look out brain, here comes trouble
Over the next week or so you might find most of what I say to be nothing but gibberish. More so than usual. I am about to undertake a project of mind numbing proportions.
I am learning Moveable Type.
Yuh.
If you don't know what that is, I'll tell you. It's a program used to create weblogs.
Create weblogs, you say. Whatever for? Why is honestyrain creating a weblog when she so clearly already has one right here at blogger.
Yuh. Blogger. Blogger has been very good to me and very free but there are days when blogger makes me want to pull out all of my hair from the sheer frustration of just trying to log in.
I love you blogger but our days together are numbered.
Yes, I'm moving to my own site. Some day. After I learn Moveable Type and implement said knowledge. Assuming I do not self destruct in the process. I gotta tell you, the self destruct thing is highly likely. Just reading about how to load MT made me feel like I was trapped in a 4th year calculus final. And I didn't study. Hell, I didn't even take the course.
How alarming is that?
Therefore I ask that you forgive me if I seem a little odd this week. There is a reason. My brain will be otherwise occupied with the learning of something new. Horrah for my brain! It does like a challenge.
the quest for a little middle: update
A while back I got all fired up about how I was going to get and keep a flat midsection. I declared, right here for everyone to see, that I was bound and determined, once and for finally, to have the kind of tummy every man woman and child longs to have. I vowed that I would not be kept from achieving this goal.
I worked real hard at it for a good solid week.
See, there's a reason that I do not currently have as slim a middle as you might think I ought.
I Hate Abdominal Exercises.
I can go to the gym for four hours, do two hours of strength training, lift three times my body weight in leg press, do an hour and a half long bench class then run for a while before stretching and going home. I love all that. I'm not saying I DO all that. I used to. PK. Pre Kids. The thing you'll never find me doing with whole hearted gusto is a set of crunches.
Hate Them.
So Yeah, I've slacked off. Again. Dammit.
But now I have admitted it and cannot stand the humiliation and will reconvene my devotion in my basement tomorrow morning for a double dose of pilates. You have my word.
A week from now, who knows, but know that I am trying. I really am trying. I want it so bad. Alright, granted, not bad enough, but still. I'll get it figured out. Might need to take a few runs at it but there's time. It's not like the snow is going to melt tomorrow and I'll be forced to show up in my bikini.
Hardly. So relax. Have a cookie and we'll do the pilates at dawn.
book club
My Book Club is currently reading a book that I would like to recommend to all of you. It is not often that I find a book I enjoy this thoroughly. On this occassion both a seamless writing style and a story that captivates are what compel me to suggest you add it to your reading list. I am liking this book very much and hope to influence others to read it.
The Time Traveler's Wife is a sheer pleasure to read. Please let me know what you think if you do read it or if you have already done so. Author Audrey Niffenegger has tackeled a subject that I think would be difficult to handle well and comes out with a story that is flawless and beautiful.
That's all. I'm going to read some more now. Have a nice day.
deep sigh of everlovin' relief
Today my children, who I love dearly, are going to Grandma and Grandpa's house.
Celebrate with me!
If you're a parent you know that although you love your children and would like nothing better than to spend every minute of every day with them for the rest of your life, reality suggests that doing so would make you poke your own eyes out and run screaming into the hills.
Screaming, I say, and screaming loudly.
On this day my kids, who I love, don't forget, are going to see my Husband's parents where they will be treated as though the sun and the moon shone only for them. Not that we don't treat them that way. It's just that a little time away to refresh will allow us to once again see them in that light.
As opposed to the light that currently casts just such a glow as to make them appear to have horns like The Devil Himself.
Not that we don't love them. We do. And frankly I wish you would stop implying otherwise. There's nothing wrong with mommy and daddy going for lunch alone ( we promise to talk about the kids non stop), see a movie (The Aviator because it starts at a time that suits our purpose) and perhaps go to a book store and not be diverted from buying books to chase around two crazy people Who We Love Dearly.
Everyone will be happier at the end of the day from having spent a little time apart. It's a good thing for everyone.
Especially me and I'm the one who matters.
be nice to a pregnant girl today
Some women have an easy time pregnant. I'm not one of those women. Neither is my friend C and she is currently pregnant, feeling awful and wishing she could feel better.
Growing people inside of one's body is a very special thing to do and no matter if a woman feels ick or fabulous while pregnant she deserves to be held in the highest regard and treated like a princess.
If you are currently living with a pregnant woman take the time to just rub her back, let her lay down, feed her something she craves or, if she cannot eat, promise to not eat anything in front of her that will make her hurl.
If you don't know anyone who is pregnant right now please be nice to any mommies-to-be that you encounter in the world at large. Offer your seat on the subway (she may prefer to stand but it is always better to offer), hold open doors, let them cut in front of you in any line anywhere (especially bathrooms and grocery stores).
Also, pregnant women do not in general like for strangers to touch their bellies. Here's a rule of thumb that can be applied when you're unsure if it's okay to rub the buddha: if you would not have touched this woman's midsection without her consent before she got pregnant you should not do so after she got pregnant.
To my friend C, I'm sorry you feel ick and I won't even say you'll feel better soon (you will) but I will say that you are a lucky duck to have that sweet baby growing in you and that baby is lucky to have you for a mommy.
do what you like but i can't promise i won't drive over you
People who ride bikes and run on the road in winter are looking for a swift end to life as they know it. I can't see you coming, I can't move over because there is no over to move to. The roads are slippery, the view is blocked by banks of snow at the roadside and if I shove over to make room for your silly ass I am going to drive into oncoming traffic.
I, of all people, am a firm believer that exercise does a body and brain good but I do have a line and that line is drawn at your exercise becoming a danger to me.
I would not let you throw a weight bench at me if we met at the gym. Why on earth should you put me at risk on the road?
Look, it's cold. I admire your I'm-A-Canadian heartiness. I do. You're all that, brother. A better and stronger man than I'll ever be. Congrats. Woohoo. Go climb a mountain, eat the bark off a tree and tent each wintery night in your back yard. Go on, go ahead.
Just leave me out of your madness, will you?
Get off the road, you winter loving freaks.
meet me at the mall
You know what I like? I like to shop. Love it. Would shop every day of my life if time and money permitted. I like to look as much as buy. I like shopping, sideays or upside down.
Want to know what's better?
Wanna know?
My man likes to shop too.
You heard me. Man, Shop, Likes.
No he is not secretly gay. He is a man, swings a hammer, puts up shelves, takes out garbage. Well, avoids taking out garbage, really, so you know damned well he's all man.
Manly Man. Likes To Shop.
There is nothing sexier than a man who likes to shop. As long as that man also likes to do man things. Like have sex with women. If he's a gay man who likes to shop that's great too but the Sex With Man Who Likes To Shop thing is severely hampered if the man is gay.
My guy takes me shopping in the day time and loves me up at night.
Oh Ya Baby Oh Ya.
Sometimes we get it in our heads that a house in the country would be nice. A big property for our children to run around in, enjoy the great outdoors. I am always the first to come to my senses. I look around - because, of course, we have these silly thoughts while out on a drive in the country - and ask:
Is there a mall near here?
No.
Conversation over.
I likes to shop.
hug your letter carrier day
I'd like to take this moment to give a shout out to the man who delivers our mail. He is without a doubt the bestest letter carrier in the world. Perhaps even the universe. He's that good. Here are some examples of his goodness:
He knocks on the door when cheques come. He puts them in the mailbox, knocks and goes on with his route. He recognizes Husband's pay cheques and lets us know when they're there.
If he has a postage due package he drops by on his way up the other side of the street to let us know so that we can find the money while he goes about his route and pay him when he gets to our side of the street.
He didn't report us when the dog got out last summer and chased him down the street.
He recognizes us out of context and says hello as though we are real people and not faceless mailboxes.
He brings the mail to me at the truck if I pull into the driveway when he is coming into our yard.
He washed our windows once and mows our lawn sometimes.
Okay, those last two things aren't true.
He's just a really good guy who puts a lot of positive energy into the world and I like to acknowledge that kind of thing. It's easy to bitch about the stupid people but sometimes it's nice to say hey, here's a good one, look.
Here's to you Letter Carrier Guy. Thanks!
get out your party hats and grab yourself a drink!
This here is a party!
Why? you ask.
What's going on? you wonder.
What are we celebrating?
Well! honestyrain, the web site, has achieved the ten thousand hit mark!
That's right. Five digits. Oh ya. Woohoo.
We're gonna party like it's your birthday.
I baked a cake, brewed some beer, crushed some grapes to make red wine. I've gone all out. So take a load off, eat, drink, make with the merriment.
Dancing permitted. Please dance.
Cothes on. No nude dancing. Alright fine. You talked me into it. Dance nude if you must. Alone, in your room. Nothing weird about it. Go ahead.
Ten Thousand Hits.
Horrah.
checklist
Tell everyone where we're going. Check.
Convince Husband that going is a good idea. Check.
Start kids brushing teeth. Check.
Glance through fave blogs while they do so. Check.
Scream for children to stop splashing water all over one another. Check.
Continue reading blogs, knowing they are still splashing. Check.
Take toothbrushes from children. Check.
Carry Miss Baby Girly Girl into hall and put her on the floor to carry on with her I-Don't-Want-To-Stop-Brushing-Teeth fit. Check.
Run upstairs to get clothes for kids. Check.
Scream down two floors to Husband, WHAT??? Check.
Strain to hear him ask if There Are Any Towels Anywhere??? Check.
Yell back HANG THE HELL ON. Check.
Dig through laundry basket in master bedroom to find two socks that match for Super boy, fail, dig more to find clean towel for Naked Guy waiting in the basement bathroom, succeed. Check.
Run down to main floor, towel in one hand, one white sock in other. Check.
Stop at living room to break up fight over empty toilet paper roll currently being used as Bad Guy Zanger Banger Bapper Whapper. Check.
Threaten time outs on the way down to basement. Check.
Throw towel into bathroom and tell Naked Guy to make sure there's one there before he gets in the shower. Check.
Ignore his mutterings. Check.
Go into laundry room to find sock that matches one on left hand. Dig, Dig, Dig, Curse eighteen times before finding tow other socks that match. Feel guilty for swearing. Check.
Go back upstairs, wrestle Bad Guy Zanger Banger Bapper Whapper away from children and throw it in the grabage, declaring that it's a dirty toilet paper roll so why are you fighting over it anyway! Check.
Dress children. Check.
Tell Naked Guy that his shirts are in his drawer, second from top, left side. Check.
Let dog out to pee. Check.
Redress Miss Baby Girly Girl and tell her to stop taking her damned clothes off. Check.
Let dog in. Check.
Take a deep breath. No time. Not checked.
Gather snacks for kids and put them in snack bag without anyone seeing. Check.
Put dishes in dishwahser, make 3 beds, wash windows, vacuum entire house. Check.
Go pee and drag Miss Baby Girly Girl out of bathroom to carry on with her I-Don't-Want-To-Leave-The-Bathroom fit. Check.
Get winter gear to front door and tell kids to begin dressing themselves. Check.
Walk past Husband standing there looking bored. Check.
Ask him to get kids into their boots and jackets. Check.
Get cell phone off of charger, put food in dog's bowls, blog something brilliant, make fresh squeezed orange juice. Check.
Walk past Husband looking bored. Check.
Ask him if he plans on getting kids into jackets and boots. Check.
Ignore him when he says he didn't hear me. Check.
Tell everyone I'm going to go get dressed and brush my teeth and comb my hair and put on my make up. Check.
End up going out in pyjamas and hair in a pony tail because they can't possibly wait for me to get ready. Check.
Get in car, say what a beautiful day it is, back out of driveway, have a great day out. Check.
Deep Breath?
Not likely.
Site of the Week!
This week I would love it if you would stop by Lexablog and share your wit with her. She's funny. You're gonna like her. She has been compared by one commenter to Dave Barry and you know how funny Dave Barry is. Funny! So go, visit Lexa and be nice.
Thank you!
hi, are you the weirdo who was just at my door?
Look, weird creeps of the world. Seriously. Look. Here's me, flipping you off. See that? It means go away. Go the mary mother of god away from my house before I have at you with a shovel. Hear me? See that? Look.
A man came to our door this morning. We were installing a new light fixture in the hall. It matches the new one we put in the kitchen a couple of weeks ago. It's nice, gives off a nice atmospherey glow. The light. Not the creep at the door. He gave off creepiness.
I said several posts back that I don't answer my door. I normally don't but for some bloody reason I have done so twice in the past week. Twice. Once at night to someone I did not know. At all. It's like I've lost my mind.
Let me tell you about the guy from today.
I open the door and he goes, "Hello, M'am, is your husband home?"
He's got some piece of paper in his hand and with Husband having once been served papers by a jackass who looked and smelled no better than this guy I decided to undertake protecting my husband from whatever this individual was about.
I go, "What's this about?" Firm like. Because I mean to show how tough I am.
This is when he gets weird. Because just looking at him you might have thought he was weird enough but no. Not at all. He says, "I used to work at some blah blah blah and buried in the conrete was a capusle and in there was this piece of paper" -begins unfloding paper- "blah blah blah." His hands are shaking, he seems emotionally attached to this paper, this capsule, this business he has come to bother me about.
By now I am holding the interior handle of the screen door and he is holding the exterior handle. He yanks on it, as though he is trying to get in, get closer, make me see whatever it is about this piece of paper. Naturally, I shook my head and said no thanks buddy and tried to close the door.
I say TRIED because he was pulling at it from the other side. I mean, my fingers hurt resisting him. I finally yanked at it, closed it and slammed the inside door shut. And made sure it was locked. I felt like, honestly, this fucker was going to try to come in whether I wanted him to or not.
As I closed the doors he was trembling, seemed like he might cry. "Please m'am," he begged, "please."
What the fuck?
Then he went to the guy across the street. I guess they heard him out because he was there longer than he was here but we couldn't see what was going on. We tried. But couldn't. After a couple of minutes he came out, got in his car and drove away. I tried to get Husband to go over to the neighbour and see what it was about but we don't know them very well and they have their own weirdness about them. So.
I have no idea what it was all about.
Whatever he wanted you can bet one thing for damned sure: I'm done answering the door. If you're coming over A) don't be a weird creepy guy and B) call before you come because I'm not even looking out the window to see if I know the person knocking. Screw that. Scuh-rew that.
A note to the creeps of the world: feck off, will ya? I don't care about your capsules and papers and other weird shit.
That's all.
see, i told you
I've got this kid. Super Boy. He's three point five years old.
That's three and a half for the mathimatically challenged in the crowd.
He's a great, this kid. We really love him. He's cute (get's that from me), funny (me), has a great laugh (me again), green eyes (you guessed it), awesome outgoing personality (that should be obvious), red hair (that's his dad), eats great (we have no idea), and he's really smart and very talented (from his dad, of course).
Oh, also, he doesn't sleep for shit.
(all me)
He's a morning person.
(yeah, me, but...)
Look, I like to get up early. I wake up with sunshine oozing out of me. I smile when I wake up, happy to start the goddamn day and all that. I think sleeping, in general, is a waste of time and should only be undertook with the express purpose of getting it over and done with so I can wake up again and have some fun.
But for shit sake, 5 am in winter is insane.
Super Boy, heaven help me, gets up at 5 am about 35% of the time. That 35 % nearly kills me, him and everyone within a fifty foot radius of me and my sleep deprived miserable self. In the dead of winter, when the sun doesn't get up until eight. That makes three hours of darkness, sitting there like idiots wishing we were asleep like we should be because getting up that early is stupid.
I don't want any advice on how to fix it. Nevermind that.
I'm here to say woohoo he's back to normal and we're getting up at no earlier than seven. Seven.
You know what that means? Mommy's got her smile back. Mommy is playful again. Mommy feeds the children again*. Mommy is nice and happy and is once again oozing sunshine.
Great Day In The Mornin'!
I can play Pretend Carpet Picnic now without wanting to poke my own eyeballs out. You know why?
SLEEP. That's why.
Sleep Kicks Ass.
*please note. I always feed my kids. I was joking when I suggested that I do not feed them unless I get enough sleep. Not only do I feed them but I feed them well and often. So refrain from sending me emails or leaving comments to reprimand me for not feeding them. Because I do feed them so realx.
i watch tv because there's no butter to churn
I like TV. Always have. For as long as TV has existed I have loved it and it has loved me back. We've been great friends these many years and I'm not about to end the relationship. Now that I have children and TV is the only thing I have to look forward to on this earth every night once my children toddle off to bed.
I do other things. I have an active life. I have an active mind. I am not a slave to television.
Ok, I do schedule my life around what's on but I don't have Tivo, so. What else am I gonna do? I can't miss ER and I'm done taping on VHS because VHS is stupid. I will be organising myself around the TV Guide until Tivo comes to Canada. That's just the way it's gonna be.
Don't worry though. I'm wireless. I can be on the internet during commercials.
Those of you who are not catching much TV because you ARE churning butter I wonder, out loud, why the hell? They sell it in stores you know. It gets there by magic. So sit down and act like a regualr person.
TV is good for you. Anyone who says different is just pressing on my last nerve.
I'm off to see what Miss Katie Couric is about this morning. I like to be informed on the news of the day. The news of the day that the US media sees fit to share with the rest of the world, that is. Watered down and severely slanted. That's how I likes my information. It's nice and fluffy that way.
Now shut up with your butter and go watch TV.
sometimes i say fuck
Before I became a mom I could say fuck all I liked. Fuck this, fuck that. No one cared. Or if anyone did, fuck 'em.
That's all changed. When your three and a half year old is heard uttering the word you are forced to reevaluate your volcablary. Because the last thing you need is for the kid to start cursing the preschool teacher out next time she tells him snack time is over, put it away, push in your chair.
I'd look like a giant ass.
It's all about me.
So that's it for fuck. I'm done with it and it's done with me. I'd like to be one of those people who say ah to hell with it, I'm gonna let my kids swear but I think those people are losers. I certainly have no intention of being a loser. What, and have the preschool teacher think less of me than she no doubt already does? I won't hear of it.
Good Riddance That Bad Word.
There now, almost perfect. All I have to do is listen to classical music all day and throw all four of our TVs out the window and I'm good to go. Granted, I will be but a shadow of my once interesting and happy self but it's all in the name of appearing to be the perfect parent. So it's worth it.
Not that I'll miss saying fuck. It's time for fuck to go anyway.
Bye Fuck.
All the best.
mister lightyear! will you please remove your hand from my ass
I'm afraid I've had to have harsh words with both Buzz Lightyear and a certain Caped Crusader over the past few days. There have been unwanted advances made on their part toward my parts. The first few times I passed it off as accidents but there comes a time when a girl has to say Step Off Mister and say so I have.
Last night I found Buzz in my bed. I found him when his pointy index finger reached over and gave me a hey how are you right in the rumpus room.
Batman is just all around fresh. Every time I sit down there he is sneaking under my bum so he can be squashed by all that is glorious in my sit down area.
They aren't the only ones who've developed a disturbing interest in my no no places. Boobah is on my last nerve and will be shown the door if there is one more infraction. I'm telling you. And a small yellow truck with blue windows had better stay clear of me in the shower or there will be words exchanged. It won't be pretty. I've had more than enough.
I'm putting my foot down and if you speak with Mister Lightyear, please let him know that when Husband and I get into our bed and suggle up under our Nautica duvet this evening I expect that he will not be among us. Last warning. Star Command will be notified.
three things i am not good at so get over it
1, mailing stuff. I could have millions of dollars but if I have to mail you a cheque* for ten dollars you will wait and wait and wait and die without ever seeing the damned ten dollars. Better you should come over, knock on my door and ask for the money. I'll pay for your flight if you had to fly and will give you an extra tenner for your trouble.
2, answering the door. Oops. That's gonna kind of feck up you coming to pick up your ten bucks. Sorry. But we don't really answer our door. If we didn't know you were coming, ain't likely you're getting in unless you're the Fedex guy or Ed McMahon. So call first and we'll see what we can do. Make an appointment, essentially. Same extra tenner is still in it for you.
3, make or keep appointments. Oops again I guess. Gosh, so sorry. I'm not really good at committments. I have long hair because I'm too lazy to go to the salon. I can't even call to make the appointment and if by some chance I do there is an excellent chance I won't show up. I know. I suck. Whatever.
Looks like you're gonna have to suffer along without the ten bucks I owe you. Bummer, I know. But it's ten bucks and what were you thinking lending it to me in the first place? That was just a silly move.
*cheque is how Candadians spell check. Like write a check for ten dollars. Only write a CHEQUE is the right way.
winter sexy
Some people, let's call them teenagers, can look good in winter. They can wear their skimpy little jackets, backsides sticking out from their jeans so you can see their panties, bleach blonde hair flying and happy in the blistering cold wind. They can do this because they are insane. They will not be freed from this insanity until they are about 28 years of age. Sooner if they are early to wed and have babies.
Having babies smartens the brain right up.
I've got two babies and my brain is as smartened as it will ever be.
Therefore! When I go out I may not look ultra lovely. My sass appeal is perhaps lower than in summer. No perhaps about it. I look like a blob with messy hair and dammit. I don't care. These are utilitarian times.
It's Minus Forty Eight.
Now if it perks up. Even a little. A few degrees, let's say. You know, to -25. Well then. You'll be happy to know that I will return to my former gorgeous self. Rest assured. These are temprorary measures. Going out looking like a big old bucket of yuck.
Hang on now, it's not that bad. I mean, I brush my teeth and sometimes my hair. I wear cleanish clothes. My mittens and scarf and boots and North Face Jacket are all of the finest quality and match in the most matchy way. It's not like I throw out every hint of self esteem just because it is wicked cold.
I do mean wicked cold.
When it's wicked cold no one is thinking about sex appeal. They're thinking about staying alive. It's all you can hope for. Unless you are between the ages of 15 and 28 in which case you are, as I said, insane and not thinking at all.
Bleach blond hair blowing in the breeze indeed.
Come on. Tuck it under a hat like a sane person would do and put your britches in your pants before you freeze your sexy right off. Damned fools.
It's minus forty eight degrees!
Site Of The Week!
Strap on the bunny ears, friends, and hop on over to the burrow! Please say hello while you're there. You're such an interesting and lovely person I just know she'll be happy to see you!
Have fun!
rejoice! for now we have poop!
A child of three and one half will sometimes sing and grunt his little heart out when he is alone in the bathroom doing his messy business. He may then invite you in to see what he has done, to declare that you have never seen a finer poop. Only, remember to let him flush because that is his way. Should you be remiss and let your hand reach out to do the flushing you might find it snapped off at the wrist! Exercise caution and be generous with praise. The child has invented poop!
and the bells rang three hours before dawn
Oh wait. That's not bells ringing. Silly me. That's my First Born. He's up. Horrah. Five in the morning, dead of winter, up for the long drag of the day.
Here be the list of thing Mommy will not do today and every other day that she is yanked from the warm and lovely of her Nautica bedding at the unchristly hour of five in the a of m:
1. Smile. Sorry. Mommy's smile is worn out from the day before and she was not given sufficient sleep time which, as everyone knows, is required in the recovery of one's smile.
2. Clean. Lord no. You can run rampant about the homestead, felt tipped pen in one hand and lid free cup of grape juice in the other and I will say All The Power To Ya Buddy. If it needs cleaning you might speak with Imaginary Maid but when I saw her this morning she told me to feck right off so I don't think that's a viable option.
3. Play. Get over it.
4. Cook. Drive to Wendy's if you get hungry. Or eat fruit. It's that juicy lovely stuff that grows on trees and whatnot.
5. Tolerate Insubordination. From Anyone.
6. Find Anything. If you don't see it, it's lost and if it's lost, it is staying there. I might go find it so I can be lost with it but I will not find it to get it for you.
Now Lookit, I'm a good mom and a good wife and I will be back to myself but for this day and any other where you cruelly wake me up before it is normal and natural to be up I will not be my usual sun shiney self and I am sorry for that.
Bad News, Brother.
Get Over It.
If you let me nap later I might be willing to ammend the list.
Maybe.
Now go do your own thing and leave me be in my sleep deprived grump.
when you're sick as a dog in the street you get to complain all you want
I am that sick. As a dog in the street. Whatever that means. Take it to mean I feel like a lump of lumpiness.
It's just a cold. Don't worry. I'll be okay.
Now I am of the opinion that when a person is sick they are entitled to a certain amount of grumpiness. They should be allowed to rant a little and bemoan the fact that they are sickiepoo.
When I say people I only mean ME. I cannot tolerate any of the above in anyone else when they are ill. If you're sick please keep it to yourself. Buck up and be a man about it. I have no patience for anyone who goes about doing any of the things I feel entirely justified in doing when I am unwell.
I never said life was fair.
Get Over It.
I'm the only one who gets to be pissy when I'm sick and if you don't like it, carry on. There are no gift baskets. Just go.
Only, I'm not realy feeling grumpy. Or in the mood to rant. Actually, I feel all cuddly. I feel happy. Happy to be home with my sungable hugable family in my cozy warm house.
I'm So Lucky!
I know it's hard to believe that a person entitled to a snarky mood sits here before you with a little grin on her face but some days you just know you're very fortunate, snuffly nose or not, and today is such a day for me.
Don't worry though. I never go long before a mood strikes me. You will benefit from my misery before long. I assure you.
I have to go blow my nose.
the undergarment obsession, chapter six
I'm back on bras. You okay with that? Bras? Because I've got some things to say about bras.
Hate 'em.
Some women like them. Some women own hundreds of them. Hundreds. And they're not cheap so that's a lot of bras. They collect them like other people collect 98 cent underpanties. But 98 cent underpanties make perfect sense because A they fit nice and feel good and B they are cheap like CHEAP.
I do not like bras.
Not that you can get away without them. If you're a girl and you've got boobs.
I'm a girl and I've got boobs.
So what am I gonna do? I gotta wear a bra. The thing I've come to realize, finally, after all these years, is that some bras look good on some people and some bras look good on other people.
And when I say people I mean women, If you're a guy and you're wearing a bra All The Power To Ya but why! I mean why!
Anyway, back to me because thats what this is all about. Me. And my bra issues. Slash concerns. Slash annoyances. Slash I gotta find a style I like and be done with it already.
I don't know how I'm gonna do it. Find the perfect bra. I've talked about it before. Finding the perfect bra and I think I decided it was an impossible dream. I've changed my mind. I will not give up. This life is long and it's gonna be hard if you go through it in a rubber band that straps you down and feels like, well, a rubber band cutting you into sections.
I refuse to settle for such a life.
Thing is, shopping for bras is as appealing to me as shopping for golf clubs. I mean, damn. Why not just poke me in the eye and have done with it. It's all the same.
Ah, but it's got to be taken on, this quest for the perfect bra. Perfect for ME because perfect for YOU is not the same as perfect for ME, is it? I know this isn't going to be easy but I am up to the task. Not like I don't have a million other things to do though. The least of which being a thousand abdominal exercises a day because I've gone and said I was going to have rock hard abs. That and write a novel. And read. I keep saying I'm going to read more. And eat better. And. And. And.
But I'll do it. Add it to the list. At the bottom, though. I'll get to it. Really.
I said really.
mmmm, you smell good
No, Not you. The other guy. And that lady back there. Yeah, you guys. Dang, thanks for taking the time. I mean, wow. Most of us go out smelling alright. Nothing exceptional. But those of you who show up smelling like sunshine and a lovely spring morning are owed a debt of gratitude and by god I'm here to say Thanks!
THANKS!
Thanks for making me smile with your freshy freshness. You have brightened my day with your attention to cleanliness and I am grateful for it. You can tell by the fact that I have taken the time to come here and say so for all of the internet to see.
Gosh, that is gratitude.
For those of you who do not so much add joy with your, shall we say, scent, please make some changes to your leaving the house routine. You know who you are. You're the guy no one wants to stand beside on the subway. The woman no one will stand next to in step class. It's gross, really, so please stoppit. Stop being gross.
Those of you who are a basket of daisies, once again I say thanks. Thanks for being you.
oh don't you dare doubt it
Some people would have you think that a woman, say in her mid thirties, who has had two children and is perhaps not in the best shape of her life cannot over hope to have a midsection like this:
I'm here to say, with loud voice and fist in the air, that I will prove such naysayers wrong. It may take a while, it may not happen right away. But hear this. I will, as blogland is my witness, have a flat stomach and abdominal muscles you can see from space.
FROM SPACE.
You ever been to space? It's pretty far away and for you to be able to see my ab muscles from there they'd have to be really really obvious.
Now if you will kindly move over, step aside, get out of the way I need to lay down and do some crunches.
One, two, three...fifty, fifty one...three thousand and six, three thousand and seven....
once again the maid has let us down, way way down
Geez, you know, I think I'm gonna have to fire her. I mean, look at this place. Look. It's a mess. Really. Right beside me here on the floor there are two books, a cookie, a princess and, what's this, my underwear? How'd that get in here?
I don't remember putting it there.
It's quite unacceptable to pay this woman, imaginary or not, what we do when she does not even do one tenth the amount of work she is meant to do.
But Missus, the children, they make such a mess.
Whine Whine Whine. Like I don't know my kids make a mess. Please. I'm the one who broke my big toe on the Hot Wheels Slimecano this morning when all I was trying to do was open the living room blinds. You don't have to tell me. I know. In fact, it's kinda why I hired you, whether in my mind or not.
Kids aren't tidy by nature.
There are two plates with eggs on the counter, a towel on the living room floor, kleenex stuck to the dog and something brown smeared on the couch. No, I'm not going to smell it. The maid can smell it. That's her job, not mine. But she'd better do it fast because I'm not sure she'll be employed here much longer.
What am I saying? What on earth am I saying. Oh Lord. We'd be lost without her. Granted she is only pretend and doesn't actually do anything but without her I'd lose all hope. I'd feel like I have to do everything including smell the couch and heaven help me I just can't do it. It's probably chocolate but it might not be.
It Might Not Be.
Let me keep my pretend maid, won't you? She's really quite nice and she means to do more. She had a bad back for a while, then her cat died. I mean, her cat died. What was I supposed to do, make her clean toilets with a dead cat on her heart? I'm not evil, for shit sake. I'm not.
Look, I can help her out for a while. Til she's feeling better. Then, over time, she can do more. Alright, she's not likely to ever really be very good but she's a part of the family and we like having her around. She can stay.
You can stay, Imaginary Maid.
Please stay.
Oh thank god. That's a relief.
the importance of being better than you used to be
You know, before I had kids I thought I was pretty alright. I was a good person, didn't drink to excess, didn't do drugs. I've never been to prison and it's not just because I've never been caught. I do good, am good and think I contribute a certain amount to the world I live in. So I thought.
I was wrong.
I suck.
It took the arrival of the two most wonderful people I've ever met to show me that I fall short as a human being on almost every level.
Gosh, not good news.
It's not that I've changed. No No. I'm the same old me. Good old me.
Good Old Me.
I suck.
Who knew I was so mean, so inclined to not let a poor child have chocolate milk and cookies for breakfast. Who knew I was going to be hell bent on ruining the day with my mommy rules. Don't kick the dog. Stop poking your sister. Don't pull your brothers hair.
Don't Put That In The Toilet! Again!
Who knew I could get so loud?
Alright my husband knew but still.
I always thought I was plenty good enough but it turns out no matter what you gotta step it up a notch when you have kids. Hell, some people gotta step it up a hundred notches. Me, just the one notch because, like I said, I wasn't so bad to start off with.
I was pretty good.
Not good enough, it would appear, but pretty good.
And getting better every day.
Every. Single. Day.
in which we wonder if it is right to give a guy flower shaped ice to cool himself post attack on the nads
All went well. The patient is resting with a magazine in bed and I assure you will be waited upon as thought he were the King of England and promising to give me the key to the Jewel Room, take what I like. If he asks me to get him ice cream I will go out again on this blustery day and get him any flavour he chooses. He is a superior sort of man and I adore him.
Hell if doesn't want flower shaped ice I'll go out back and chip some off the side of the house. That's how much I love him. He's that good a man.
refreshingly funny
Canada is a land of funny people. Point proven by this very blog, if I do say so my own self. Not that I'm bragging. In fact, I don't think I'm very funny at all but my dad does. Actually, no he doesn't. No one in my family does. Isn't that weird? I mean, maybe I'm not funny.
Crap.
Anyway! There's this new Canadian show called Getting Along Famously. I watched it yesterday and I thought it was funny. It is nothing like anything on TV right now but that's the way Canadian television works.
If you ever get a chance to watch it, do. It's entertaining.
That's my plug for the year.
Go about your business.
bulk up johnny
What? You thought I was gonna let
granny kick my ass?
v day
Tomorrow my darling love goes under the knife. For the purpose of, ahem, nixing his fathering capacity.
Shhhhh. He doesn't want me to tell you.
Just now he was sniping about some bloody thing or another and I said, Oh I can't wait til they castrate you.
To which he said, I think that's different.
I said up there that he's going under the knife. That was misleading. There's no actual knife involved. In truth, there's not much to it. Not like when I had my abdomen ripped open so that an eight pound five ounce human being could be yanked out of me after twenty hours of fierce labour. Not like when the second one came out the regular way and they had to cut my actual private area with a knife so that her gigantic head could get through.
It's still a big deal though and I am so proud of him for being so brave! Isn't he so brave! My big strong man. So brave!
a new site of the week!
Gosh, the excitement is palpable, no? A new site of the week. Wow. This week I am happy to report that Tommy over at Almost Average is my Site of the Week. I interviewed Tommy for this occassion. Please enjoy.
ME: Tommy, how do you feel about being chosen as Site of the Week over at honestyrain?
TOMMY: I'm thrilled beyond comprehension. I was up all night with the excitement.
ME: Are you prepared for the traffic that is likely to head your way as a result of being spotlighted on honestyrain?
TOMMY: I don't think anyone can really prepare themselves for such an influx of visitors but I think I'm ready.
ME: When did you learn that you were selected for this honor?
TOMMY: Just now, actually.
ME: What made you start a blog of your own?
TOMMY: I heard it was a great way to make money. Fast.
ME: Yeah? And how's that going? Made much so far?
TOMMY: Sure, lots. We were able to buy a new car with the revenue. Actually, I'm lying. Not a penny so far. Turns out blogging isn't really much of a cash cow after all.
ME: Duh.
Alright everyone, please go and visit Tommy and enjoy his funny blog!
editorial note: Tommy was unavailable for the interview process. The answers listed above were, in fact, not given by him. If he doesn't like those answers tuff nuts. He should have shown up for the interview. Really, sheesh.
martians!
How much do you want to bet they've got
green skin under those winter loving clothes.
Don't worry, we were quite safe within our Ford Explorer, heat on, dreaming of Spain.
honestyrain's 5 tips to help you lose those holiday pounds
Look, these tips are real. Look, they work. Look, try them, you never know. Look, holiday pounds are a myth anyway so whatever.
ONE. Make (or buy if you are a lazy turd) your favorite kind of cookie. Wait! Don't eat them! Watch everyone you live with eat them. Drool if you like but do not under any circumstances consume a cookie yourself. This tip works on two levels. Level A) you're not eating the cookie so duh you're not gaining weight from the cookie but more importantly B) the wanting of the cookie ACTUALLY BURNS FAT right there as you sit and watch others enjoy them.
TWO. Eat food off of other people's plates. If you didn't know, food eaten off of someone else's plate is not real. Like, if your wife is eating french fries smothered in gravy but you, fat bastard that you are, have declined on this occassion you are welcome to enjoy up to ten, yes ten, of her fries without consequence. I know, what a fanbloodytastic loophole! I know.
THREE. Exercise. What, you thought you could watch your wife eat cookies and share a few of her fries and that's it POOF! you're down two dress sizes. Come on. Wake up.
FOUR. Tell other people to eat the things you wish you could eat. Be covert about this one. If people know you're not actually eating any of the offending item they may take issue. You say to your best friend, Shirley who hates when you call her Girly Shirley but you do it anyway, hey, try one of these Valentine's Day chocolates here, Girly Shirley.
Don't call me that, she says.
Okay, you say. Here eat this.
Okay, she says, over the Girly Shirley thing at record speed.
This tip works on two levels. A) you're helping to fatten your friend up which can only serve to make you look better. B) it really is almost satisying to enjoy food vicariously through the people you like and respect most in the world. You will find your appetite nearly satisfied or you will be so repulsed by the way in which Girly Shirley just gobbled the entire damned box of chocolates that you'll swear off food forever. I mean, didn't anyone ever teach her any manners or what? God.
FIVE. Drink water. Seriously. Not to be preachy or anything but holy crap man, put down the Pepsi. Coke. Whatever. Drink water. It's real real good for you and most people find they poop better when they drink a lot of water. Pooping better can lower your belt size by like half, so, get on it.
That's it. The five tips to help you lose those holiday pounds. They work. If they don't work you're doing them wrong so shut up. I can't follow the tips for you. I'm only here to tell you what to do then you go do it. That's all.
granny up
I pride myself on being something of a proficient at working out. I am certainly not in great shape at this time but said fact can be attributed to the growing and raising of two children now aged three and one. This is the body of a once fit but now long sleep deprived, overworked and overcookied woman.
I still pride myself.
I'm the brand of cat who will, on seeing how much you just lifted, attempt to match or better you. Assuming you're not, you know, huge and a guy or whatever. You know what I'm saying. I like the competitive feel at the gym. That's why I don't work out at home.
I've mentioned in the past that the time at which I go to the gym seems to draw a more senior crowd.
Sixties, seventies. Senior Crowd.
I've mentioned I lift more than the old ladies.
Of course.
Usually.
Yesterday I was surprised to find that one woman, clearly in her late fifties early sixties, seemed to be lifting more than me on the leg adductor.
Naturally, my brain, in all of it's vain grandeur, tried to math it out. How this happened. Maybe she was a champion lifter in her day. Maybe she didn't really do that weight but changed it just before I came up to make it look like she did. Maybe she's an alien who likes winter and can lift obsene amounts of weight with her inner thighs.
The possiblities were, clearly, endless.
Nevertheless I bumped the weight substantially and made damn sure every other thing I did went up at a similar incremement. I've got an image to maintain.
It's an image that exists only in my mind yet I'm sure you see it is one that cannot be sacrificed.
Obviously.
There's no way Granny Tight Fanny is going to out lift me.
you know you waaaaant it
burn the socks, baby, we're moving to spain
I've got this problem. It's not a big deal. It's just a thing. You know.
I don't like socks. Don't like to wear them, wash them and especially match them up and put them away. I could go the whole of my life never seeing another sock. It's that bad.
I've got this other small problem.
I hate winter.
Some people love it. They look forward to it. They get excited about it and can't wait to go into the basement and dig out their snow pants and wooly mittens.
These people are beyond my comprehension. They're like aliens. Weird little green people who don't know any better. Maybe the planet they came from is worse than winter. Gosh, how sad is that. I feel bad for the martians. I do.
I still hate winter. And socks.
So!
I've got a plan!
We're gonna move to spain!
Burn the socks before we go!
Spain, if you don't know, does not have winter. They do not have snow. Yeah, that's right. No snow. Which must also mean no little green aliens and that's good too.
Picture me, sock free, shorts all year. Might even get me a tan. Damn, I'll probably give up cookies altogether. I only eat them by way of holding back the deep winter depression.
We'll come back for christmas. Everyone likes snow at christmas.
All that's left to do is convince my husband. He's dead set against it right now and frankly I'm concerned he's one of the martians but I won't give up. I mean to live in Spain and no winter loving weirdo is gonna get in my way.
No way. No how.
is it monday already?
out my front door, to my left, this glorious tree.
i have a camera, i can take pictures, i can do a photo of the day
Oh I can, you just watch me. Just watch. You'll see. You'll see and you'll be amazed. Amazement to take place.
Some day.
I mean, not right this second. Some time in the not too distant future you can expect to see a photo of the day herein.
It'll be oh so very exciting.
I can tell you're thrilled. Stop rolling your eyes. It just may be thrilling. You don't know. Maybe there are things in my daily life that would amaze and astound you should you be allowed a glimpse. You would be surprised by the things I see every day.
No, No, you wouldn't. That's a load of promotional malarky. I'm sorry for that.
Still! I will begin a photo of the day some day very soon.
Commit to a day, you say? A day to start? Oh. Well. I'm not very good at committment. It makes me anxious, to be honest. I really just thought I'd wing it, see what happens.
But if you insist, and I see that you do, I will choose Next Monday as the onset of Honestyrain's Photo of the Day.
Now if you'll excuse me I have to figure out how to add photos to my blog. If anyone knows please do share with my. I'm under some pressure here, what with agreeing to do this bloody thing. I'm already sick about it. I feel like I've got to study for a math exam, know that I won't study and will fail. Badly.
Photo Of The Day Coming Monday!
it's only fair
Since I get up and go to the gym at, like, seven in the morning I think it is only fair that this should bring about the desired effects from doing so immediately. By way of acknowledging my devotion and strength of character.
Yeah?
While we're at it, same said devotion should buy me a diet filled with french fries, cookies, potato chips and yes, dammit, lots and lots of chocolate.
Please?
It's. Only. Fair.
if you stick a needle in each of my legs i will not be your friend
Miss Baby Girly Girl had her eighteen month check up this fine morning. We hopped out of our warm cozy beds at 7:40 and raced into our cold cold kitchen to let the kids gobble up their bran flakes before dashing out the door.
Note to self, please make all future appointments for later in the day.
It is bitch ass cold out there. Even for here. It's ugly cold. It's cold like you're stupid enough to be living and the North Friggin' Pole. I am so not loving it. At all. Not one bit.
Anyway!
Miss Baby Girly Girl was all innocence as she frolicked about the doctor's examination room in her diaper and pretty pink sweater. She knew not what would come, what injustice would be perpetrated upon her. She is not like her older brother, who never flinched when being seen or stuck by the doctor at this age.
Miss Baby Girly Girl screamed her head off at the sight of the stethoscope. She vibrated and called Mama Mama Mama throughout the very basic examination of her chest and ears. There was no doubt, whatever friendship this new pediatrician of ours had hoped to form with my youngest wee one was forever a dream not to be realized.
Before he got the needle out. Before he gave her the shots. I say shots because she was to have two.
Oh Horrid Unfair World.
The screaming and general histrionics which ensued during the actual poking of her prescious tender skin were justified if nevertheless the tiniest bit dramatic.
I'm not saying she's a drama queen. I'm saying some day she will be and she will be very very good at it. Stellar. Exemplary. Dare I say Drama Queen Award Winning material.
I was, why shouldn't she be. I will accept nothing less. Average will not do.
It isn't easy for a mommy to sit by as her Miss Baby Girly Girl is assaulted with sharp implements in the name of future health and well being. It takes a level of mommy maturity to not run screaming from the building, babe in arms, delcaring that no one shall ever poke this child so go to hell, sir!
Gosh, I thought about it.
But didn't do it.
I'm a seasoned and certainly mature professional mother and so not to be swayed from the purpose at hand.
Gosh, I thought about it.
Moments after the odeal she was fine, though, I am thrilled to report. Once the doctor, Oh Evil Man, left she sighed and jumped off my lap. Both legs in remarkable working order despite a small hole having just been punctured in each.
She is all bravery and goodness, my girl.
By the time we were getting jackets on she seemed to have forgotten the entire affair, oh good, and walked on her own two legs out to the truck where she was appropriately rewarded with gushers for having tolerated what she was just asked to tolerate.
Like she had a choice.
Poor bunny.
Rest utterly assured that this man, this twenty six year old fresh from medical school pediatrician, will never win the affections of my young lass. The fire in her eyes as he stabbed her tiny thighs is not likely to burn out before she is old enough to find a doctor of her own choosing. There will forever be animosity between them. I'm sad to say it, but it's true. My child holds a grudge against anyone who causes her physical harm and harm her he did.
Oh Evil Man.
Think how it will go when we return in a month for the follow up shot. Yes another. Oh Heaven Help The Evil Man. He'd best wear ear plugs for the screeching is bound to be shrill. I take no responsibilty for where her small fists land when she takes to flailing them. She has every right to protect herself, after all.
Poor Bunny.
i am not a finalist in the Bob Awards!
I Thought I would let everyone know that there will be no need to go searching for my name among the finalists in any of the many categories over at the BoB awards. You will not be asked to go click the button next to my name on a daily basis because my name is not there. There is no button.
No No. I don't blame any of you.
Honest.
It's a relief if you must know. Being a finalist must gain one increased traffic on one's site. That'd mean more comments. More love. More adoration. More all things good and lovely in blogland.
Gosh, I've got more than my fare share of all that right now.
It might even get me on The Femelist (oooh ahhh).
Not that I need that sort of attention in order to value myself as a blogger.
Oh I readily admit winning an award of almost any kind would excite in me feelings of JOY heretofore unfelt by me. But I'm not one to go begging for anything. It's not my style.I don't beg. For anything.
Except chocolate. If I ran out of chocolate and you had all the chocolate left in the world I would beg you for even the smallest morsel.
You'd give me some, yeah?
Well then, that's all I need. That makes you a real friend as far as I'm concerned. Sharing your chocolate with the likes of me. Someone you don't even really know. Gosh, my heart glows with the warmth of your goodness.
Next time there are awards though I wouldn't object to being considered. Oh I'm not saying any of YOU should nominate me. Oh My No.
Actually, well, yes. Would you?
No, I'm so kidding (really).
As long as I've got the promise of chocolate I'm a happy blogger. And you have promised. Yes you did. Back there. Everyone heard you so don't try to back out of it. When the Mad World Chocolate Shortage hits buddy boy I'm gonna come a knockin' and I'll be expecting you to make good on a promise.
Alright then good. We're square. No hard feelings on the award thing. In fact, let's never mention it again.
sleepy...sleeeeeepeeeeeeee...so sleeepy
I've been going to bed rather late the past few nights. Past couple weeks really. Don't know what's got into me. Normally I'm begging for bed by ten o'clock. Lately it's more like one by the time I'm tucked in.
My internal clock has been cocked up by all the snow outside.
Maybe.
Today it's all caught up with me. I'm drooling in my chamomile tea (I don't really drink chamomile tea). When I get this tired I become a bit of an idiot.
I cry suddenly, without provocation.
I shout.
I curse.
I eat potato chips for breakfast and pie for lunch.
Therefore. I am going to go take a nap.
Yep, a nap. Me. A nap. Can you bloody picture that. I never nap. Like once a year I nap. So not never but really hardly ever at all. Napping is such a collosal waste of my time. I toelrate sleeping at night because it's dark and there's nothing on tv but hellfire if The Sound of Music were on at 3am and the sun never went down I would give up sleep forever.
And be a miserable shit but you know.
In the name of not being a miserable shit today I am going to give in and go upstairs, get into my king size bed with glorious Nautica bedding and enjoy a few zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzs.
Shhhhhhh. Keep it down. Honestyrain is sleeping.
Awww, so sweet is she, head on her pillow, blankie to her chin.
Pleasant dreams Honestyrain pleasant dreams.
it's monday! time for a new blog of the week!
Please join me this week in visiting and enjoying [sick of] Sucking It In, my Blog of the Week. Rebeka shares with us her journey toward fitness and well being in this funny and inspirational blog. [sick of] Sucking It In is currently nominated for a BoB Award. If you enjoy her blog as much as I do please consider dashing over to BoB to vote for her.
The link to her site is in the sidebar. At the left this time. The sidebar is now at the left. Isn't that an interesting change!
Be sure to leave her a little heya when you go to her place. Everyone loves comments. Please share the love.
in which we wonder if a chocolate chip cookie can have too many chocolate chips
This afternoon, in an exemplary show of All Things Womanly, I prepared a batch of my now famous chocolate chip cookies. You've never had them so you can't possibly know. They are the best chocolate chip cookies in The World. The Universe. Whatever is bigger than The Universe.
They're real good, is what I'm saying.
The recipe I use, it's a secret don't ask, calls for one cup of chocolate chips. One cup. Sissified. That's what that is. One cup is maybe the way the uninitiated would make a chocolate chip cookie but I, well I am so past that. So past following recipes. Or rules of any kind.
Rules are for suckers!
I put one and one half cups of chocolate chips in my batter.
You heard me.
Now if you're one of those people who thinks a few chocolate chips sprinkled in is good enough I say move on, sir. You've got no business here. This is a place meant for the serious chocolate chip cookie eater. There will be no pansy ass cookies offered today. Not a one.
You know what happens when you load a cookie one and one half cup full of chocolatey goodness?
Good Things.
The best cookie anywhere anytime.
I'd give you one if you were here and you would squeal with delight like you have not done since you were a child. Think of it. Imagine. Dream of it tonight in your warm cozy bed.
Ah, chewy cookie goodness.
It is a sad fact that you won't be able to have one. I am sorry for you. I promise to think of you as I consume them. I will think of you as I sigh a yummy sigh and wipe the chocolate from my lips.
mmmmmmmmm.
In answer to the question as to whether a chocolate chip cookie can have too many chocolate chips I say don't be stupid. Of course not.
you're in the right place! this is me!
Welcome!
I am happy to introduce my new look on this the Second Day of January in the year Two Thousand and Five.
Don't you love it!
I'm sure it'll take some getting used to. Humans are creatures of habit. But really, this is so much prettier and lovelier and nicer and you simply must join me in adoring it.
Join me!
Adore it!
All of my addons from the other look will be returning later today. I may even find a new trinket or two. Probably just one though. Don't get your hopes up for two. Oh dear. I've gone and got your hopes up. Geez. Okay okay. I'll try for two but I was reall only thinking of one. Let me think. Let me think.
Do enjoy the new look if you can and if not too bloody bad because it is making me so happy I could pee right here in my 98 cent panties.
But not really. I am not incontinent. Honest.
Hey! The new feature is up! Check out the snazzy poll at the bottom of the sidebar. Scroll down. Little more. There! There! See it? How cool am I! Come on, pretty cool. So after you leave me a glorious comment espousing my greatness here please go answer the poll. It's not a thrilling one because I have been busy busy making changes but wait! Thrilling polls to come! You just wait!
All these exclamation marks are tiring me out.
Whew.
we've decided to become overachievers!
Oh such excitement. Husband and I have decided, after a short discussion earlier today, that it might be nice if we spent a little time working at becoming Overachievers. At first we thought just Achievers would be good enough but hell, why not go the whole mile, yeah? I mean, if we're taking the time anyway.
Thing is, we're not real sure how to go about it. Bit of a stretch for us, if you must know. We're not slugs. Hey, we're not. It's just that. Well. You know.
We're dreadfully average.
God, how embarrassing is that.
Not for long, mind you. No, No. Big plans, we've got. Huge. Massive.
Not really a plan, to be honest. More of an idea. A loosely formed idea. Actually, we've kind of just got the word so far. Overachiever. Don't know what it means, truth be told. You know, the dictionary dot com meaning and all.
Should I look it up? Because maybe we don't really want to be Overachievers. Could be it's not really a good thing after all. Could be one of those silly words that people bandy about not knowing that it really means shit for brains or whatnot. God wouldn't that be awful. Race about telling people you're going to be an Overachiever and it means Shit For Brains. Jesus. We'd look like assholes. Wouldn't we.
I'm gonna look it up. Just to be safe.
To perform better or achieve more success than expected.
Jesus Bloody Christ. What the Sam Crap does that mean. Whose to say what level of success was expected to begin with. Let's say I expected, for the day, to get out of bed and not soil myself or piss on another human being. Let's say I did better than that. Let's say not only didn't I piss on another human being but also refrained frorm pissing on the furniture. Know what that makes me?
Overachiever.
What if I plan to go to the gym tomorrow and walk once around the track then sit in the hot tub for fifteen minutes before coming home and having beer for lunch. Instead I walk around the track twice, sit in the hot tub for twenty minutes and come home to have beer and a carrot.
Overachiever.
Damn. This Overachiever stuff is a bit lame. I had no idea. Geez. You know what, I think I'm gonna skip it. Doesn't seem worth the fuss really. I've got other stuff I wanna do anyway.
No, I'm not gonna tell you what. Didn't your mother ever teach you it's not nice to pry. I'll tell you when I'm damn good and ready.
Actually, I've got no plans. I was just trying to cover for the Overachiever thing falling through. You know, the big idea and all. Hey we tried. Always gotta be willing to try new things. Now we're on to the next. Another adventure.
what? what happened? a new year? say what?
Geez. Already. Another year gone by. Well then.
Perhaps it would be fitting for me to remark on this past year.
But I don't wanna. I don't really like to spend a lot of time thinking. I was going to say I don't like to spend a lot of time thinking about The Past but realized today it's the entire concept of thinking that is beyond my scope.
You know what I'd like to do? Sit around and watch tv while eating peanut butter with chocolate. Actually, hang on. I'm sick of peanut butter with chocolate.
Hell just froze over.
Solid.
There's a marathon of the British What Not To Wear on BBC Canada. I've never seen it and would adore gazing at it all freakin' day. To, you know, celebrate the onset of a new year. And whatnot. Maybe even get some style tips to carry me forward in my ongoing quest for, well, style.
I haven't got any at this time.
I should probably come up with some witty business about New Years Resolutions. As much as I'd like to I can't. Because I just don't friggin' care. Resolutions are so silly that I can't even come up with something funny to say about them.
Ok, I'll try.
In two thousand and five I will -
Try again.
In two thousand and five I will not -
No, sorry. Nothing.
Ok, I've got it. I hereby vow to continue being Me throughout two thousand and five. I promise to grow and develop as a person whether I like it or not and I swear I won't do anything wrong ever.
Ok.
Except delete that last bit about never doing anything wrong ever. Geez, what kind of a boring turd would I be if I was perfect?
I mean I am perfect, but you know.
It's just that, for as long as I can remember, by the time New Year's Eve comes along I'm pretty worn out from all the festivities and postiveness I've endured that I'm essentially The Queen of Celebratory Humbug. I want my tree down, the clutter uncluttered and if at all possible, the snow gone gone gone.
Not possible, move on.
So forgive my lack of enthusiasm. I would, for each and every one of you, offer something lovely and shiney. If I could. Alas, I cannot.
I do wish you a very Happy Two Thousand and Five, however, with the utmost sincerity. Really. I wish you the best every day. All the time. Not just today and not only this year. I wish you sunny days and sparkly smiles always. You deserve the very best of happiness and I hope it is yours this year, the next and the one after.
Happy Every Day of Your Life!
