New Year's Resolutions

..oh boy, here we go...

My New Year's Resolutions are:

1. Get around to using that expensive cream bleach I bought for my "nice" 'stache.

Ugh. Already feeling overwhelmed.

Saddam Hussein is Dead, and I Don't Feel So Good Myself

...and the bloated blogger should NOT be posting right now, because she is in a very cranky mood. She blames the eggnog, and also, her female brain, which, according to the book she got for Christmas, The Female Brain, causes her to get a little cranky sometimes....

(...so what's Mr. IQ's excuse??....)

The problem with my shallow obsessions is that they are always very, very short-lived.

I have come to recognize the symptoms, or symptom as it were: I will suddenly notice something is awful, and frantically, obsessively try to make it perfect. Last October, it was, for whatever reason, this horrible house I live in. Every scuff, every torn section of linoleum, every damn thing that looked worn (i.e., basically the whole house) made my brain frantic. I obsessively cleaned and worried and despaired over this stupid styhole we call home. I calculated how much it would cost to put in tile and new kitchen cupboards and then fell into a quasi-depression over the fact that we could never afford to do it. To comfort myself, I bought an expensive, arty floor lamp, which we also couldn't afford, and put it in our decrepit TV room, where its soft, sophisticated lighting cleverly highlighted the crumbling paint on our walls, the stained carpet and the primitive crate furniture we have in there.

Then, just as quickly as it came, it left. The house collapsed into total ruin within seven minutes of "its" departure, and I reverted back to my slobby normal self, storing my daughter's underwear on bookcase shelves and wasting hours of my life looking for things lost in the crud.
In other words: Setback city, dude. This place looked worse after I was through, and keep in mind, I was miserable while it was happening.

So what's the point?

Last week, I felt the obsession mania creep up on me again, only this time, I wasn't focusing on my house. No, there was something much more urgent that needed attending to: Me.

I'm not sure what started it. Perhaps it was my four-year-old complimenting me on my nice moustache. Maybe it was catching a glimpse of myself in a mall mirror and recoiling in horror at the tired old hag staring back at me in her stale, second-hand clothes. Maybe it was my hair: Let's face it, it always comes down to the hair, doesn't it? Whatever it was, I knew this: Old Girl Whippersnap needed working on.

When the urge to do the make-over thing strikes (approximately once every year and a half) it means I have to subject myself to the two things I hate most: Hairdressers and clothes shops. But I did it. Highlights. New pants. Earrings. This lip thing I bought at The Body Shop that scrapes dead lip skin off. (What the hell??) Moustache bleach. Everything. And, unlike the house, I actually managed to get it all together to a point where I thought, "OK, now all I have to do is maintain status quo." And then the baby puked all over my new pants, and I lost one of the earrings, and, worst of all, I had to wash my hair and destroy the 45 minute hair ironing process my hairdresser had worked so painstakingly over. And now I look exactly the same as I did before, except my roots don't show anymore. Oh, and I gueeeees my lips are a little less scaly. (What the HELL??) Big freaking deal.

I'm not exactly sure where exactly I'm going with this. While I do consider myself to be suffering from some minor form of mental illness when these obsessions come over me, I must confess a small part of me rues the fact that I can't always be like this. I'm very jealous of people who have everything together all the time.

(Then again, it's very expensive. I won't even tell you how much my lip sander cost.)

(WHAT THE HELL possessed me???!!!!)


P.S.: They interrupted regular programming on CBC radio while I was writing this to tell us Saddam Hussein had been hanged. I blame all the rich food I've been eating this week for wreaking havoc with my system, because when they made the announcement, I burst into tears. Now what the hell is up with THAT??

So, What'cha Get, Watch'cha Get??!!

...ugh, this year at the House of Whippersnap, the festive spirit came drenched in rich, creamery butter...

I don't know how other people react to their Christmas presents, but here in this family, how loud an exclamation you make is inversely proportional to how happy you actually are about what you get. In other words, if you hear someone in the corner ecstatically freaking out about the great pair of socks he just received, you know it's all just a big cover-up for his real feelings and he's actually rather wistful that the soft, mushy package did not miraculously end up being a 1 litre bottle of Jack Daniels.

My memory is a little foggy, and I'm not entirely sure whose shrieks of joy were louder two years ago when That Guy and I unwrapped the gift from his dad and step-mom and found the Deluxe 18 Quart Turkey Roaster. I think, in retrospect, probably his were louder... I mean, I was "happy", don't you doubt it for a second, but him? He was "totally overjoyed." He even managed to say something inane like "wow, just what I always wanted," in a voice so concentrated on trying to sound sincere it brought tears to the eyes, it really did. His words "always wanted" sounded so earnest in fact, that I've always wondered if, when they heard them, his parents' minds flashed back to his rebellious teenage angst years and thought, "he... he wanted a Turkey Roaster back then? Gee, if only we'd known..."

Needless to say, for the last two years, said Turkey Roaster has sat in its box unopened and lost in that scary, chaotic lair we call our basement. Then, yesterday afternoon, around 2:30 p.m., we did a (pretty exhausting and exasperating) excavation and dug it up.

"You figure out how to work the thing and I'll stuff the turkey," I told Mr. IQ, and got to work immediately. I unwrapped the bird, pulled out all the gibletty things and tossed them into the sink where they landed with a resounding clunk. "Weird," I thought, and, with great difficulty, wrenched the poor bird into a most indelicate position to commence stuffing procedure. I wasn't terribly successful with this, and managed to get only about three teaspoons in. Discouraged, I wandered into the living room, where Mr. IQ was sitting with furrowed brow, staring at the directions.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"It says you should run the thing empty the first time to (do something or another, blah blah blah, I always tune out when it comes to technical things.)"

"Well, we don't really have time to do that," I said, "I'll just give it a good scrub with soap and water, and that will be good enough, don't you think?"

"I guess...I don't know....sure..."

"By the way, this bird has got the smallest insides ever. I can hardly get any stuffing into it at all."

"Really?" he asked, perking up immediately. Always up for a challenge, he headed for the kitchen and came back nanoseconds later.

"It's totally frozen!!"

"No it isn't!" I said, instinctively hiding my frost-bitten hands behind my back. I mean, it truly had not occurred to me before that the damn thing was still frozen, but the second he said this everything suddenly made sense. The thunking giblets. The stubborn thighs. Crap, the freaking, bloody turkey was still frozen!!

A tense and heated discussion followed, and then suddenly something changed on the face of Mr. IQ. The brow smoothed. A calm look of cool determination came over him. What can I say? The realization that 21st Century Man dealing with a frozen turkey at three o'clock on Christmas afternoon is the modern equivalent of Stone Age Man hunting the Wild Wildebeest had dawned on him.

"I'll deal with this," he muttered, and disappeared back into the basement with the turkey. And returned about three minutes later with a miraculously defrosted bird.

"What did you do?" I asked, genuinely impressed. (Oooooh, he can defrost a turkey in SECONDS, he IS an Alpha Male after all!)

"Heat gun," he said, wiping the sweat off his face.

So the turkey went into roaster right on schedule, and all was good. The Christmas tree was beautiful. My children's laughter was beautiful. The sound of the beautiful Christmas music was beautiful. The smell of the gently roasting young turkey was... was.... (sniff, sniff)... um, Mr. IQ? What's up with the, uh, burning chemical smell?

That Guy investigated, then re-read the manual. "Oh," he said, "you're supposed to run it empty the first time to burn off something something blah blah toxic residue blah blah blah."

Oh.

Whoopsie.

"What's that weird smell, mom?" High Intensity asked at one point during the afternoon.

"Dinner," I said grimly, and the look on my face told her she shouldn't ask any more questions.

But I'm happy to say, despite the smell, the turkey ended up tasting just fine. Our insides are probably coated with some kind of carcinogenic rat poison now, but it was Christmas day, so who cares? We ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate and ate. High Intensity wandered off at some point and passed out in the TV room. The rest of us continued to eat.

After we'd eaten, we ate a little more, and then retired to the living room with some light snacks. I sat on one sofa eagerly reading one of the books I had bought Mr. IQ, and he sat companionably on the other couch reading a book he had given me. We had a bit of squabble over the music-- I wanted to play the C.D. I'd given HIM, and he wanted to play one he'd given ME, but we compromised and played a Corny Christmas Album instead.

My mother-in-law sat over in the corner pretending she wasn't passing gas into the cushions of the overstuffed chair every two minutes and, in the true spirit of Christmas, we pretended we weren't noticing.

In other words, a truly wonderful Christmas was had by all!

Love to you all, and Merry Christmas!

Some Instructions

HUZZAH, IT'S WORKING AGAIN!!!!!!!!!!!!

**ahem**

Due to technical difficulties beyond my control, my blog has been totally uncooperative with me over the last week. This has not stopped me, however, from writing drafts, which I have finally been able to post. (I hate computers.) If you want to read them in the right order (it will make more sense if you do, trust me) scroll down until you hit the AAAAARRRRGGGGHHHHH post.

There are four in total.


*sob* I've missed you guys.

Gee, Let's Just Start ANOTHER Draft,That Sounds Like a Good Idea....

Another bad thing about not being able to post is that you have a hard time looking at other people's blogs. Because you get jealous.

Things are still pretty tense around here, but we bonded a bit yesterday as we did some late-night Wal-Mart shopping. I know, I know, I've seen the documentary, and I read Nickel and Dimed too, and I swear to you, I haven't been in a Wal-Mart for at least five years, but when someone gives you a $40 gift card for the place, I'm sorry, you're not going to take it and throw it away.

Truth be told, I was kind of excited to go. For sanity's sake, we all had to get out of the house last night anyway (as I said, the little horrors aren't sleeping these days) so we decided to use the gift card to buy H.I. a dress for her Christmas concert next week. After about five minutes in the store, That Guy wandered over and whispered in my ear, "is it just me, or are we the only ones in this place that aren't drunk?" And it was true, everyone we bumped into (and there were many because the place was totally crowded) had boozy breath. It was kind of like being in a seedy downtown bar, with lots of loaded, young people about, getting down to cheezy, canned Christmas music. Quite the atmosphere, and, in retrospect, probably the closest we'll get to a Christmas party this year.

Boo hoo hoo.

I'm still sulking over my blog. "Calm down," he said this morning, "it's not like I gave you herpes or impregnated my secretary or anything like that." (**see below)

"You don't even HAVE a stupid secretary!"

"Oh yeah," he said. Wistfully.


**Which of course begs the question: Has he been reading my blog drafts? Or been visiting the I Hate My Spouse Website like me? (And, more importantly: Do I want to know?)

Catastrophe

OK, I am officially off-the-charts upset now. My blog is not publishing. The person who messed it all up has exams, so has no time to fix it (even though he somehow managed to find the time to destroy it all, hmmmmmm... ) To deal with the stress I have broken into the Christmas chocolate, which is an indication that something is very wrong indeed, because I am not really a stress eater, nor am I much of a chocolate eater. However, in the last day, I have managed to consume a Kinder Egg, a Lindt Santa, a chocolate letter M and an entire box of Pot of Gold Truffles (except for the orange ones, yuck.) I cannot stress enough how uncharacteristic this is of me. My blog. My blog. What am I going to do?? I feel like my house has burned down. Really. I would try and fix it myself, but we suspect it involves going into the Html, because that's what he enthusiastically dove into to "fix everything up," and just seeing all that crap in code makes my head hurt. I'm a lover, not a computer lover!! And I have no clue where to start. And since it was the Genius Word Warrior himself who wrecked everything, it makes sense that he would have more of an idea of how to repair it.

I really cannot believe how upset I am over this. It's just a blog for crying out loud, I didn't even know what blogs were three months ago. On the good side, I stopped in at the "I Hate My Spouse Website" which basically is a place where you can vent about what a jerk your wife/husband is, and that has certainly helped put things into perspective. I mean, he hasn't given me herpes or impregnated his secretary or anything like that. A petulant little message saying, "the bastard ruined my blog " would most definitely have looked a little out of place there.

I am still totally crushed however.

LATER: Just to throw salt on my wounds, both Baby Fangs AND High Intensity have stopped sleeping. There is another %#&%&*#!!! mouse loose in the house, which, at this point, is making me want to move, AND I've just discovered something even worse than a hangover: a chocolate hangover. It's funny, I didn't even feel full yesterday, let alone sick, and now I'm aching like I've got the stomach flu. Baaaaaaaarf.

AND the Christmas tree keeps falling over.

I have to say, I'm not feeling very festive.

It's -5 C, Yet Everything's Melting

...I know, I know, emphasize the fun in dysfunctional, and if life gives you AIDS, make lemonaids... but sometimes it's just not that easy...

Don't even talk to me about my stupid Pandora music selection of the day, trying to highlight that damn site was apparently what caused all the trouble in the first place!!

Dysfunctional families all have a tradition of staging an Annual Christmas Meltdown of some form or another, and because mine is certainly no exception, last year, things fell apart between my parents and me. I will spare you the details, but I can assure you it was 100 --no, 200% THEIR fault. I know you don't believe me, so I will offer up some proof. For the last ten years, we have, under the tacit agreement that Christmas is pretty commercial, given each other the following presents:

1. A book.
2. A C.D.
3. And that's it.

But last year, because they felt guilty for being responsible for the Annual Christmas Meltdown, I got:

1. TWO books
2. TWO C.D.s
3. Booze

We're lucky in my family, the meltdown usually happens a week or two before the Big Day, enough time to sort things out and enjoy the turkey. It's like make up sex, only better, it's make up Christmas, with gifts. And my dad and brother are there. EW, EW, EW, change the subject.

Pleased that I've managed to get through a good chunk of December without things falling apart yet, I went over to my parents on Thursday to help them put up the tree. My dad, who has been on the hip replacement waiting list for approximately 8000 years, limped in and out of the house setting the thing up, cursing under his breath and denouncing the Germans for foisting their yuletide flora traditions upon the whole non-Teutonic world. "Never mind the war," he said at one point, "it's this damn tree business they should really feel guilty about!"

And keep in mind, he spent a good part of his formative years living in a Nazi-occupied country.

While he grumbled about the tree, I struggled with my own difficulties. Breastfeeding lately has become nip-rippingly awful, if you know what I mean. Since Baby Fangs McGuire there sprouted her two upper teeth, she's been chomping down on me like I'm a tasty slice of festive ham. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, and I can't get her to stop. One good thing about old High Intensity, she bit me once, I screamed like a wolf in heat once, and that was that. But Baby Fangs just doesn't get it. While I sob and clutch my nipple protectively she just stares up at me angelically with those killer blue eyes of hers, smiling her sweet, innocent baby smile and cooing adorably. The little bitch.

Meanwhile, my mom wasn't having too great of a time either, because H.I. had conned her into doing crafts for the tree, and if there is one thing my mom hates, it's making crafts. So in other words, we were all pretty miserable, except for the two kids, and they don't count. However, we made it through the afternoon without any actual fights, and when I left, although they were glad to see me go, and I, myself, was very pleased to be going, affectionate and pleasant good-byes were exchanged more or less sincerely.

And then I got home.

And checked my blog.

Which had been destroyed. By that (***censored***) (***more censoring***) (***ooh boy, you definitely don't want to see that***) who, while taking a break from his paper writing took it upon himself to "fix a few things up."

In retrospect, I cannot believe how much the sight of my desecrated blog made me want to weep. It was like looking at a much loved landscape that had been left to ruin and rot by a raping and ransacking army. Wow, what a sentence. I wonder if Lord Byron ever ran into alliteration problems when he was waxing rage and melancholy? Probably not, the articulate bastard. I hate him.

So anyway, I don't think I really have to tell you that my feelings towards Mr. IQ Not-as-High-As-He-likes-to-Think -It-Is-Especially-in-the-Field-of -Computers have been less than amorous since he did his damage. And I think that "Destroying a Person's Blog" is indeed grounds for divorce. In total despair, I sent out the AAAARRRRRRGGGGGHHHHH post--- and then everything REALLY got bad. Because the damn thing wouldn't let me post. I tried, easily fifty times, and the dashboard said it was published, but when I went to my site, it wasn't there. As I type this, it is 12:30 am, Saturday night/Sunday morning and while the paragraph/italics thing has cleared up, I still am unable to post. Perhaps this, too, will never get out there. I'm going crazy. What did he do??? Why did he do it? I never asked him to "improve" anything. Let's not mince words here: I'm MAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAD.

So this year's Annual Christmas Meltdown has not involved the Aged P's, but instead, That Guy, a first in our lives together, and honestly, until the posting thing clears up, things will remain tense around here. I guess I shouldn't be so honest, and perhaps I should just take a pill and put things into perspective, but the reality is that when you've lived with someone for a long time, and a petty thing like the way a wine glass is held irritates you on a bad day, plunging uninvited into somebody's blog and screwing everything up is gonna cause some problems in a relationship. It just is.

P.S.: It's now Sunday afternoon, and I still can't get anything posted. Freaking out majorly now, really.

AURGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHGHHH!

...the road to hell is paved with good intentions....

Argh!! Argh!! Argh!! In the process of "improving " my blog, Mr. IQ .00000000000000002 has destroyed everything!! The paragraphs are all gone! And everything is in italics!! Honestly, I feel like a child of mine has been disfigured! Can't chat for long, I've gotta go and try to undo all the damage, he wants to do it himself, but, so help me, he is never coming near this thing again!!

Grrrrrr, so this is how the residents of Dresden felt after the Allies bombed them back to the stoneage during WWII...

LATER: And now the damn thing won't post!! What's going on, what did he do, what did he do???

And Yet Another Post Posted to Get Rid of the Post I Posted to Get Rid of the Other Post. Hmmmmm. This is Getting Complicated.

...and now for something completely different....

Mr. Iq (that's pronounced "ick", in case you were wondering) took an actual I.Q. test yesterday on-line, perhaps inspired by this blog, and the fun I've been having at his (very good-natured) expense. I'll spare you the numerical findings of it all, but the written analysis of his intelligence described him as a "word warrior." So now he goes around, beating his chest with his fists Tarzan style and chanting, "IIIII AAAAMMMM AAAA WOOOOOORD WARRRIOOOOOOOOOOR!!!" Frankly, it's getting on my nerves, and I wish he'd stop it.

Incidently, he says he does NOT have a crush on Doctormama. He says he has a crush on me. Awwwwwww, isn't that sweet. (PUKE.)

I have a feeling he's just buttering me up for the Christmas gift-giving season. He doesn't have to worry, I already have purchased some reallly great presents for him (STOP READING THIS NOW, ICK), including this malleable rubber toy that I picked up at the thrift store yesterday for a nickel. When you squeeze it, all these gross looking eyeballs press up against the clear rubbery membrane, it's really neat. Ah, Christmas. It brings out the romantic in me, it really does.

Bye again!

Just a Quick Post to get Yesterday's Post off the top of the Page

...and the unhappy blogger was NOT served coffee in bed this morning. All good things must pass...

Pandora Music Selection of the Day: Camera Obscura Radio (And if you don't know what to get that special someone in your life for Christmas, and they like music, I HIGHLY recommend their latest CD. I got it for my birthday and played it continuously for about three months.) (It's swell.)

I cannot believe I went on about how depressed I was about that prostitute (and I really, really was, believe me, no matter how glib I may have sounded) and then skipped over to "yay, I'm getting coffee in bed these days!!" without skipping a beat. This blog is serving lots of purposes in my life right now, but I never thought it would stand as a true testament to my fickle and shallow nature FOR THE WHOLE DAMN WORLD TO SEE AND BE APPALLED AT. Totally crumbed out at myself now. You see, I am a MORNING person, and the sunny bits of fluff, i.e. all the post scripts, were written just after I'd woken up (and been served coffee in bed.) It was a NEW DAY, and garsh, did I feel terrific. Whereas, when I wrote the first part, it was late, I was cranky, and sad, pretty, drug-addicted prostitute was working FIVE BLOCKS AWAY FROM MY HOME as I typed. My mood tends to take a dive as the day wears on, I don't know, maybe I should drink more coffee.

Just call me Little Miss Non Sequitur. (Ooooooh, now THAT'S a good blog name!)

I'm in a panic as I type this, because That Guy is writing a final exam right now, and when he gets home he's gonna totally usurp the computer for the next week or so because he has papers to write. He has no sympathy for me whatsoever when I whine about my blog addiction, which I find incredibly insensitive. And yet, he's addicted too. Oh yeah, he won't admit it, but I've seen him sneaking in on the sly, catching up on what Heather is up to and what's going on in the world of Flotsam. And I think he has a crush on Doctormama, I really do. She looks like a babe from her pictures.

Hey, before I go, I have a question: Are other families going through a box of Christmas oranges every two days? Is this normal? Just wondering.

Your buddy,

Whippersnapper (You can call me Whip)

It's Christmas Time in the City

...and our blogger got depressed today. Christmas can be really depressing, you know?...

No Music. I'm Too Bloody Depressed.

Another daily stroll, only this time we go EAST, not west. The westerly walk we usually take leads us to Superstore, and I am mad at Superstore, for reasons discussed last week. Eventually, yeah, we're gonna have to return there, because, other than the Filipino grocery store that charges $3.99 for a can of tuna, it is the only place we can go within walking distance that sells food. But today... today I'm still mad at them, so we go east.

The west trek is, from a scenic point of view, a pretty dull walk. Cement pavement, lots of traffic, not many shops. Boring, but at the end lies the thrift store and the 1 sq km Superstore, so we do that walk a lot. Going east, although there's nothing really big at the end to walk towards, is much more interesting. There are bargain stores. There are bakeries. There are Portuguese restaurants and tattoo parlours. And there are prostitutes.

Now, walking past prostitutes is probably never easy, but the problems are compounded when you are trucking along two small children. I don't know how the average gal does it, but basically when I walk by my mind is doing acrobats. Do I make eye contact, don't I make contact, do I make eye contact, don't I make eye contact, oh crap, she's looking this way, don't make eye contact, oh jeez, too late, smile you jerk, smile!! And I brace myself, look her in the eyes and give the stupidest, fakest smile you can imagine. Then, feeling like the biggest dork in the world, I shove the stroller and drag the kid by thinking, gee... I wonder if she thinks I'm square?...

Today we walked by no less than three of these gals and each time it was horrible. The first two were really tough looking, and they seemed to know what they were doing. I used to work at a Salvation Army homeless shelter, and I've spent a lot of time talking to prostitutes, and believe me, I know, they don't all hate what they do. The third one, though, was different. It was pretty obvious she was strung out on drugs, she was kind of muttering to herself, and walking back and forth at a pretty frenetic pace. We got past her, and I was contemplating the logistics of rushing out, selling our home and giving her all our money when old High Intensity piped up and said, "She's pretty, mommy." And she was, she really was. Which made the whole thing all that much more crappy. Honestly, I don't think she could have said anything that would have made me feel any sadder, ugh, something about the way the snow was so dirty and slushy and it being so close to Christmas, and oh, H.I. was eating a cookie I had just bought from the bakery and really, is there anything more innocent than being four and eating a big cookie on the street with your mittens on? It's like someone said, OK, let's stage a scene which shows everything good and everything crappy all at once, in one shot. Someone should have taken a picture. I mean, really, what a great Christmas card that would make. "Christmas Time in the City." Wheeee. Ain't life grand?

P.S.: I just read this over, and I sound like Holden Freaking Caulfield. Too many "crappies." Blah. Just call me J.D. Whippersnapper.

P.P.S.: This is the next morning, and I'm going to totally change the subject to leave on a positive note/shock you with my shallowness: Mr. I.Q. Fifty Million has brought me coffee in bed TWO DAYS IN A ROW!! Gotta totally make note of my Christmas gift wish on this blog.

P.P.P.S.: I know. Talk about a total 180.

Headbanger, anyone?

...ooooh, three days later and this girl STILL has the caffeine shakes....

Pandora Music Selection of the Day: Twisted Sister Radio!

Rituals, they say, especially at Christmas time, are important for families, serving to strengthen bonds and create that warm fuzzy feeling so important at this time of year. Lucky for this family, I have a ritual that I perform, not just during the yuletide season, but all the fun-filled year round. It goes something like this:

1. Wake up. Wish I had a coffee.
2. Lie in bed in semi-comatose state and wish someone would bring me a coffee.
3. Lie in bed and try to radiate feelings of goodwill towards someone, anyone, anywhere, who will feel my love, realize how swell I am, and bring me a coffee.
3. Lie in bed and hate everyone who ever existed in the history of this planet, especially those who are currently enjoying coffee and not bringing me any.
4. Stagger out of bed.
5. Make coffee.
6. Drink it.

On Friday, as I staggered into the kitchen for my morning ritual, I noticed that Mr. IQ 3.000 was not only awake, but hunched over the computer and looking like he hadn't gotten any sleep the night before. And as it turned out, he hadn't. He had a paper due that day, and had been up all night writing it. Normally I am sympathetic towards that kind of thing, but, you know, I hadn't had my coffee yet, so I just made some grunt-like sound which, after so many years of living together he should be able to interpret as "oh honey, up all night!! That really sucks, let me bring you a nice warm caffeinated beverage and hopefully that will make you feel better!" and headed for the coffee pot. One can be sympathetic without being verbally articulate, especially at 6:30 in the morning.

I went to the kitchen counter and was generously getting together not one, but two cups of coffee when Mr. IQ 3.000 walked in and said, in a very amused, very superior tone, "you're a MIF!"

"...I'm... a...wa-haaa?"

"A MIF. A middle-class pleb who puts their Milk In First."

Now, everybody judges people for some reasons, whether they like it or not. Some people are really terrible, and judge people for ridiculous, terrible things. Others are more quirky in their judgments. The fact is, you can't leave your house without subjecting yourself to the harsh criticisms of the world. As a teenager, this knowledge is crushing, and almost kills you. By the time you reach your thirties though, you think you're over worrying about what other people think of you. However, I never, ever expected to be judged on the basis of how I prepare my stupid coffee!

"That's ridiculous," I said. "Where'd you hear about that, anyway?"

"Martin Amis," he said.

"Martin Amis??!" I whimpered. I love Martin Amis. Ever read Night Train? It's great.

"Yup."

I was crushed, but I mustered my forces. "Yeah, well, Martin Amis is a big fat snob!!" I said, (lamely.)

"Yeah, well, obviously. Duh." And with that, the conversation was over, and he left the room.

Except the conversation was not over. I kind of worried about it all day. Which explains what happened when I met my mom downtown at the library. Now my mom, bless her heart, is not a racist bigot. She is not a snob. She is not an elitist. She does, however judge people on the coffee they drink. Weak coffee drinkers are, in her eyes, a little... well, you'd have to ask her exactly what her thoughts are, but she does, I know, think a little less of them. Even for me, her first-born child and only daughter, the sole genetic transmitter of her mitochondrial DNA, she carries a certain amount of disrespect for because I add milk to my java. She believes it should be drunk hot, black and strong strong, sprout hair on your taste buds strong and any way else is just not right. I like coffee strong too, but I'm a lukewarm girl, ya know, I need some milk in there to soften the blow a bit. I DO like it strong though. That is my saving grace.

Anyway, I met her in the library and an hour or so of hanging around with old High Intensity in a place where you're supposed to be quiet left us both with a pretty desperate need for a caffeine boost. Accordingly, I set off for the coffee place nearby. (I can't believe they let people drink coffee in the big downtown library! How civilized this world is becoming!) Just as I was leaving, my mom said, with a gleam in her eye, "and make mine a 'headbanger', OK? A double shot."

"Righhhht," I said, pretending to know what she was asking for. When I got to the coffee place I scanned the board for the word "headbanger" but didn't see it, so when it was my turn to order I said, no doubt sounding like an 8-year old idiot child, "my mom? Wants a headbanger? A double shot?"

"Okee dokee," the lady said, "and when your mom is flying off the wall an hour from now, it's gonna be all your fault."

"It usually is," I said grimly, and then, because of course I had to know, added, "what the heck IS a headbanger, anyway?"

"A shot of espresso," she said, and, although I know it was just my paranoid senses working overtime, it seemed to be that she was mocking me a little. There's no way YOU could handle a headbanger, let alone a double shot you wussy MIFer you, she seemed to be saying. So of course I recklessly shot out, "um, make it TWO double shot headbangers!"

Glahhhh. Do I need to tell you what happened next? We both drank our huge, double shot espresso heroin coffee hell drinks. Our words got high pitched and erratic, our movements got shaky, and our conversation deteriorated to complaints about our palpitating hearts and sweating skin. We said good-bye and I headed home. Five hours later I still had the shakes and when That Guy returned home, I told him what had happened, and vowed I was never drinking coffee again.

"Sure," he said, "say, what's going on with the baby?"

I looked over. Her feet were pounding the pedals of an imaginary bicycle at a rate of eight thousand times a minute. She pedaled frantically 5,897,345 times in a row in a manner similar to that of a coke crazed hamster that gets into one of those wheels and runs until it dies. Then she lay on her back staring at me unhappily with glazed eyeballs the size of freaking honeydew melons, panting heavily.

Then she passed out.

Whoopsie, forgot about how that there caffeine has an inconvenient habit of wandering over to the breast milk area.

Oh guilty fever. Thy name is Mother.

P.S. No, I didn't give up coffee.

I AM NOT WHITE TRASH!!!

...and our tres well-bred blogger apologizes in advance for using the word "prickhole" in the first paragraph of today's posting...

Pandora Music Selection of the Day: White Trash Beautiful Radio!

Yeah, I saw you today, driving your $75,000 SUVs at 100 km/hr as I struggled to push my ten-year old stroller down the sidewalk on snow encrusted pavement. I saw you smugly whiz by as I battled with the -20 C temperatures and -30 C wind chills and a screaming child with icicles hanging out her nose. You think you're so superior? Huh? Huh? Well let me tell you, Mr. Prickhole Moneybags: I am NOT white trash!!

It is true that we looked a little worse for wear today as we struggled along on our daily sojourn to the thrift shop. Did I say thrift shop? I meant, um, Frankie's House of Diamonds. And yes, I know I was wearing a pair of woolen socks on my hands instead of gloves. I couldn't find them, OK, my mittens have just vanished. NOT because this place has exploded into a rotting, disorganized sty. NEVER! It's... it's just these servants these days! Anything not nailed down, they steal! And the three inches of roots cropping out of the top of my head? Hey, baby, undyed roots are the new rock and roll, don't you know that? Get with the trends, buddy. Even Madonna's been photographed with them.

Huh? What was that? Why was I out on the street in weather like that? To get exercise, duh! My fitness room is currently being remodeled!

You may have noticed my eldest daughter over there in the corner stuffing her face with dirty, exhaust-coated snow and, alternately, feasting on the contents of her nostrils. She does this not, as I know you believe, because she lives on canned Alphagetti and Kraft Dinner and is craving those essential vitamins and minerals missing from her daily diet. No, she does this for more mysterious and complex gastrointestinal reasons that her father and I have yet to figure out. We've signed her up for wine-tasting classes next week. Really.

What's that? You still don't believe me? Well, come a little closer to the screen and lemme tell you a little secret. A little closer.....that's right, more close....*WHAM!!!!*

There. That'll help change your mind.

Another embarrassing moment

....and this blogger is getting tired of feeling embarrassed all the time...

Pandora Music Selection of the Day: Bay City Rollers Radio. (I'm embarrassed anyway, I might as well go all the way.) (Actually, it's not as bad as you might think!)

Yes, so, speaking of embarrassing moments, I had another one, for much different reasons, the other day at Superstore. I was at one of those new, self-serve check-out aisles, both kids in tow, of course, when suddenly Salesgirl Jones was there, tapping my shoulder, asking if I "minded" if she went through the carrying section of my stroller.

Mind? Mind? What did she mean, did I mind? Did I mind the implication that I might be a shoplifter? Well, yes, actually, I found the notion rather mortifying, to be honest. Did I mind if she fumbled through five pounds of disorganized garbage, some of which hasn't been removed since old H.I. was a baby, i.e. the summer of 2003? Quite horrified by the thought, actually, how thoughtful to ask! I mean, really, was there any answer I could give other than a very hearty, confident sounding, "why, no, there... you go ahead!"?? Of course not! So she went through everything (it took a while... oh, jeez, why am I such a slob????) and I'll be honest: My heart was pounding and I was sweating like a drunken Caribbean sailor. I looked as nervous as old George W. responding to a question with Very Difficult Words in it. What if old High Intensity put something in there without me knowing? What if there was something in there that LOOKED like stolen goods, but had actually been purchased on a previous visit? What if... what if... And why were they picking on ME of all people, for crying out loud??? Do I look like a thief? Do they have some sort of profile of suspicious types (haggard, unkempt, mad look of desperation in eyes) that they look for and pounce on? And if so, should I be insulted? Because I can do insulted. Oh boy, can I do insulted.

They found nothing, of course, and I left feeling, oooooh, so dirty, like I'd been strip searched. The self-serve area is very open, and there were a lot of people standing around watching, hoping, no doubt, that an incriminating jar of pickles or something would be found hidden away in the depths of my stroller and I'd be led off in handcuffs. Schadenfreudean bastards!!

(Note: The spell check is going to reject the word "Schadenfreudean." This is because I have made it up. Had I used it the other day, the word "snackage", too, would have been rejected for similar reasons. I will make up a lot of words during the course of this blog, and, may I cordially add, you are most welcome to make use of them at any time you see fit. I am doing my part, much like Shakespeare did, to help expand and develop this beautiful language of ours, and people no doubt will be thanking me for my wonderful contributions for generations to come.)

(Or not.)

See you!

Snapping.... and totally snapped.

....and being alone with two small children for too many long, extended periods has put our Ms Whippersnapper OVER THE EDGE!!....

Pandora Music Selection of the Day: Crap, Pandora doesn't do classical. I need something light and tinkly, and no I DON"T MEAN THAT TOY XYLOPHONE!! PUT IT DOWN!! PUT IT DOWN!! ARGHGGH, SOMEONE GET THAT THING AWAY FROM HER!!!!!

Okay, and another weekend alone with the kids and this girl was ready to kill something, anything, many things. So I played a little game to help me stay calm when all was crazy. They did this last year in the Globe and Mail with a certain politician's weird statements. It was genius, I can't remember if it was Donald Rumsfeld or John Ashcroft, but they took his words and rearranged them into lovely Haiku poetry! The result? Instead of knocking your head against a wall and saying "holy crap, this guy is one of the leaders of the Free World??" you smiled and mellowed out to his words! Okay, mostly you laughed. But regardless, it certainly helped make you feel better about the craziness of it all!

So this weekend, I did it with old Ms High Intensity and some of her crazy rants. And it worked!! It worked!! We got through the weekend, and I didn't kill her!! No, she's alive and well as I type!! And it was SO easy, you could do it too, and not just with the words of small, irrational children!


Examples from this weekend:

(After she'd been asked to do a 3.2 second task)

You make me work and work and work and work and work and work and
work
I am not
Cinderella, ugly
Stepmother


My game worked just swell. Calling me "ugly" is just SOOO against the rules around here! But by magically transforming her words into beautiful poetry, I didn't quite want to kill her. I mean, don't get me wrong. She spent time in her room all right. But her room is certainly no morgue! No sirree! Do I sound a little shrill? Ha ha ha, that's crazy!! Read on!!

(After having, I don't know, looked at her the wrong way, or something)

Scream scream scream
scream scream scream
scream
Hey, I''m hungry, make
make me a
sandwich,
now

Demanding snackage after 10 minutes of screaming is just, like, SOOOOO not on in this house! But did I run towards her in a blind fury and shove a sandwich down her throat?? No! The soothing poetry calmed me, lulled me into a gentle place and allowed me to deal with her in a MUCH more rational manner. That's right! Huh? Nervous tic? Nonsense! No! No! I'm just twitching, um, BOPPING along to the melodious sounds of that GLORIOUS xylophone music!!!

(And upon entering the bathroom recently vacated)

(*sniff *sniff*)
It smells
so weird in here
Ugh!Ugh!Ugh!
You can't come to my birthday party now,
Daddy

Heh heh heh. Actually, I wasn't really too terribly put out by the last scenario. (Sing song voice:) But somebody else was!!

Signing off from Whippersnapper land,

I am, and have,

Totally and completely,

Snapped.

P.S. This is later. Little Ms. H.I. woke me up at six in the morning today and shoved a small chunk of chocolate into my mouth. She was sharing her Christmas calendar treat with me. How many four-year-olds share chocolate without being asked? Sometimes she is just so freaking sweet I feel guilty about what I write in here. Again, I must reiterate: I absolutely adore her, I really do!! She's just a little... intense sometimes, you know??