashes and various other goings-on, so at my physical this week I mentioned all this to my doctor. And she decided to test me for a) premature menopause and b) polycystic ovarian syndrome.

Yeah. Sounds fun, right? Both of those present problems, should I ever want to provide my son with a sibling.

I said, "Um," and my doctor said (in an annoyingly cheerful, I'm-done-having-all-my-children kind of way) "Good thing you guys are done, right? Aren't you done?"

And in that instant, months of waffling and humming and gawd-do-I-never-want-to-be-pregnant-again turned into OMG I TOTALLY WANT ANOTHER BABY YOU CAN'T TELL ME I CAN'T XANDER NEEDS A LITTLE BROTHER WAAAAAHHHH!!

I managed to not say that though. I said, weakly, "Um, we weren't sure." But I sure as hell am now.

I cried in the car and then went home and hugged the son I'm lucky enough to have already fiercely, and then I presented my case to Paul. He's been spending the same months voicing vague arguments such as, "Can we afford another one?", and " I don't know. We just started getting some sleep."

I cried on his shoulder about my potential barrenness, and sudden and overwhelming urge to have another baby and he said, "Sure, let's have another one."

"Really? But you never seem like you think it's a good idea."

"I've been talking myself into it for a few months," he replied. "You're just never there for the conversations."

Hm. Well, then. Whatever the testing verdict comes back as, I guess we're giving this a shot. So to speak.

My Beating Heart - not as gory as it sounds, honest

I don't really do reviews, because nobody's ever asked me *sob* that isn't what this blog is about.

(No, I don't know what this blog IS about. But it's not that. Shut up. I'll know it when I see it).

This is just a cool thing that I found and ya'll should know about. Because it's both weird and useful, and what better combination than that?

Unlike me, who can slip instantly and without fuss into a sleep that's just this side of a coma, Paul has issues falling asleep. Combine that with a job where he mostly works nights and a loud toddler that thinks 6am is a reasonable time to wake up, and it makes for a cranky hubby. We try to make it work so that he gets as much sleep as possible, but part of the problem is it takes him an hour just to GET to sleep.

While Christmas shopping online (I do probably 75% of it online now, because hello? Lazy) I came across this little gem at For those of you too lazy to click on the link (you're my kind of people!), it's a "stress relief pillow" shaped like a heart, called - wait for it! - My Beating Heart (ewwwwwwww). It simulates a heartbeat of someone in a deep meditative state. Hugging it makes your own heart want to beat in rhythm, and lo! You're de-stressed.

The geeky yogi in me thought, "Coooooooool", and the practical side of me thought, "If hubby hates it I'll try it on the toddler". So I ordered one. Because it was late and I'd had too much wine.

When it arrived I thought, "What the hell?", followed quickly by, "Oh right. What the hell?". But I'd blown my Xmas budget so I wrapped it up. And explained it for like, 10 minutes to a very skeptical hubby. But he has lots of experience in humouring me, so at the first opportunity, he took it to bed and while holding it gingerly, thought:

"This is stupid. This isn't going to work. Keely is weirder than I thought. This is...sssxzxxzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz".

Then he woke up 5 hours later. It's THAT GOOD.

I've tried it myself, though I don't need help getting to sleep, but there is the very rare occasion that I might get stressed. It's a little bizarre. It feels like it's purring. Whatever's in the pillow actually changes every time you turn it on, so you get a different heartbeat every time. It's kind of like it's alive. And purring.

Before I wrote this I asked hubby if he still uses it or if it's just in our bed to humor me (because if you sleep like me, you don't notice quietly purring pillows in your bed at 3am). He said he did, but said it that way that made it obvious there was a "but" attached to the end of the sentence. So I waited.

"Actually, most of the time I don't even turn it on. I just hug it and fall asleep," he admitted finally.

Yes folks, it's THAT GOOD. You don't even have to turn it on.

Or possibly I just outed my husband as someone who essentially sleeps with a teddy bear.

Either way.

PS - It says for ages 3 and up, but I bet it would work REALLY WELL on a toddler. Not that I've tried that, because mine isn't 3 yet. I'm just sayin'. I bet it would.

Move along, nothing to see here

HASAY update. I had a lame week. Literally. I pulled a muscle attempting a step aerobics class on Wednesday night so I whined a lot limped along through most of the weekend. That and the projectile vomiting from my son earlier in the week meant I only exercised three times. I wasn't too bad with the Weight Watchers, but obviously I have to be even MORE well-behaved, because when I stepped on the scale today there was zero change. Bah.

After the step aerobics class Wednesday night (which we will NOT being doing again, what with the injury and the total lack of coordination and the generally looking like flailing idiots), Paul tried to grab me for a hug.

"Ewwwwww don't touch me I'm GROSS," I wailed, squirming away.

"Fair enough," he replied, but I could tell his feelings were kind of hurt. I mean, I'm pretty sure he'd snuggle with me if I was cracked-out, had been lying in a sewage ditch for a week and had given birth as recently as five minutes ago. He doesn't care. But I felt gross after the workout, two-days-worth-of-grime-and-sweat-and-may-possibly-have-forgotten-to-brush-my-teeth gross, and that doesn't exactly lend itself to closeness.

"Tell me again, why I'm doing all this sweating and stinking and...and STARVING?" I lamented.

"Um...for your health?" he replied dubiously.

For my health, right. Isn't a large component of your health HAPPINESS? Because all these endorphins are nice and all, but you know what makes me happy? Really good food. Great wine. CHOCOLATE.

I'm having a hard time NOT getting hung up on the number on the scale. I feel stronger, I feel good about myself when I eat alfalfa sprouts, I want to maintain an active life so that I'll set a good example for my family. So that I'll be around for my family. And, kettlebell class aside, I'm having fun trying new things and working out with FoN (tomorrow we may try a hula hoop class. Because apparently we have learned nothing from our step aerobics experience, nothing). When we're not trying to kill each other at the gym united in this common cause, we usually only see each other once a week or less. So it's nice.

It's just frustrating to not SEE any progress. All I have to lose is eight pounds to put me at the top of the recommended weight range for my height. It's only eight fucking pounds, how hard can it be?

And if it's "only" eight pounds, why am I so bent out of shape about it?

Now that's love

Some of you mocked me and pretended to be askeered of my Friday Fill-In answers this week. But that's okay. I showed hubby, and he laughed, and then he said, "That's funny, I was just going to change my Facebook status to say 'Paul can't believe how hard it is to get a hooker's blood out of the carpet.' ".

See? We're MEANT to be together.

And in other news, the Un Mom is going legit and is now just It's still hosted with Blogger, so I have no idea if this will mess with your RSS feed. I'm not that kind of geek. Ask me which one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse Gambit turned into, or ask me to rant about how Grant Morrison has fucked up the entire DC Comics universe, and I can do that. But my web address knowledge is limited to "Can pointy THIS over THERE". So someone let me know, 'kay?

The skinny, the poop: in other news...Random Tuesday Thoughts

randomtuesday we are again at Tuesday. How the hell did that happen? I swear I was JUST waking up from a nap on WEDNESDAY.

Wait, I don't get to nap anymore. That must have been somebody else.

So! Ya'll must know how this works by now, if not...check these out. Then grab that button, and randomize!

When I typed 'check THESE out' just then, I instinctively hoisted my boobs. What a ho.

I think I used all my randomness on my post yesterday. Which was fairly chronological, but random, nonetheless. Hm. Perhaps I need another glass of wine.

Can someone please explain to me why my toddler can ingest practically any food he finds on the floor sees, and suffer no ill effects, but the second the grocery store is out of 'his' formula and I have to substitute, it results in the most toxic, planet-poisoning, nauseating diarrhea ever? What the fuck is IN that stuff??

Some comments on my post yesterday in regards to orange picking (and sucky jobs in general) made me start thinking...why is it that the most horrible stuff always sounds the coolest? Like terrible jobs sound really awesome to other people. And drinking so much you vomit a lung for some reason impresses them. Exercising until you can barely walk up a flight of stairs is awe-inspiring. Seriously - do people just secretly want to hear about your suffering?

The exception to this, of course, is parenthood. People WANT to hear about the baby snuggles and the tender moments and the first time they say 'Mama' (instead of calling you 'Bob'). But we insist on regaling them with tales of sleep-deprivation, stretch marks, vomit, peeing involuntarily when you sneeze, and...diarrhea.

Hey, I never said I was any different.

Michele over at It's a dog's life has heard a rumour that the word 'news' is like crack to search engines. In case you were wondering about the title of this post. Which I'm pretty sure you weren't. Also, I'm guessing that combining it with the word 'poop' probably cancels out the effect.

Waiter, where's my drink??

I really need a personal waiter.

Why is it always the skinny girls that insist on offering weight loss advice? I mean, I guess they got skinny somehow. But can't they just fuck off and try not to snicker too loudly while I'm flailing around?

(Somewhere there's a skinny girl wondering, "Why are all the pudgy chicks such whiners?".)

Can anybody tell me What. The. Fuck. went on in 'Superman Beyond 3D'? No? Damn. I was hoping someone could explain it in small words.

All the windows in our house got replaced this week, which means they took the blinds down. So naturally now I want new ones. I should probably do that. Or at least stop grabbing my husbands ass in front of the very large kitchen window.

And with that, I'm off to grab someone's ass. Won't say whose! Feel like being random? Leave your link...

100th Post (I'm a conformist)

Today marks my 100th post. Yay! I wasn't going to be like all those OTHER bloggers and list 100 facts about myself. I was going to do something clever and different.

Except I couldn't think of anything clever.

So you get 100 facts about me. Um, yay?

I'm going to totally rip off aspire to be the Stiletto Mom and just start at the beginning. Hers turned out well.

(Probably because she's just an interesting person, and I'm not, but shut up. It's my blog).

1. When I was 2 the neighbour kids pretended to befriend me for gum and then locked me in an outhouse. I only know this because my mother told me.

2. She was outraged. I'm pretty sure those poor neighbour kids have more emotional scars now than I do.

3. We lived in a small prairie town (like, 500 people) until I was 5.

4. All I remember from that is making mud pies with the dog's poop and once getting my leg so stuck in a snow drift that I just stood there for what seemed like hours, imagining that the ambulance would arrive any minute to rescue me.

5. I'm pretty sure it was about 5 minutes.

6. I went to a french immersion program in elementary school.

7. I dropped out in grade 9. I can barely speak a word of french.

8. When I was 10 my family picked up and moved to New Zealand. I cried. A lot.

9. We lived there for 2-1/2 years.

10. I hear the NZ school system has gone in the tank lately.

11. While there I met friends who played D&D and started imaginary armadillo farming businesses. Once, we "kidnapped" one of our other friends wearing black masks (oddly, she wasn't fooled), brought her home and kept her in a closet for an hour.

12. What still baffles me is that our parents (and hers) went along with that plan.

13. When I was 13 we moved home. When I was 17 we went back to visit. It was like I had never left.

14. No, not really.

15. I slept through most of high school. I kept going to the doctor to find out if something was wrong with me, but I was apparently just bored.

16. I lost my virginity at 16 to a boy whose last name I can't remember. I just wanted to get it over with, I was the last of my friends to get laid.

17. No, my friends aren't sluts. Honest.

18. Oh, and it sucked.

19. Ironically, shortly after that was when my mother decided to have "the talk" with me. Um, Mom? See that barn door, and that horse disappearing over the horizon? Yeah.

20. Immediately after graduation I moved into an apartment with my best friend.

21. I don't recommend that. If you were wondering.

22. I started working at the job that I'm working at now.

23. The end. ...No, just kidding.

24. In 1993 I decided to go to college. I wanted to do a graphic arts program, and I wanted to move to the coast. None of the ONE graphic arts program I applied to accepted me. I had applied to a Stagecraft program on a whim, and they sent me an acceptance letter. So I did that.

25. No - I had never done anything in theatre before. Ever.

26. It rocked, and I met one of my bestest friends in the world there. It was our first day of Props class, and there were various supply boxes on shelves. One of them was labelled "Dead Things And Their Fur". I giggled. She whispered, "Are you laughing at that too?". Then we bonded over chocolate chocolate chip cookies.

27. "Dead Things and Their Fur" still makes me giggle.

28. Theatre tech school involved a lot of building, painting, and drinking. Not necessarily in that order.

29. One of us "techies" acquired a large, ugly, glass vase thingy on a stand. I think it was actually an ashtray from the 70s. We dubbed it "The Graille" and drank from it at every party. After everyone had contributed booze to it, of course.

30. I was the Queen of the Graille.

31. No, I'm not particularly proud of that.

32. After that diploma I went to the Banff Centre to do their summer program.

33. They had some of the most spectacularly crappy food there EVER. I lost 10 pounds, despite the copious amounts of alcohol I was consuming.

34. I returned to Vancouver and attempted to actually make a living working in theatre. Um, it's hard. And I'm a wimp.

35. So I moved back home.

36. I moved in with FoN and her then 2-year-old daughter.

37. Her daughter ruined the movie Grease for me by playing it repetitively all. day. For several weeks straight.

38. I used to love that movie.

39. Remember what I said about moving in with best friends? Yeah...that didn't last long. So I got my own apartment.

40. I miss living on my own sometimes.

41. I started dating a guy who was a pilot.

42. He was a cheating, manipulative, lying bastard.

43. I stayed with him for almost 3 years.

44. At one point I moved back out to the coast to try to work in theatre, just to get away from him. But he still had a hold over me, so I moved back and started going to university.

45. I also started waitressing.

46. This gave a lot of my good friends pause. Apparently, I never seemed the waitress 'type'.

47. When I finally decided I'd had enough of the asshole pilot, he didn't want to let me go. I literally had to punch him to send him the message.

48. It felt pretty good.

49. I've never punched anyone else.

50. Even though I wouldn't cross the road to piss on him if he were on fire, I appreciate that the relationship taught me valuable lessons. Like how to pick your battles. And when to listen to your radar.

51. I kept going to university. Eventually I started dating someone else.

52. He was a nice guy.

53. Are we only half way through? Yeesh. Kudos if you're still with me.

54. In 2001 both my maternal grandparents passed away. My mother took this opportunity to let me in on the fact that they were raging socialists commies. So THAT'S why they visited Cuba so much.

55. I graduated with distinction.

56. My grad show was a ceramic and plaster shrine to my alter ego, Super Keely.

57. A friend of mine took the 6' Super Keely after the show and hung it up on a pole on his farm with a light over it. It's creepy.

58. After graduation I had planned to go travelling with my friend Fashionista. We had intended to go to Europe in June, but couldn't get our poop in a group.

59. We worked for 6 more months and decided to head to Australia and NZ in February.

60. Fashionista's luggage got searched 3 times on the way out. Mine, once.

61. We spent 3 months in NZ.

62. I visited my old school. It was unimpressive.

63. I started a webpage so the peeps back home could see what we were doing. I scripted it from scratch in HTML.

64. Why the fuck didn't anybody say the word 'blog' to me??

65. We ran out of money and went to Australia, where we had working visas.

66. We worked for a month picking oranges.

67. I don't recommend THAT, either.

68. Did you know orange trees have thorns? And spiders? I was terrified that I would touch a spider while on the top of the ladder, because my first instinct would be to JUMP BACKWARDS, and then I would die. On an orange ranch in Australia.

69. After the orange ranch we hooked up with Fashionista's second cousin in Sydney, who had a candle making business.

70. The candle-making business was way easier and paid way better than oranges.

71. The nice guy I had been dating had made me promise to return, so I did, 8 months after leaving.

72. He dumped me a couple of months after I got home.

73. Fashionista came back too and we moved in together.

74. CLEARLY I DON'T LEARN. But we assumed since we'd been practically breathing each other's air for 8 months we'd be okay.

75. I started working for a film company.

76. It's not as glamorous as it sounds. On my first week an extra called in sick so I had to strip to my underwear and sit in a freezing cold river pretending to be a corpse. Luckily they were only filming my legs, otherwise I probably would have quit right there.

77. It didn't pay enough so I got another waitressing gig.

78. A guy I'd worked with at the first waitressing job was working there. We started hanging out again.

79. Someone asked, "Are you two dating?". I said no. They said, "Well why not?".

80. So I jumped him.

81. Fashionista moved out and he moved in, 3 months after we became a couple.

82. Some people we knew were going to open a restaurant/bar, so we signed on.

83. It was a complete fucking disaster. There were 7 owners.

84. The bar part was pretty successful at first, so we made some money and got the hell out.

85. I went back to working at the same company I'd worked for right after high school.

86. We bought a house.

87. Paul's parents had offered to help with a down payment, but changed their minds when they saw the house we'd chosen.

88. We bought it anyway.

89. It's now worth almost twice what we paid for it.

90. I do a little 'neener neener' dance occasionally. When I'm feeling juvenile. Okay, that's a lot.

91. A few months after moving in we got a dog.

92. A few months after that I got pregnant.

93. We never actually discussed trying to get pregnant. We just stopped using contraception. I assume he's okay with it.

94. I was an ambitious pregnant woman. I planted a garden.

95. I planted one this year, too.

96. I slept for three months, glowed for three months, and felt like crap for the remaining three.

97. In October 2007 Xander was born.

98. I started a journal. In August 2008 it turned into a blog.

99. We have logistical hiccups but life is good.

100. The end.

Friday Fill-Ins, you'll have to make do with this until Sunday


1. Enough with the fucking forty degrees below zero already, I can't even get frisky with my husband without making him warm his hands up for 15 minutes, and I'm pretty sure I'll never feel my toes again in this lifetime. We'll be reunited in the afterlife (me and my toes. Not me and my husband. Well, probably us too, but that's getting a little existential for a Friday).

2. Hearing stuff I'm not supposed to know or repeat causes me to be conflicted.

3. I've been craving pretty much anything bad for me.

4. This makes me laugh. And cringe a lot. And make me so, so proud to be an art school graduate.

5. I wish I could go to the spa next week. Or Hell. I hear it's at least warm there.

6. My friend Heidi has been on my mind lately.

7. And as for the weekend, tonight I'm looking forward to dinner with my parents, tomorrow my plans include bashing my novel into shape while my parents generously babysit and Sunday, I want to play squash!

Oh, wait, no I don't. I want to eat a sickening brunch with waffles and lots of syrup. But I'm going to play squash.

4 pictures that pretty much sum up my New Years Eve

So after whining so much about going off to hubby's hometown for New Years, you didn't think I'd skip blogging about it, did you? Well actually the trip turned out to be rather pleasant. And we did go out with his sister & BIL for a New Years Eve dinner which, while providing a great steak and some great conversation, had a distinctly small-town flair to it. Here's four pictures that sum up how:

1. If "Leesa" is indeed her real name.

2. As this was explained to me: They open a bag of Doritos. Throw in some ground beef, salsa & sour cream and shake it up. Then they hand it to you, breaking all kinds of health regulations in the process, I'm sure. Nom nom nom *gag*

3. Um, yeah.

4. Note to Self, if Self ever gets the bright idea to open a bar in a small town: If your patrons feel they have a personal relationship with their Video Lottery Terminals, they may be inclined to gamble more. You know, to show their new friends "a good time". Use handmade signs for that personal touch.

...that was all. We were home by 8:30. But it WAS good steak.

Men: Can't live with them, and you'd think it would be easier to poison them for the insurance money

So I may have whined excessively mentioned yesterday that we're spending a few days in hell hubby's hometown for a belated Christmas with the inlaws. He intended to get the Honda serviced at the dealership and then hit the road. So this morning, he said, "I just have to pack.".

He threw some socks and underwear into a duffle bag, picked out a couple of comics to read while we're there, and announced, "Okay, good to go.".

Really? Okay, just give me a few minutes to pack my clothes & toiletries, pack our son's clothes and toiletries, pack his diapers, butt wipes, formula, bottles (which need to be washed first), snacks, a couple of toys, his Pack n' Play, crib blankets, high chair, snow pants, and infant Advil.

Oh, and the dog's food, dishes, treats, and leashes.

And the Christmas gifts.

NOW we're good to go.


If a spider falls into my wine, I'll never be the same again: Random Tuesday Thoughts


Woo! It's Tuesday again! I think it is, anyway. These holiday thingies are starting to mess with my sense of time, which has never been that great, to be honest.

We're heading out to hubby's hometown to spend a belated Xmas with the inlaws, so posting may be sparse. Or dense, depending on how badly I need to escape and just how much I'm self-medicating. So if you're going to play today, be sure to leave your linky in your comment because I can't guarantee when I'll be able to link you up. Or how sober I will be at the time. I could get it wrong entirely and send unsuspecting blog readers off to look at goat porn.

So, ready for Ye Olde Randome Tuesdae? Follow along!

I'm blogging and drinking as usual and my red wine got accidentally chilled (the bottle was sitting by a window). I'm ashamed to admit I kind of like it. I know, how classy can you get? Okay, well, I drink it out of a coffee cup in the first place, so I didn't have too far to fall.

This post got interrupted earlier when, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tiny movement above my shoulder. It was a rather large spider, descending from the ceiling, all eight legs - the four that are justifiable and the four that are totally creepy and unnecessary - splayed wide. So I did what any rational adult would do, I shrieked like a little girl and just about broke my own neck falling out of the chair backwards. Then I grabbed the closest two books and smacked that little bugger between them.

They happened to be graphic novels, so now there are spider brains all over my Buffy Omnibus 1 & 2. See? She's still slaying icky things.

Anyway, haha on you Mr. Dead Spider! You think you're so fast with that completely gratuitous amount of limbs, but NOBODY is fast when they're hanging from the ceiling by their ass.

The thing is, this is not an isolated incident. It's like the fourth time that I've been sitting here minding my own business, and a spider has pulled a Mission Impossible right beside me. So I either have an inordinate amount of arachnids dangling from my ceiling on a regular basis, or THEY KNOW. Somehow they know that it will freak me out, and they're willing to risk their lives just to fuck with me.

Inordinate Amount of Arachnids would be a great name for a band.

Dear Makers of Advil Pediatric Drops,
Would it fucking kill you to make your bottle CLEAR? So that at 3am, when I'm half asleep and juggling a 30-lb turkey toddler who's trying to set a new world record for how many teeth he can cut at once as well as trying to maneuver your stupid-ass-design syringe thingie into his mouth, it will take me less than 20 minutes to realize the bottle is empty? Thank you.
Also, while I have you on the line, your product is NOT LIQUID GOLD. Seriously. 8 fucking dollars for 24 ml? C'mon.

I'd switch to Tylenol, but apparently my child has inherited my bizarre physiology that sneers at acetemetophin products and can only be subdued by ibuprofen.

Upcoming small-town inlaw-visiting hell. Really lookin' forward to it. Can you tell? We haven't even gotten there yet and there's already drama, because we've elected to stay with hubby's sister instead of his parents. The reason we're doing this - the one we're giving them anyway - is we're toting along the dog and they don't like her. But apparently they're offended anyway. The kicker is that hubby's sister and parents live FOUR HOUSES APART. What difference does it make where we sleep? Are they planning to creep on my son while we're dozing?

Ugh...actually, they probably are.

They don't want to see us anyway, just the grandson. I'd totally put him on a bus and ship him there, but, y'know, he's 15 months old. He may not understand why his seatmates smell like urine.

Also I might miss him. And they might not give him back.

Anyway now I have to go wipe spider bits off my comics before the stain sets in, and I've probably horrified you enough. Grab the button, randomize, and leave a comment with your link! Happy freakin' Tuesday!

Give the Devil his interest payments

Have I mentioned that Paul is a major Metallica fan? Like, rabid, dyed-in-the-wool, card-carrying-fan-club-member-who-never-listens-to-anything-else-except-maybe-the-rare-brave-foray-into-Megadeth-territory? Yeah, still.

Anyway, Metallica is going on tour. Again. Because that's what respectable forty-something parents do, they climb into busses and go on the road and scream about all the anger they don't have, and they release albums shaped like coffins in an attempt to convince us that they are really still all about the death and the pain and the anger, and not about parenting and golf and their 401K. But they are, in fact, in league with the Devil Ticketmaster.

As a card-carrying fan club member, Paul is entitled to four advance sales tickets, which went on sale yesterday at 10am. Yesterday at 10:05 he bolted up the stairs, yelping in a panic, "I need my Visa!!".

"Um, what?" I reply. "You can't. It's frozen."

(See, a few months ago I decided it would be a good idea to get some equity out of the house that is worth considerably more than when we bought it, and do some renos and consolidate some debt. That process was started in May, and I just got the money for it a few days ago. So JUST LAST WEEK we paid off my student loans, my line of credit, and Paul's Visa, which I promptly froze into a block of ice and stuffed in the freezer. For emergencies. NOT FUCKING METALLICA TICKETS.)

"Ticketmaster won't take PayPal! I have like 3 minutes to process these tickets - I need my Visa!!"

"Well use my debit Mastercard, it comes out of my account, and you can just give me the money," I reason calmly. At which point I notice he's taken the lump of ice out of the freezer and is brandishing a hammer.

"I don't have the money NOW," he practically shrieks in anguish, "I only had it in PAYPAL!"

"You can't break that!" I snap, "It's frozen!" if it's frozen in carbonite, not water, and hitting it with a hammer will shatter it's soul forever, or at least the Visa will be a little groggy and useless for a while.

"I have like, 30 seconds!" he bellows, already outside smashing the ice block on our front walk. In his pajamas. As if the neighbours didn't think we were crazy before.

I just grit my teeth as he goes thundering back down the stairs waving his Visa triumphantly. Good thing I went to all that work to pay it down. Because he's SO likely to pay off those charges promptly.

"I am cutting it up now," I say tightly as he comes back up the stairs, out of breath from ordering those tickets online. "Never mind the stupid block of ice, clearly it's ineffective."

"You can't," he says serenely, "I need the original Visa to claim the tickets." He hands it back to me.

I have a mental list of people or companies that are conspiring to keep people in the dark, in debt, or generally miserable. Metallica, Visa, and Ticketmaster just muscled their way to the front of the line. One of these days - I swear! - Security is going to have to ask them to leave.