The biggest news around here by far is that the soothers have arrived!! We are so excited to have them. They are great!! Alex seems to enjoy them. So Yay!!
Other news: I'm over my fear of dentists. I don't know how it happened. I went to the dentist, and then I was sitting there, and then I realized- I'm not scared. I feel quite fine. I do not care what they do to me. So that was good. I got some cavities filled. So now I am a responsible dentist going adult. They didn't give me a sticker, though, which would have been nice.
Also, I have switched from Colgate toothpaste to Sensodyne, as I seem to have developed some sensitivity problems. So that has been going well. The children have a startling interest in toothpaste. I bought this new toothpaste and they're all excited to try it out, "I can't wait to brush my teeth tonight!! Can I be the first one to try it??" What strange behavior. You would have honestly thought that I'd bought a model airplane rather than a tube of toothpaste.
Now for the bad news. Well not bad, per se. Just not very good. In January I sent out some query letters for Having Grace, and yesterday I recieved my first rejection letter. The others should be soon to follow. It is a bit disheartening. According to one websites' Advice for Writers, I have done everything right:
1. An unhappy childhood: Apparently, most novelists are geeky children and adolescents that wear thick glasses eat thier bologne sandwiches alone at thier locker. And though I have to say that my vision was always pretty good and that I never really cared much for bologne, I was something of a loner throughout most of my school days. I have always found it hard to make friends. I was always the last one picked for the team, and that did hurt a bit. But it was worse when I would get picked first- because I knew that the teacher had probably asked the team captain to pick me first-on account of my low self esteem- probably in exchange for an extra ten percent on a science exam or something. Yes, the pity pick was worse than being picked last. Other team mates scowling at the captain, kicking the dirt angrily as I walked slowly across to thier team. Yes, I definately had the requisite unhappy childhood.
2. A Miserable Love Life: Check and check. Perhaps this isn't much of a surprise- but the girl who gets picked last for the team usually doesn't go to the school dance with the football captain on her arm. The girl that gets picked last basically doesnt' go to the school dance. She stays at home and watches Melrose Place and tells herself that dances probably aren't much fun and can you believe that Jake and Alison are together again??
3. A major in Liberal Arts: Yes, I went and got the requisite Liberal Arts degree. Which, so far as I can tell, has been an even bigger waste of money than the Debbie Travis Reed Diffussers I bought.
4. Get a job that takes you out of your comfort zone. Well, this isn't too hard. My comfort zone is at home wearing my slippers and flannel PJ's so, basically any job would do the trick. But my job is on skid row- so that definately qualifies for 'out of my comfort zone' since the first time I went there I locked my doors as I turned onto twentieth street and asked my boss when I got there if I was wearing any gang colors.
5.Write for yourself. I am always writing something. Letters, emails, my blog, my book, a short story- something. And I do it for the sheer sake of doing it.
6. Get a dog. Got it. It needs a bath.
And step 7,8 and 9 where I fail miserably: get published, get an agent, sign a contract.
Step 10: READ, well of course, here I am doing well. I will read anything- except for Golf Digest. Love to read.
So, according to the experts in the biz- I have done everything right. But, I guess, I shall just keep trying. And hey- at least I have those soothers!!
My new novel isn't coming together very good though, at the moment. I will post a page of it on here. I think maybe I just need to get over this hump that I'm at now. Tee hee. Hump is funny word. Anyways. And I finished my short story. I am now trying to decide which magazine to send it to.
Now for the reviews:
Firstly, the book Little Earthquakes by Jennifer Weiner. That's right. Weiner. As in Oscar Meyer. Name aside, the book is great. It illicits tears and laughter as it chronicles the journey of four women to and through new motherhood. It is a very frank and honest look at motherhood, not the over glorified version you see and hear all the time. For me, I found that very refreshing. I mean, normally, ask anyone who has a baby how the baby is and it's all coming up roses. The baby is great. Everyone is great. There seems this retisence on the part of society in general to talk about the fact that having a baby is a major life change and that it can be very difficult. I mean, you expect your newborn to smell like Johnsons baby shampoo all the time, to sleep peacefully in the little bassinette beside your bed, that you will be happy all the time and that you will be that person who has a baby and bounces back the next day- trim figure, shiny hair and ample breast milk to feed your baby. You should all just go out and get a copy right now!!
Secondly, the movie Hotel for Dogs. I took the kids to see it last week and it was a really cute show. I think I enjoyed it as much as the kids did. So many cute puppies.
Thirdly, Sensodyne toothpaste. It works good. Reduces sensitivity and leaves your mouth nice and minty feeling. The children also like it.
Anyways, that is all for now.
Thanks for reading.
Friday, February 13, 2009
Monday, February 2, 2009
Winter Blues
Groan.
I know that complaining about the weather is a little uninspired, but it has to be done. I get a little annoyed when other people complain about the weather to me. "Cold enough out there for ya?" is my absolute hands down favorite. Some day I just want to say "Hell no. I'd really like it to get a little bit colder. I'd like to see what minus sixty feels like." Like who the frick asks that?? It's minus forty out there. I should think that the answer should go without saying. Me, whenever the subject of weather comes up, the same words tumble out of my mouth...
It's supposed to warm up soon...
If I had a dollar for everytime I have used that sentence in the last month... those soothers would be bought and paid for right now let me tell you. Honestly. It seems I'm always telling myself that same sentence in some form or another... I think maybe trying to convince my own self more than anyone else...clinging to that faint hope... It's supposed to be plus four tomorrow, the weather channel says there's a warm front coming, it's supposed to be nice this weekend, they're expecting a break in this cold soon. It's getting damn pathetic already. I'm like some heartsick teenager with a wicked bad unrequitted crush waiting by the phone. "He said he'll call me on the weekend." "Maybe tomorrow he'll call." "Maybe next week" "I think he will call soon."
Just give it up already.
It's friggin cold and no matter what they say on the weather channel it's probably going to be like this for some time to come. I think that the people on the weather channel get their weather reports from some kind of a random weather lottery machine.
So, here I am. Wearing my flannel PJs and moccasins, sequestered indoors yet again, looking outside with loathing and longing, mulling over several things.
Firstly, lately I've noticed something about myself. Yesterday I put on a sweater. I was dissatisfied for a number of reasons- the fabric pulled a little too tightly across the expanse of my hips, there was a little bit of spillage over the top of my pants that seemed conspicous to my own eye. Exasperated, I went to pull the sweater off and continue on to the next one in my daily game of "Let's find something that doesn't make me look fat" in which I invariably come up a loser after spilling the entire contents of my closet on the floor in a heap (a very small heap- even at the best of times when I'm caught up with the laundry) and reluctantly resign myself to wearing something out of simple neccessity. Yesterday Geoff intercepted the game, though, telling me that the white sweater looked really great, to which I mumbled how frumpy I was getting and we argued about this but I wore the damn sweater anyways because I had to get going.
Anyways, the sweater worked out fine. In fact, people told me that I looked like I was losing weight, if anything. So you would think that I would be happy.
And yet.
And this is what I've realized about myself: I just can't seem to take compliments at all whatsoever. I mean, if someone were to come up to me and tell me that I look like shit, I would be like "Thanks, ya, I know. I haven't been getting much sleep lately, it's really starting to show now, isn't it??" But if somone tells me that I look good, I feel distinctly uncomfortable, and not only that, I feel the need to try to convince that person that I do not, in fact, look good and that I have not, in fact, lost weight and that, in fact, my stomach feels slightly reminiscent of bread dough that needs a good kneading, and that the stretch marks are still pretty prominent. It's like I have an inferiority complex.
And when I started to think about it, I started to think about how I always try to 'one down' someone in conversation. Like you know those people who always try to 'one up' you?? OK. For example.
You're like:"My labour was sixteen hours long and really painful and the epidural didn't work and I ended up with second degree tears (this is not my casual conversation, by the way).
And then they're like "Sixteen hours!! I wish!! mine was forty three hours, and I lost so much blood that they had to give me CPR and a blood transfusion, and the baby was eleven-three, so you can imagine how badly I tore. And when they did the epidural they put it in wrong, and I've completely lost feeling in my left leg. I'll be in physio for a while. They don't know if it'll ever come back. And the babys diabetic, by the way. And I have to give her insulin."
Well, I seem to have the same condition, but in the reverse direction. For example, some one would say to me that they're house is a mess. And I'll be like "you should see my house!! I haven't seen my kitchen counter since 2005!! " Or someone will complain about their finances. And I'll be like "you should see my bank account!! It's completely overdrawn, and we have to make a car payment tomorrow, and our cable just got cut off." Or someone will complain about thier husband, and I'll be like "you should see my husband!! He literally does nothing around the house, and he only speaks three spoken words! And you should smell his BO!!"
Well, I guess you get the idea.
Anyways, I've always considered myself a modest person. And I do think that modesty is a really good virtue. I can not stand people who are boastful. "Oh, my husband I don't know what we're going to do with our time share!! We're going to Mexico in January, and then Hawaii in February. I'm not sure we can make it there at all this year!! Isn't that a shame?? Oh, well. It's not really big enough for us, anyways, only four thousand square feet!! Can you imagine!!"
Just makes me want to grab my fork and jam it in thier eye. Like, if your biggest problem is that you can't use your time share property, then you and I should not be in the same room together at all whatsoever. I just can't handle it. But anyways, as I was saying, modesty is a good virtue to have, but I think that maybe it might be OK to once in a while accept a compliment or admit that I have a nice life that I actually enjoy.
And I wonder sometimes if we're programmed by society to feel this kind of self depreciation?? Look at the magazines. "Lose ten pounds!!" "Upgrade your kitchen!!" "Make your husband happy in bed!!" Look at the TV shows. Even the geeky science detective types have glossy straight hair with expensive highlights and they walk around crime scenes in stilletto heels and low cut T Shirts displaying the kind of cleavage that I'll only ever have when Lex is overdue for a feeding.
It's amazing that we feel good about ourselves ever.
With my children, I use a strategy called "praise the good, ignore the bad" I think somewhere along the way, I've adopted the opposite strategy for myself "ignore the good, exaggerate the bad."
So I'm going to start being more gentle with myself.
Starting tomorrow. When it warms up outside.
I know that complaining about the weather is a little uninspired, but it has to be done. I get a little annoyed when other people complain about the weather to me. "Cold enough out there for ya?" is my absolute hands down favorite. Some day I just want to say "Hell no. I'd really like it to get a little bit colder. I'd like to see what minus sixty feels like." Like who the frick asks that?? It's minus forty out there. I should think that the answer should go without saying. Me, whenever the subject of weather comes up, the same words tumble out of my mouth...
It's supposed to warm up soon...
If I had a dollar for everytime I have used that sentence in the last month... those soothers would be bought and paid for right now let me tell you. Honestly. It seems I'm always telling myself that same sentence in some form or another... I think maybe trying to convince my own self more than anyone else...clinging to that faint hope... It's supposed to be plus four tomorrow, the weather channel says there's a warm front coming, it's supposed to be nice this weekend, they're expecting a break in this cold soon. It's getting damn pathetic already. I'm like some heartsick teenager with a wicked bad unrequitted crush waiting by the phone. "He said he'll call me on the weekend." "Maybe tomorrow he'll call." "Maybe next week" "I think he will call soon."
Just give it up already.
It's friggin cold and no matter what they say on the weather channel it's probably going to be like this for some time to come. I think that the people on the weather channel get their weather reports from some kind of a random weather lottery machine.
So, here I am. Wearing my flannel PJs and moccasins, sequestered indoors yet again, looking outside with loathing and longing, mulling over several things.
Firstly, lately I've noticed something about myself. Yesterday I put on a sweater. I was dissatisfied for a number of reasons- the fabric pulled a little too tightly across the expanse of my hips, there was a little bit of spillage over the top of my pants that seemed conspicous to my own eye. Exasperated, I went to pull the sweater off and continue on to the next one in my daily game of "Let's find something that doesn't make me look fat" in which I invariably come up a loser after spilling the entire contents of my closet on the floor in a heap (a very small heap- even at the best of times when I'm caught up with the laundry) and reluctantly resign myself to wearing something out of simple neccessity. Yesterday Geoff intercepted the game, though, telling me that the white sweater looked really great, to which I mumbled how frumpy I was getting and we argued about this but I wore the damn sweater anyways because I had to get going.
Anyways, the sweater worked out fine. In fact, people told me that I looked like I was losing weight, if anything. So you would think that I would be happy.
And yet.
And this is what I've realized about myself: I just can't seem to take compliments at all whatsoever. I mean, if someone were to come up to me and tell me that I look like shit, I would be like "Thanks, ya, I know. I haven't been getting much sleep lately, it's really starting to show now, isn't it??" But if somone tells me that I look good, I feel distinctly uncomfortable, and not only that, I feel the need to try to convince that person that I do not, in fact, look good and that I have not, in fact, lost weight and that, in fact, my stomach feels slightly reminiscent of bread dough that needs a good kneading, and that the stretch marks are still pretty prominent. It's like I have an inferiority complex.
And when I started to think about it, I started to think about how I always try to 'one down' someone in conversation. Like you know those people who always try to 'one up' you?? OK. For example.
You're like:"My labour was sixteen hours long and really painful and the epidural didn't work and I ended up with second degree tears (this is not my casual conversation, by the way).
And then they're like "Sixteen hours!! I wish!! mine was forty three hours, and I lost so much blood that they had to give me CPR and a blood transfusion, and the baby was eleven-three, so you can imagine how badly I tore. And when they did the epidural they put it in wrong, and I've completely lost feeling in my left leg. I'll be in physio for a while. They don't know if it'll ever come back. And the babys diabetic, by the way. And I have to give her insulin."
Well, I seem to have the same condition, but in the reverse direction. For example, some one would say to me that they're house is a mess. And I'll be like "you should see my house!! I haven't seen my kitchen counter since 2005!! " Or someone will complain about their finances. And I'll be like "you should see my bank account!! It's completely overdrawn, and we have to make a car payment tomorrow, and our cable just got cut off." Or someone will complain about thier husband, and I'll be like "you should see my husband!! He literally does nothing around the house, and he only speaks three spoken words! And you should smell his BO!!"
Well, I guess you get the idea.
Anyways, I've always considered myself a modest person. And I do think that modesty is a really good virtue. I can not stand people who are boastful. "Oh, my husband I don't know what we're going to do with our time share!! We're going to Mexico in January, and then Hawaii in February. I'm not sure we can make it there at all this year!! Isn't that a shame?? Oh, well. It's not really big enough for us, anyways, only four thousand square feet!! Can you imagine!!"
Just makes me want to grab my fork and jam it in thier eye. Like, if your biggest problem is that you can't use your time share property, then you and I should not be in the same room together at all whatsoever. I just can't handle it. But anyways, as I was saying, modesty is a good virtue to have, but I think that maybe it might be OK to once in a while accept a compliment or admit that I have a nice life that I actually enjoy.
And I wonder sometimes if we're programmed by society to feel this kind of self depreciation?? Look at the magazines. "Lose ten pounds!!" "Upgrade your kitchen!!" "Make your husband happy in bed!!" Look at the TV shows. Even the geeky science detective types have glossy straight hair with expensive highlights and they walk around crime scenes in stilletto heels and low cut T Shirts displaying the kind of cleavage that I'll only ever have when Lex is overdue for a feeding.
It's amazing that we feel good about ourselves ever.
With my children, I use a strategy called "praise the good, ignore the bad" I think somewhere along the way, I've adopted the opposite strategy for myself "ignore the good, exaggerate the bad."
So I'm going to start being more gentle with myself.
Starting tomorrow. When it warms up outside.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Oops I did it again.
Some months ago we got rid of all our credit cards. Truly, I was happy to see them go. That magical swipe seemed so easy, and it was just so tempting. If I see a nice pair of slacks or say, a cute little playful puppy, I could just pull it out the trusty old credit card and walk away with that new pair of slacks or new puppy. Instant gratification.
But then when the bills started coming in and the puppy started peeing on your carpet, I would wonder "what the hell was I thinking??" (Note to self: I think I could possibly have an impulse control disorder. Investigate.) So then we took all of our credit cards and paid them down and got rid of them.
Alas, we kept one.
"For emergencies".
Lately I have been really broadening the definition of 'emergency' quite a bit.
Late night craving for Taco Time. Emergency. I could die!! I need that meat and that cheese- it's not a frivilous craving. It's sustenance. My body will surely perish without it. And not just that. The baby!! I can't let him starve. I must fuel up. If not for my own sake- then surely his. How can I deprive that cute little toothy smile??
Debbie Travis Reed Diffusers (Lemon mint scented!!). Emergency. I mean, just imagine how much more inviting my home will be with the light scent of lemon and mint mingling in the air. We can have dinner parties and soirees, and maybe host charity benefits. How much more house work can I accomplish with the invigorating scent of lemon stimulating my senses?? How much more relaxed will the children be?? And who knows where that will lead them?? Ivy League?? Who's to say. It's not just a reed diffuser, it's an entire lifestyle philosophy, really, and we will benefit untold amounts from it- both in the short term and in the long term.
Except that, as it turns out, you actually can't smell them at all unless you're standing about three inches away from them.
But still... they're nice.
And then I started to, and quite honestly I don't know what possessed me to do it, presicely, but I started surfing the net for interesting soothers. And I saw some that you could personalize with your babys name on it. And it turns out that Brad and Angelina have the very same one for their babies!!! And I just knew, knew in my heart that Alex absolutely had to have one. It was fate. Fate!! It brought me to this website in this first place. I began to wonder what kind of mother I was, buying plain old Playtex soothers from the Supermarket. They now seemed so shabby- they're pastel blues and greens- BLAH. How had I lived all this time with this mediocity??? I NEEDED those personalized soothers. And besides, the mere practicality of it!! They would never get mixed up with anyones elses!! So then I decided, well OK. If I'm going to buy one, I might as well buy three, because inevitably, these things can get lost and what a hassle it would be to have to order it again and wait for the shipping. And the poor baby- how will sleep without his favorite Sucky.
Exactly.
So then I started looking at these other soothers. And they had one that said Mammas Boy- and of course I had to have that one. And they had one that said McDrooley, and I knew I just had to have that one as well. And then they had one that said that "Boob Man" and my heart leapt with joy. I needed that Boob Man soother so badly. But then when I clicked on it, they were sold out!! Sold OUT. Of all the bloody nerve. They wave this soother in front of my face until I'm salivating over it. And then they just take it all away. I felt sickened and saddened. I had to find another way. So I found another website and ordered it up. Who cares if there's a twenty dollar shipping fee anyway for one soother?? Totally worth it, I think. I can just imagine how cool I'll be walking into a room with my baby in my arms, sucking on his boob man soother. Heads will turn. Everyone will want to know where I got my soother. Other babies will be jealous. Other moms will be jealous of me, my soother collection and my savy. Their babies will look stupid with their dumb, cheap, grocery store soothers plunked in their mouths and I'll have to stifle a laugh.
But then when I go to bed, I start to do the math. Six soothers. Fifty some dollars. An inkling of regret starts to sink in my stomach. I should not have done that. That's not an emergency. Those soothers won't keep us warm in the night if our furnace dies in the middle of the night and we need repairs.
But anyways. I'm sure it will all work out. Our furnace looks pretty trusty. And as far as Geoff is concerned- well I'm not going to tell you what he said about the whole thing because it was rather inappropriate, though it was along the lines of finding other, cheaper means of sating my oral fixation.
Ew.
Anyways, things here at home are going well- other than the credit card use- which I will cut back on. Except for one thing. Tonight I actually had all the children asleep at seven p.m- my three and even the one I am babysitting. At first I was like "Wow this is great. They're all asleep. I have the whole evening to myself." And then I laid down to relax, feeling a bit sleepy myself all of a sudden. But then abruptly I sat up, panicked "Do we have carbon monoxide poisoning??" I started to wonder. We don't even have a carbon monoxide detector!!! What kind of a lousy excuse for a parent am I? Living in a house without a carbon monoxide detector. I might as well just feed my children asbestos for breakfast and shoot crack up my arm. Social services should be involved.
And I know- I just KNOW that I absolutely MUST have a carbon monoxide detector. ASAP.
Emergency.
But then when the bills started coming in and the puppy started peeing on your carpet, I would wonder "what the hell was I thinking??" (Note to self: I think I could possibly have an impulse control disorder. Investigate.) So then we took all of our credit cards and paid them down and got rid of them.
Alas, we kept one.
"For emergencies".
Lately I have been really broadening the definition of 'emergency' quite a bit.
Late night craving for Taco Time. Emergency. I could die!! I need that meat and that cheese- it's not a frivilous craving. It's sustenance. My body will surely perish without it. And not just that. The baby!! I can't let him starve. I must fuel up. If not for my own sake- then surely his. How can I deprive that cute little toothy smile??
Debbie Travis Reed Diffusers (Lemon mint scented!!). Emergency. I mean, just imagine how much more inviting my home will be with the light scent of lemon and mint mingling in the air. We can have dinner parties and soirees, and maybe host charity benefits. How much more house work can I accomplish with the invigorating scent of lemon stimulating my senses?? How much more relaxed will the children be?? And who knows where that will lead them?? Ivy League?? Who's to say. It's not just a reed diffuser, it's an entire lifestyle philosophy, really, and we will benefit untold amounts from it- both in the short term and in the long term.
Except that, as it turns out, you actually can't smell them at all unless you're standing about three inches away from them.
But still... they're nice.
And then I started to, and quite honestly I don't know what possessed me to do it, presicely, but I started surfing the net for interesting soothers. And I saw some that you could personalize with your babys name on it. And it turns out that Brad and Angelina have the very same one for their babies!!! And I just knew, knew in my heart that Alex absolutely had to have one. It was fate. Fate!! It brought me to this website in this first place. I began to wonder what kind of mother I was, buying plain old Playtex soothers from the Supermarket. They now seemed so shabby- they're pastel blues and greens- BLAH. How had I lived all this time with this mediocity??? I NEEDED those personalized soothers. And besides, the mere practicality of it!! They would never get mixed up with anyones elses!! So then I decided, well OK. If I'm going to buy one, I might as well buy three, because inevitably, these things can get lost and what a hassle it would be to have to order it again and wait for the shipping. And the poor baby- how will sleep without his favorite Sucky.
Exactly.
So then I started looking at these other soothers. And they had one that said Mammas Boy- and of course I had to have that one. And they had one that said McDrooley, and I knew I just had to have that one as well. And then they had one that said that "Boob Man" and my heart leapt with joy. I needed that Boob Man soother so badly. But then when I clicked on it, they were sold out!! Sold OUT. Of all the bloody nerve. They wave this soother in front of my face until I'm salivating over it. And then they just take it all away. I felt sickened and saddened. I had to find another way. So I found another website and ordered it up. Who cares if there's a twenty dollar shipping fee anyway for one soother?? Totally worth it, I think. I can just imagine how cool I'll be walking into a room with my baby in my arms, sucking on his boob man soother. Heads will turn. Everyone will want to know where I got my soother. Other babies will be jealous. Other moms will be jealous of me, my soother collection and my savy. Their babies will look stupid with their dumb, cheap, grocery store soothers plunked in their mouths and I'll have to stifle a laugh.
But then when I go to bed, I start to do the math. Six soothers. Fifty some dollars. An inkling of regret starts to sink in my stomach. I should not have done that. That's not an emergency. Those soothers won't keep us warm in the night if our furnace dies in the middle of the night and we need repairs.
But anyways. I'm sure it will all work out. Our furnace looks pretty trusty. And as far as Geoff is concerned- well I'm not going to tell you what he said about the whole thing because it was rather inappropriate, though it was along the lines of finding other, cheaper means of sating my oral fixation.
Ew.
Anyways, things here at home are going well- other than the credit card use- which I will cut back on. Except for one thing. Tonight I actually had all the children asleep at seven p.m- my three and even the one I am babysitting. At first I was like "Wow this is great. They're all asleep. I have the whole evening to myself." And then I laid down to relax, feeling a bit sleepy myself all of a sudden. But then abruptly I sat up, panicked "Do we have carbon monoxide poisoning??" I started to wonder. We don't even have a carbon monoxide detector!!! What kind of a lousy excuse for a parent am I? Living in a house without a carbon monoxide detector. I might as well just feed my children asbestos for breakfast and shoot crack up my arm. Social services should be involved.
And I know- I just KNOW that I absolutely MUST have a carbon monoxide detector. ASAP.
Emergency.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Changes
Well, the changes continue around here.
First we switched from Becel to Celeb (its going very well- we have fully adapted now to Celeb), and now we are ordering pizza from Homers Pizza rather than Family Pizza. We have been going a little crazy, all this trying new things. I guess there must be something in the air. But what the heck? You've got to just throw all caution to the wind sometimes.
Homers Pizza was once on my boycot list, but the ban has now been lifted. The reason it was banned in the first place is a long and involved story, but basically centered around one employee who was fat, greasy, on the rag and ovulating. I am pretty sure she is long gone now, and I console myself that in all likelihood, she was "let go", so I am free to patron Homers once again.
The reason why I had to eventually make the switch from Family was that things were getting weird with the delivery guy. When the pizza guy comes to the door and is like "so is Payton getting over her tonsilitis yet?' you pretty much have to face the fact that you order pizza WAY too frequently, and I either need to scale back a bit or start mixing it up with other pizza places. So hence, obviously, the choice was made. Could I forego pizza? An attempt for me to boycot takeout is destined to end as badly as an attempt for me to play Slowpitch- pretty ugly. Me curled in the fetal position with a nosebleed. I always think that I can do it (forego pizza, not slowpitch). I always think "I'm not going to order take out for a whole month" but then suddenly I find myself in the kitchen trying to create a meal plan that involves half a bag of frozen peas, 3 frozen fish sticks, a jar of pickles that has no actual pickles left in it, and a box of soda crackers- the entire contents of my fridge and cupboards. So then I start to think- well, this is a battle I lost at hello. Though, I suppose I could have made my signature dish of fried pickled fish casserole....
Anyways, truth be told, the delivery guy from Family Pizza was starting to give me a bad vibe. I don't know what it was about him- like he was a nice guy- and I think that was precisely the problem right there. I don't like nice people. It's like "dude- just slide my pizza under the door and I'll give you your money- let's make this transaction nice and easy" But he was always so chatty, creeped me out. The guy even told me all about his vasectomy and everything.
And then when we were at Ruckers for Gages birthday party I got the most uneasy feeling. The pizzas came, and wouldn't you know it, he delivered them. And then the look on his face when he saw me across the crowded room, a flicker of recognition but something more- excitement, happiness, something along those lines. It was weird and it was fleeting but it was there, I'm sure of it, though I really can't understand it- I mean there I was in my rubby cargo pants, grubby Tshirt with a puke stain on the shoulder, hair carelessly pulled back in a messy pony tail, Blistex for make up and bouncing a baby on my hip. Anyways, the whole non verbal transaction lasted less than a second, I'm sure, but it left me feeling distinctly uncomfortable nonetheless. I felt somehow violated with his look that lasted just a beat too long...which is really weird.
Because usually it takes quite a bit to make me feel violated.
So then I decided to switch it up. I was like "It is so over with that dude" so now I have a new pizza guy, he works at Homers and he's sixteen with pimples (pimples must be part of thier hiring criteria, I don't know) and he doesn't unplug his IPod at all when he delivers my pizza. Cold and impersonal, just the way I like it.
Anyhoo... Homer's pizza is actually pretty good and it's only across the street from us so our pizza's pretty much there when we hang up the phone, so it's great. So ya, I guess I kinda broke up with the old pizza guy and got myself a new pizza hotty. My life is so exciting these days, it's just like a soap opera. Reminds me of my old boyfriend Jon, we met on elevator in Regina... this is a story for another day, though. Anyways, all's I'll say about that is that I screwed the pooch with that relatioship, if you can call a very short and one sided conversation a relationship- which, of course, I do.
Anyways, where was I??
OK. Let me see. Things are OK around here. My fleeting moment of guilt over bad mouthing Geoff has passed, and I am back to my usual scathing self. Every night I get up with Alex two or three times, but when morning rolls around he's like "Oh, I had the worst sleep last night- I kept on waking up, I'm so tired" like I'm supposed to feel sorry for him and be like "Oh, no. Off to bed with you then, but not before I whip you up a batch of fresh squeezed OJ and blueberry waffles" I just don't get it- how he acts so sleep deprived- because everytime I wake up with the babe he's snoring his freaking head off. Like- it literally comes off. I have to pick it up and put it back on his head. OK. I'm exaggerating. You caught me. But still. It's annoying. So then he stretches out on the couch all morning and acts like he's been exhausted from a full day of... something. It's terribly annoying. And then he finds some stupid football game to watch and becomes totally absorbed in it like he's some kind of a zombie. I'll tell him an entire story and then I'll be like "well- don't you think that the flounder WAS a little overcooked, though?" and he's like "huh- oh, flounder, ya." But at the same time he does NOT miss ONE beat of his precious football game, something will happen and all of a sudden he's on feet screaming "FUMBLE" at the top of his lungs. And then he and Gage sit around like a bunch of freaking Gomers discussing "do you think that Philadelphia can still make the Western Conference?" Like- what the hell is that?? I picture a bunch of beefy men in football gears carrying thier breifcases to the West for a conference. Kind of a funny image, so I tell Geoff and he gives me this annoyed glare like I'm the one who's being annoying.
I used to be so much like "women power!" All liberated and strong in my belief that I would obtain a college degree and this would make me- what?? A strong woman with strong beliefs with a place in the world other than the kitchen. I would enter the work force, be an equal participant in the home and at work- and I've ended up like this. With a husband that doesn't even know what a broom is nevermind how to use it, and whose idea of helping me out with the housework is picking up his feet when I sweep underneath him. And a job where I'm basically subservient to male doctors. And my only other prospect is a leering, middle aged, pizza guy. Blimey.
So much for the liberated woman. They just took that woman and raked her over the coals, shoved a dishcloth down her throat, plucked the pencil from her hands and replaced it with a vacuum.
But- well, here's where I wrap things up with a little saying to keep it light and funny and cute but I'm coming up empty here. Instead I'll end with a random observation. People who use the expression "finger in the dyke" really need to reconsider this expression. Even the most dryest of boring political context can not mask the blatant sexual overtones in that phrase. It just needs to be done away with.
And now an assignment: yes! And assignment!! This will cheer me up!! Try to make a sentence with the phrase "finger in the dyke" sound clean.
Good Luck.
First we switched from Becel to Celeb (its going very well- we have fully adapted now to Celeb), and now we are ordering pizza from Homers Pizza rather than Family Pizza. We have been going a little crazy, all this trying new things. I guess there must be something in the air. But what the heck? You've got to just throw all caution to the wind sometimes.
Homers Pizza was once on my boycot list, but the ban has now been lifted. The reason it was banned in the first place is a long and involved story, but basically centered around one employee who was fat, greasy, on the rag and ovulating. I am pretty sure she is long gone now, and I console myself that in all likelihood, she was "let go", so I am free to patron Homers once again.
The reason why I had to eventually make the switch from Family was that things were getting weird with the delivery guy. When the pizza guy comes to the door and is like "so is Payton getting over her tonsilitis yet?' you pretty much have to face the fact that you order pizza WAY too frequently, and I either need to scale back a bit or start mixing it up with other pizza places. So hence, obviously, the choice was made. Could I forego pizza? An attempt for me to boycot takeout is destined to end as badly as an attempt for me to play Slowpitch- pretty ugly. Me curled in the fetal position with a nosebleed. I always think that I can do it (forego pizza, not slowpitch). I always think "I'm not going to order take out for a whole month" but then suddenly I find myself in the kitchen trying to create a meal plan that involves half a bag of frozen peas, 3 frozen fish sticks, a jar of pickles that has no actual pickles left in it, and a box of soda crackers- the entire contents of my fridge and cupboards. So then I start to think- well, this is a battle I lost at hello. Though, I suppose I could have made my signature dish of fried pickled fish casserole....
Anyways, truth be told, the delivery guy from Family Pizza was starting to give me a bad vibe. I don't know what it was about him- like he was a nice guy- and I think that was precisely the problem right there. I don't like nice people. It's like "dude- just slide my pizza under the door and I'll give you your money- let's make this transaction nice and easy" But he was always so chatty, creeped me out. The guy even told me all about his vasectomy and everything.
And then when we were at Ruckers for Gages birthday party I got the most uneasy feeling. The pizzas came, and wouldn't you know it, he delivered them. And then the look on his face when he saw me across the crowded room, a flicker of recognition but something more- excitement, happiness, something along those lines. It was weird and it was fleeting but it was there, I'm sure of it, though I really can't understand it- I mean there I was in my rubby cargo pants, grubby Tshirt with a puke stain on the shoulder, hair carelessly pulled back in a messy pony tail, Blistex for make up and bouncing a baby on my hip. Anyways, the whole non verbal transaction lasted less than a second, I'm sure, but it left me feeling distinctly uncomfortable nonetheless. I felt somehow violated with his look that lasted just a beat too long...which is really weird.
Because usually it takes quite a bit to make me feel violated.
So then I decided to switch it up. I was like "It is so over with that dude" so now I have a new pizza guy, he works at Homers and he's sixteen with pimples (pimples must be part of thier hiring criteria, I don't know) and he doesn't unplug his IPod at all when he delivers my pizza. Cold and impersonal, just the way I like it.
Anyhoo... Homer's pizza is actually pretty good and it's only across the street from us so our pizza's pretty much there when we hang up the phone, so it's great. So ya, I guess I kinda broke up with the old pizza guy and got myself a new pizza hotty. My life is so exciting these days, it's just like a soap opera. Reminds me of my old boyfriend Jon, we met on elevator in Regina... this is a story for another day, though. Anyways, all's I'll say about that is that I screwed the pooch with that relatioship, if you can call a very short and one sided conversation a relationship- which, of course, I do.
Anyways, where was I??
OK. Let me see. Things are OK around here. My fleeting moment of guilt over bad mouthing Geoff has passed, and I am back to my usual scathing self. Every night I get up with Alex two or three times, but when morning rolls around he's like "Oh, I had the worst sleep last night- I kept on waking up, I'm so tired" like I'm supposed to feel sorry for him and be like "Oh, no. Off to bed with you then, but not before I whip you up a batch of fresh squeezed OJ and blueberry waffles" I just don't get it- how he acts so sleep deprived- because everytime I wake up with the babe he's snoring his freaking head off. Like- it literally comes off. I have to pick it up and put it back on his head. OK. I'm exaggerating. You caught me. But still. It's annoying. So then he stretches out on the couch all morning and acts like he's been exhausted from a full day of... something. It's terribly annoying. And then he finds some stupid football game to watch and becomes totally absorbed in it like he's some kind of a zombie. I'll tell him an entire story and then I'll be like "well- don't you think that the flounder WAS a little overcooked, though?" and he's like "huh- oh, flounder, ya." But at the same time he does NOT miss ONE beat of his precious football game, something will happen and all of a sudden he's on feet screaming "FUMBLE" at the top of his lungs. And then he and Gage sit around like a bunch of freaking Gomers discussing "do you think that Philadelphia can still make the Western Conference?" Like- what the hell is that?? I picture a bunch of beefy men in football gears carrying thier breifcases to the West for a conference. Kind of a funny image, so I tell Geoff and he gives me this annoyed glare like I'm the one who's being annoying.
I used to be so much like "women power!" All liberated and strong in my belief that I would obtain a college degree and this would make me- what?? A strong woman with strong beliefs with a place in the world other than the kitchen. I would enter the work force, be an equal participant in the home and at work- and I've ended up like this. With a husband that doesn't even know what a broom is nevermind how to use it, and whose idea of helping me out with the housework is picking up his feet when I sweep underneath him. And a job where I'm basically subservient to male doctors. And my only other prospect is a leering, middle aged, pizza guy. Blimey.
So much for the liberated woman. They just took that woman and raked her over the coals, shoved a dishcloth down her throat, plucked the pencil from her hands and replaced it with a vacuum.
But- well, here's where I wrap things up with a little saying to keep it light and funny and cute but I'm coming up empty here. Instead I'll end with a random observation. People who use the expression "finger in the dyke" really need to reconsider this expression. Even the most dryest of boring political context can not mask the blatant sexual overtones in that phrase. It just needs to be done away with.
And now an assignment: yes! And assignment!! This will cheer me up!! Try to make a sentence with the phrase "finger in the dyke" sound clean.
Good Luck.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
A Guilty Conscience
So readership has soared (when I say soared, I mean gotten off the ground- five readers now)with my recent writings about my husband. The more I point out the fallibility of my partner, the happier my readers are- and I will admit that it does make for more interesting reading than the whiskers on Alex's stuffed mouse toy (getting worse, I daresay). So with my readers giving me such positive feedback, I was feeling pretty good. But then I went to bed. And Geoff said "Thank you so much for being so good to me- you're an awesome wife."
Gulp.
And it's like 'why the hell would you have to go and say something like that?' You might better serve my purposes if you farted, rolled over, scratched your balls and snored yourself to sleep with your finger up your nose. So then I felt bad. I wonder if I would still be the awesome wife if he read my blog from time to time. Yikes.
The truth is that I do love my husband, yet it is also true that the precise reason alludes me sometimes. I do not think that- and I hope that I'm not- bashing my husband for the sole reason of discrediting him. I guess I am just venting my frustrations, frustrations that I do feel are valid. Being a woman in this society is a tricky thing-- (note to self: possible thesis title in case I decide to foray in post modernism feminist courses as some point). One has to truly really love being a mother for the sake of being a mother- because you will probably never get the respect or appreciation that you deserve. It is probably the ONLY job in the WORLD where it is acceptable to never give any raises, benefits, breaks, performance evaluations, vacation time, sick days, etc. I mean, imagine if we had a union. It's be like "Ms. Sorowski, you're three month review is very positive: you handled the baby's teething problems very well. The flu epidemic tested you, but you pulled through with flying colors- your approach to handwashing was very encouraging. Unfortunately, it seems that your meatloaf could use a touch more flavour- I would like to know what you are doing with it spice wise- it could probably stand some tweaking. But the fact that you do make your own baby food more than compensates for that. All in all, we would give you four stars out of five- four and a half if you tweak the meatloaf as per our discussion. Because of your hard work and determination, we are going to give a salary increase, 15% more room in the bed, Saturdays off and an upgrade on your toaster oven. Your work attire leaves a little to be desired, so we are allotting you with a monthly wardrobe allowance as well."
But that will not happen. I have to settle for the occasional grunt of appreciation while they devour their dinners. Actually, Payton is pretty good sometimes. The other day while I was brushing her hair she said, out of nowhere, "I have a good mom". I was like "What?" I wasn't sure what she meant, exactly. I thought maybe it was some kind of a movie or TV show- I did not know. It was cute. Moments like that make it worthwhile I guess, although the 15% more room in bed would be nice as well.
Anyways, I think I should try to ease up on my husband a bit. He's not a bad person or a bad husband. It is just a lot easier for him to blend into the background when he is home, and I sometimes think that I perpetuate that very thing. He'll ask if I need help in the kitchen and I say no, because I guess sometimes it just seems easier just to do it myself. Eventually he stops asking. I don't know. Marriage is a tricky thing as well. We will just keep trying to get it right.
Gulp.
And it's like 'why the hell would you have to go and say something like that?' You might better serve my purposes if you farted, rolled over, scratched your balls and snored yourself to sleep with your finger up your nose. So then I felt bad. I wonder if I would still be the awesome wife if he read my blog from time to time. Yikes.
The truth is that I do love my husband, yet it is also true that the precise reason alludes me sometimes. I do not think that- and I hope that I'm not- bashing my husband for the sole reason of discrediting him. I guess I am just venting my frustrations, frustrations that I do feel are valid. Being a woman in this society is a tricky thing-- (note to self: possible thesis title in case I decide to foray in post modernism feminist courses as some point). One has to truly really love being a mother for the sake of being a mother- because you will probably never get the respect or appreciation that you deserve. It is probably the ONLY job in the WORLD where it is acceptable to never give any raises, benefits, breaks, performance evaluations, vacation time, sick days, etc. I mean, imagine if we had a union. It's be like "Ms. Sorowski, you're three month review is very positive: you handled the baby's teething problems very well. The flu epidemic tested you, but you pulled through with flying colors- your approach to handwashing was very encouraging. Unfortunately, it seems that your meatloaf could use a touch more flavour- I would like to know what you are doing with it spice wise- it could probably stand some tweaking. But the fact that you do make your own baby food more than compensates for that. All in all, we would give you four stars out of five- four and a half if you tweak the meatloaf as per our discussion. Because of your hard work and determination, we are going to give a salary increase, 15% more room in the bed, Saturdays off and an upgrade on your toaster oven. Your work attire leaves a little to be desired, so we are allotting you with a monthly wardrobe allowance as well."
But that will not happen. I have to settle for the occasional grunt of appreciation while they devour their dinners. Actually, Payton is pretty good sometimes. The other day while I was brushing her hair she said, out of nowhere, "I have a good mom". I was like "What?" I wasn't sure what she meant, exactly. I thought maybe it was some kind of a movie or TV show- I did not know. It was cute. Moments like that make it worthwhile I guess, although the 15% more room in bed would be nice as well.
Anyways, I think I should try to ease up on my husband a bit. He's not a bad person or a bad husband. It is just a lot easier for him to blend into the background when he is home, and I sometimes think that I perpetuate that very thing. He'll ask if I need help in the kitchen and I say no, because I guess sometimes it just seems easier just to do it myself. Eventually he stops asking. I don't know. Marriage is a tricky thing as well. We will just keep trying to get it right.
Monday, January 5, 2009
Testy
So, he got the snip. It went well, no complications. He is resting now in bed. Where he has been for the last six hours. I mean, honestly, I NEVER got six hours to myself to recuperate, not even when I had three kids and four miscarriages (not all at the same time, mind you. But still- it wasn't no picnic in the park). Basically, he just dropped me off at home, kissed me on the cheek with a clipped "Love you. And don't forget to get me that shaving cream I need when you're out and about today." A bit different than his leisurely day in bed. I went out and got him BK for breakfast, gave it to him in bed. I go in there every four hours to give him his Tylenol and reposition his peas. I've kept the kids quiet and have only let them go in there when he's awake. I've taken them out for part of the day. I'm cooking his dinner and serving it to him in bed. I've been liberally retopping his Pepsi. I ask him what he needs. And he's always laying there, pathetic and miserable like, moaning and groaning. It's not that I don't feel bad for him... because, of coure, I do. But... I hope this doesn't doesn't sound to weird... but I think that I'm actually jealous of him. I'm thinking "surgery's looking pretty freaking good right about now." I could do with a day lying my ass in bed all day getting served croissantwiches and codeine. But then, of course, if I'd have had surgery, things would be different, now wouldn't they? I would be in bed, all right, with all three kids because Geoff is trying to watch Football on the big screen.
Oh, well.
Anyways, the dream of the twins is not totally dead. We were informed this morning that it would take 20 ejaculations before the spermies were out of his system. According to my calculations that could take us 2 years or more. Sadly, I'm not even joking about that. I think since Lex has been born we've "been intimate" about half a dozen times. And those 6 times all together probably accounted for less than five minutes of my life. I'm hardly complaining about that, though. These days I'm so tired and exhausted- I can't even take the time to brush my teeth. The last thing I would want is a night of passionate love making. Usually I approach the subject the same way I would approach getting a booster shot. "I know I'm due for this now, so I'll just look away and it will all be over before I even know it." I guess that's bad to say it that way, but when I go to bed at night the only thing I want to do is watch Seifeld reruns (I never get sick of that show). If this is my sexual prime than I'm in big trouble down the line.
But we'll worry about that later.
Not only has my husband been driving me crazy, the children are also wearing me down. Honest to God, you cannot say or do ANYTHING without a full out interrogation. I put a package in the microwave and this is suddenly the most interesting thing. "What are you doing, mom?" "I'm putting chicken in the microwave" - you wouldn't think you would have to state the obvious- but you do. And then they're like "Why?' "Because we're having chicken for supper"
I go to the bathroom. I'm out of the room for two minutes and they're all over me like hounds. "Where did you go?"
"To the bathroom"
"Why"
"Because I had to go the bathroom" (stating the obvious)
"Poop or pee?"
I mean there is NO privacy in this house. NONE.
Even last night I was changing the sheets on my bed and Gage (11) came in my room and asked what I was doing. "Changing the sheets" I replied. He's like "I hate to even ask... but why?" I was like "It's not what you think- the cat puked on here" but thinking about it later I should have told him something else- something that might make him reconsider sticking his nose in his parents bedroom.
A thousand inane conversations like this all day every day and you start to answer the questions in a shrill, high pitched voice. And then the kids go "Holy mom, settle down. We can't even ask you a question." And even Geoff is no better. He's like "Testy today? That time of the month?" And then that's supposed to be a joke, I guess, but of course, I don't laugh and only offer a dirty look in response, and then Geoff's like "I'll take that as a yes."
Sometimes you feel like just popping them one square in the freaking jaw.
But I have good coping mechanisms and a good support system.
The Chardonnay I keep in the fridge.
Oh, well.
Anyways, the dream of the twins is not totally dead. We were informed this morning that it would take 20 ejaculations before the spermies were out of his system. According to my calculations that could take us 2 years or more. Sadly, I'm not even joking about that. I think since Lex has been born we've "been intimate" about half a dozen times. And those 6 times all together probably accounted for less than five minutes of my life. I'm hardly complaining about that, though. These days I'm so tired and exhausted- I can't even take the time to brush my teeth. The last thing I would want is a night of passionate love making. Usually I approach the subject the same way I would approach getting a booster shot. "I know I'm due for this now, so I'll just look away and it will all be over before I even know it." I guess that's bad to say it that way, but when I go to bed at night the only thing I want to do is watch Seifeld reruns (I never get sick of that show). If this is my sexual prime than I'm in big trouble down the line.
But we'll worry about that later.
Not only has my husband been driving me crazy, the children are also wearing me down. Honest to God, you cannot say or do ANYTHING without a full out interrogation. I put a package in the microwave and this is suddenly the most interesting thing. "What are you doing, mom?" "I'm putting chicken in the microwave" - you wouldn't think you would have to state the obvious- but you do. And then they're like "Why?' "Because we're having chicken for supper"
I go to the bathroom. I'm out of the room for two minutes and they're all over me like hounds. "Where did you go?"
"To the bathroom"
"Why"
"Because I had to go the bathroom" (stating the obvious)
"Poop or pee?"
I mean there is NO privacy in this house. NONE.
Even last night I was changing the sheets on my bed and Gage (11) came in my room and asked what I was doing. "Changing the sheets" I replied. He's like "I hate to even ask... but why?" I was like "It's not what you think- the cat puked on here" but thinking about it later I should have told him something else- something that might make him reconsider sticking his nose in his parents bedroom.
A thousand inane conversations like this all day every day and you start to answer the questions in a shrill, high pitched voice. And then the kids go "Holy mom, settle down. We can't even ask you a question." And even Geoff is no better. He's like "Testy today? That time of the month?" And then that's supposed to be a joke, I guess, but of course, I don't laugh and only offer a dirty look in response, and then Geoff's like "I'll take that as a yes."
Sometimes you feel like just popping them one square in the freaking jaw.
But I have good coping mechanisms and a good support system.
The Chardonnay I keep in the fridge.
Friday, January 2, 2009
A little loco
Well, if ever I had the desire for a fourth child... I now have one. A big, balding, baby with a preference for TSN and mid 80's Sci-Fi Movies. His name is Geoff.
Into our second week of both staying at home, and things are getting dicey. Like, yesterday he says he's going to make me breakfast in bed today. So I waited in bed until 10:15, waiting. No breakfast was forthcoming, and I had all the kids in bed with me. I went out to the living room to see what he was up to. Sleeping on the couch. So I went into the kitchen and made a big production of making breakfast, and he was like "well I was going to make you breakfast" and I was like "well, SweetiePie,- it's almost lunch time now." And he was like "well, what??its ten o'clock." (You have to say that in a dumb voice) I was like "10 is the new 12, OK??" I mean, to think that I had all the kids sequestered in this TINY room, under the pretense of breakfast in bed, while he slept his big fat, snoring, head off on the couch?? So I served him breakfast on the couch, as some sort of a passive agressive assault which TOTALLY did not work in my favor at all, I realized when I was all splattered with bacon grease and had egg yolk in my hair and he was sitting there with a big, dumb grin on his face, watching MASH and shovelling bacon in his mouth. I think I am going to have to stop with the passive agressive attacks, as they never seem to work out in my favor. Like the time I slept on the couch to teach him a lesson and ended up stuck to a leather couch with a dog sleeping on my legs and a cat on my face, while he was stretched out in bed, probably having the best sleep of his life. And when I do the laundry he's all like "Oh, you should have told me there was laundry- I could have done some." And I'm like "Ya, cuz only I have super secret laundry spy power to determine whether or not there's laundry-- I mean, it's practically invisible to the human eye- it's only overflowing the bathroom and bedroom.
Idiot.
I try to take this all with a grain of salt. We're married. Til death do we part. All that BS.
Anyways, the holidays were good. We spent our time out at the lake, which was a nice change of pace. There was one rather untoward incident that had me in the bathroom a bit more than I would have liked following two home made rum and egg nogs. God. I thought I was never gonna get off the toilet. But I decided, all in all, it was all good. Some people pay good money for a good cleansing purge like that.
So now we are settling into a routine. I was watching Dateline tonight about "Orgasmic Labour", something which I have little stock in. There were these women on there, talking about- well I won't go into it. You get the gist of it, I'm sure. But I just couldn't believe it. I just think back to my labor- I mean, you couldn't GET more un-orgasmic than gripping pain, blinding contractions, burning, ripping, tearing-- I mean, you would have to be a seriously sadisctic mother F to get off on that shit. Like, I don't know. And then they had a story on surrogacy, and I became really interested. I TOTALLY want to become a surrogate now. Jackie Care- this does NOT mean you. I was thinking of like a really sexy, cool pair of gays with loads of cash and a posh flat- maybe some of those guys from Queer Eye?? I've always wanted gay friends... they're just so trendy, and their flair for drama is so endearing. I MUST have a gay friend. I shall start attending... what... Bette Middler movies??? Broadway Musicals?? Where would be a good place to start?
Oh, ya, and I got a new printer--- Sorry, this entry doesn't flow that well- but you'll have to learn to deal, my life these days has left me a bit frazzled- trust me, if you could see me now- my look is slightly reminiscent of Gilda Radner. But anyways- Geoff, AKA the Devil, got me a printer for Christmas, and this time he didn't cheap out- it's really nice- Scanner, photocopier, photo printing thingy, police scanner, GPS device. Well, OK, not the last two. But it is nice. So I have been spending a lot of time down in my basement (which is basically totally torn apart right now, by the way- work is going slowly) printing off query letters and stuff like that. There are 5 agents left in Canada to try regarding my novel, Having Grace. I am planning on sending my stuff off to them sooner rather than later in a mass, last ditch effort to actually move forward with this writing thang I have going on. My short story is not coming along so well at this point- I just need to find out from which angle to approach it from. Anyways, there is nothing so wonderful as mailing out a fresh query letter. The hope is high then. It gets less and less day by day, until you eventually realize that they're not going to respond, or you recieve your newest rejection letter. Anyways, right now the excitement is high. I am hopeful that one of these agents will be THE one.
I have to believe that it will happen eventually... otherwise, what do I have to look forward to??
Laundry, four kids, black mold in the basement, unemployed... the list goes on.
Oddly, I am not unhappy though.
Just a little bit loco.
Into our second week of both staying at home, and things are getting dicey. Like, yesterday he says he's going to make me breakfast in bed today. So I waited in bed until 10:15, waiting. No breakfast was forthcoming, and I had all the kids in bed with me. I went out to the living room to see what he was up to. Sleeping on the couch. So I went into the kitchen and made a big production of making breakfast, and he was like "well I was going to make you breakfast" and I was like "well, SweetiePie,- it's almost lunch time now." And he was like "well, what??its ten o'clock." (You have to say that in a dumb voice) I was like "10 is the new 12, OK??" I mean, to think that I had all the kids sequestered in this TINY room, under the pretense of breakfast in bed, while he slept his big fat, snoring, head off on the couch?? So I served him breakfast on the couch, as some sort of a passive agressive assault which TOTALLY did not work in my favor at all, I realized when I was all splattered with bacon grease and had egg yolk in my hair and he was sitting there with a big, dumb grin on his face, watching MASH and shovelling bacon in his mouth. I think I am going to have to stop with the passive agressive attacks, as they never seem to work out in my favor. Like the time I slept on the couch to teach him a lesson and ended up stuck to a leather couch with a dog sleeping on my legs and a cat on my face, while he was stretched out in bed, probably having the best sleep of his life. And when I do the laundry he's all like "Oh, you should have told me there was laundry- I could have done some." And I'm like "Ya, cuz only I have super secret laundry spy power to determine whether or not there's laundry-- I mean, it's practically invisible to the human eye- it's only overflowing the bathroom and bedroom.
Idiot.
I try to take this all with a grain of salt. We're married. Til death do we part. All that BS.
Anyways, the holidays were good. We spent our time out at the lake, which was a nice change of pace. There was one rather untoward incident that had me in the bathroom a bit more than I would have liked following two home made rum and egg nogs. God. I thought I was never gonna get off the toilet. But I decided, all in all, it was all good. Some people pay good money for a good cleansing purge like that.
So now we are settling into a routine. I was watching Dateline tonight about "Orgasmic Labour", something which I have little stock in. There were these women on there, talking about- well I won't go into it. You get the gist of it, I'm sure. But I just couldn't believe it. I just think back to my labor- I mean, you couldn't GET more un-orgasmic than gripping pain, blinding contractions, burning, ripping, tearing-- I mean, you would have to be a seriously sadisctic mother F to get off on that shit. Like, I don't know. And then they had a story on surrogacy, and I became really interested. I TOTALLY want to become a surrogate now. Jackie Care- this does NOT mean you. I was thinking of like a really sexy, cool pair of gays with loads of cash and a posh flat- maybe some of those guys from Queer Eye?? I've always wanted gay friends... they're just so trendy, and their flair for drama is so endearing. I MUST have a gay friend. I shall start attending... what... Bette Middler movies??? Broadway Musicals?? Where would be a good place to start?
Oh, ya, and I got a new printer--- Sorry, this entry doesn't flow that well- but you'll have to learn to deal, my life these days has left me a bit frazzled- trust me, if you could see me now- my look is slightly reminiscent of Gilda Radner. But anyways- Geoff, AKA the Devil, got me a printer for Christmas, and this time he didn't cheap out- it's really nice- Scanner, photocopier, photo printing thingy, police scanner, GPS device. Well, OK, not the last two. But it is nice. So I have been spending a lot of time down in my basement (which is basically totally torn apart right now, by the way- work is going slowly) printing off query letters and stuff like that. There are 5 agents left in Canada to try regarding my novel, Having Grace. I am planning on sending my stuff off to them sooner rather than later in a mass, last ditch effort to actually move forward with this writing thang I have going on. My short story is not coming along so well at this point- I just need to find out from which angle to approach it from. Anyways, there is nothing so wonderful as mailing out a fresh query letter. The hope is high then. It gets less and less day by day, until you eventually realize that they're not going to respond, or you recieve your newest rejection letter. Anyways, right now the excitement is high. I am hopeful that one of these agents will be THE one.
I have to believe that it will happen eventually... otherwise, what do I have to look forward to??
Laundry, four kids, black mold in the basement, unemployed... the list goes on.
Oddly, I am not unhappy though.
Just a little bit loco.
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