......sewage explosion in basement + in-laws in living room = not a lot of time to blog....
Well, I don't know what the weather is like in your part of the world these days, but here in the geographical east/west center of the darkest pits of Canada it has been nothing but rain rain rain for days and days on end. It's so stinking horrible and, I'll be honest here, it has made me crankier than a prettily-frocked bride knee-deep in cow dung. Listen up, Weather Gods, I don't care if we're the stupid breadbasket of the world and the crops shrivel up and dry, as far as I'm concerned everyone can do Atkins next year and carb-starve, just BRING ON THE BLOODY DROUGHT ALREADY!!! NOW!! NOW!! NOW!!!
ha ha.
I would apologize for my foul temper, but most of you who read this are from the same wet and dreary locale as me and will, I know, sympathize. When things are damp and gloomy outside, things become damp and gloomy inside too, and you basically go around wanting to kill everyone. This becomes especially true on buses, especially inner-city buses traveling downtown. Dripping wet, mentally ill men steam up the windows, fart and tell the same stupid jokes that, like mosquitoes, always pop up after a long period of endless rain.
Mentally ill man: (Loudly, after 5 minutes of muttered obscenities): Heh heh. What do Winnipeg and Cher have in common then? Heh? Heh?
All other passengers, including other mentally ill ones: (Unspoken, but because of the collective nature of the plea, pretty audible nonetheless) Oh God, please don't make him look at me, please don't make him look at me.....
Mentally ill man: THEY'RE BOTH NOT FUCKING SUNNY!!!! (Wheezily laughs for the rest of the bus ride.)
All other passengers, perhaps especially the other mentally ill ones: (No words. Wistful looks out of window at independent, single passenger car owners.)
But the worse part about continuous rain is not the damp bus rides spent sitting under moist armpits and cursing your maker for giving you olfactory nerves. No, the worst part is when the radio stations start cranking out those damn miserable rain tunes. Yes, those ones. You know what I mean.
I've done an independent scientific review of this, and I've determined it takes exactly three days of wet weather for those clever DJs to start rolling 'em out onto the airwaves. It's always the same ones. Karen Carpenter curled up in the closet, sawing at her wrist with a sharp- edged, heavily caloric cheese curl, miserably confessing that rainy days and Mondays always get her down; Stevie Nicks warning us to prepare for the worst and stock up on toilet paper because it's raining and that's when all the thunder happens; Annie Lennox and her smooth alto telling us coolly that the rain is coming again and that it's "tearing through her head like a new emotion." I'm wondering if that's kind of like being torn a new asshole: Painful, yet somehow character building. (Annie Lennox seems tough, with a strong and sure personality, so I think the answer to that is "yes.")
The songs that really piss me off the most though are the cheery ones, the Singing in the Rain false optimism tunes that just make me want to go and kick someone in the soggy nuts. The Supertramp Rain Song drives me around the bend, and not just because I've heard it at least 4,876, 756 more times than has been deemed healthy by the World Health Organization. I mean, have you listened to the lyrics? No? I'll give you the two best lines and rest my case:
"Come on you little fighter! No need to get uptighter!"
Uptighter?
One song they never play is BJ Thomas's "Raindrops are Falling on my Head." Even Winnipeg DJs are too cool for that. The song has been running through my mind a lot this week though because, darn it, I just can't help being the cheerful, happy-go-lucky optimist that I am. Despite all the crap that has happened around here lately, I find myself smiling all the time and I JUST CAN'T STOP. It's so weird.
Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
And just like the guy whose feet are too big for his bed
Nothin' seems to fit
Those
Raindrops keep fallin' on my head they keep fallin'
Last Thursday, it was the contents of our basement pipes that got too big for their bed. As a result, piles and piles of steaming poo burst forth in a big, melodramatic Shakespearean swoon all over our lower level floor. It was so horrible, I thought I was going to die.
So I just did me some talking to the sun
And I said I didn't like the way he got things done
Sleeping on the job
Those
Raindrops keep fallin' on my head they keep fallin'
The house smelled like a big stinky poo barn, and I was beside myself with unhappiness. The cold crappy weather just intensified the situation. Basically we had two choices:
1. Turn off the heat, open all the windows to air out the smell and freeze to death.
2. Keep the heat on with the windows closed and asphyxiate on the poo fumes.
It's times like these when one must be thankful for the little things in life, like a big strong male who can take control of everything. I stared at Mr. IQ's unsuspecting back fondly, and then, placing my arm firmly on his shoulder, said, "I'm going to leave all this in your competent hands darling." Then I packed up the kids, grabbed our toothbrushes and headed off to my parents for the night. "See you," were my parting words, "call me when everything is under control."
But there's one thing I know
The blues they send to meet me won't defeat me
When I got to my parents, there was already a message from Mr. IQ lying on the counter. "This is so gross, I'm dying," it said. I phoned back immediately.
"Look, you're not dying," I said. Then I hung up and sank down with a comfortable sigh on the couch with my book.
It won't be long 'til happiness steps up to greet me
Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turning red
Cryin's not for me
Mr. IQ spent the night shoveling shit. The next morning as the kids and I were eating bacon, eggs and warm cinnamon buns, he went out and purchased eight bottles of bleach to disinfect the floors. As he told the story later, he had gotten his second wind and was feeling pretty motivated. Bleach in hand, he charged down to the basement, dumped a bunch of it on the floor and immediately found himself overwhelmed by the fumes. Staggering upstairs, he managed to find the phone and gave me another ring.
"I just about died!" he said.
"Nyats oo wad," I said, my mouth full of bacon. (I was trying to say "that's too bad.")
"DIED!"
"Well, calm down, you seem pretty alive now," I said clearly, having swallowed my bacon.
"I HATE THIS!!"
Cryin's not for me 'cause
I'm never going to stop the rain by complaining
Because I'm free
Nothin's worryin' me
It was pretty obvious I was going to have to be a little more encouraging, if for no other reason than because my breakfast was getting cold.
"Uh, come on, you little fighter," I said, "no need to get uptighter!"
[Musical trumpet interlude]
Mr. IQ hung up the phone.
It won't be long 'til happiness steps up to greet me
I finished my book while my lovely parents looked after the kids. It was rainy out, sure, but all in all, it wasn't that bad a day.
Raindrops keep fallin' on my head
But that doesn't mean my eyes will soon be turnin' red
Cryin's not for me
'Cause I'm never going to stop the rain by complainin'
Because I'm free
Nothin's worrying me
Ah life! It's not that bad, even with the rain.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Thursday, May 24, 2007
Bubble Bubble Bubble
...oh good, it's three in the bloody morning, everyone is finally asleep, I guess I can freaking blog now...(grrrrrrrr)...
Because we are VERY immature in this household with the collective emotional age of about 19, we own a lot of comic books. One book we have is called The Big Book of Vice, and it deals with all the good things in life, namely, drugs, alcohol and sex. In one comic, the life of Hugh Hefner, founder of Playboy, is outlined. One panel shows a drawing of him standing with his first wife and kids in a typical 1950's functional family pose. Because it is a comic, we, the readers, are privy to Hugh's innermost thoughts: As he stands there with his wife and kids, thought bubbles are popping up from his head, leading us to the cloudy-black words that are running through his mind:
"I'm miserable!"
When I first wandered my way through The Big Book of Vice, Hugh's unhappiness with the whole "happy families" charade really struck a chord with me. Now, whenever I happen to stumble upon Mr. IQ unhappily dealing with some aspect of domestic non-bliss, I say perkily, "Bubble bubble bubble!! I'm miserable!" and usually this makes him laugh, (bitterly sometimes, it's true, but bitter laughs are better than no laughs, I always say.)
But when Mama is in a crappy mood, no-one is there to cajole me out of my crankiness. When the egg on the ceiling is getting me down, or the two small demanding children in my life refuse to nap and don't pass out until well after 10 PM on a day when all I want to do is sit on a couch and read, old momburger is left to stew alone in her own sorry little crank juices. Despite many wonderful traits, like the ability to make a really good ham sandwich, Mr. IQ is not particularly gifted at reading the emotions of others. As a result... I am ashamed to admit this, but sometimes I am more than just a little sympathetic with Hugh and his need to flee the domestic scene. Some days, I too, while scraping egg yolks off the ceiling and dealing with two kids screaming in my ear, have to resist the urge to run away from it all. Taking off to establish a magazine empire, live in a large mansion and make lots and lots of money certainly sounds tempting, I must say. Unfortunately, the idea of surrounding myself with a bunch of studs dressed up as bunnies is where my interest sort of peters out. (If, God forbid, in the throes of passion I were ever to reach out to stroke a set of tawny, muscular buttocks and found myself grappling instead with a large fluffy bunny tail, frankly, I don't know what I'd do: scream and sign up for years of therapy seems one likely possibility.)
So running away Hugh Hefner style is not, sadly, an option. Luckily, there are other things one can do to deal with the occasional bout of domestic misery. When, for example, an off-the-handle High Intensity is raging once again through one of her irrational four-year-old rants, I've found that flashing a surreptitious yet soul-satisfying finger her way does wonders to lighten the tension and improve the mood. I've done it so many times now, though, that the effect is sadly no longer soothing. It's an almost involuntary response at this point, and watching my extended digit slowly rise in her direction now does nothing but make me feel vaguely like a priapic teenage boy ( a discomforting feeling I can assure you.)
I'm not the only one around here for whom old tricks are wearing thin. Yesterday I came home to find High Intensity and Mr. IQ heavily engrossed in the Pretty Fingernail Game. Object: Collect pretty fingernails on your hand. Once you have them all, you win! As I watched Mr. IQ unhappily try to move the spinner, his hand crippled with the garish, purple coloured plastic fingernails he had already collected, his unread book lying beside him, I realized it was time for me to step in.
"Bubble bubble bubble!" I said dutifully, "I'm miserable!"
Mr. IQ slowly lifted his unhappy head and stared morosely at my large, moon-like, fluffy tail-less ass. He then flashed me a not-so-surreptitious finger. Then he lowered his eyes and continued to play the game, silently, without looking at me.
I don't believe in the happy family thing. I really don't, I think even functional families can be pretty miserable sometimes.
But I have to say, all this made me giggle. And later... much later... he laughed too.
Because we are VERY immature in this household with the collective emotional age of about 19, we own a lot of comic books. One book we have is called The Big Book of Vice, and it deals with all the good things in life, namely, drugs, alcohol and sex. In one comic, the life of Hugh Hefner, founder of Playboy, is outlined. One panel shows a drawing of him standing with his first wife and kids in a typical 1950's functional family pose. Because it is a comic, we, the readers, are privy to Hugh's innermost thoughts: As he stands there with his wife and kids, thought bubbles are popping up from his head, leading us to the cloudy-black words that are running through his mind:
"I'm miserable!"
When I first wandered my way through The Big Book of Vice, Hugh's unhappiness with the whole "happy families" charade really struck a chord with me. Now, whenever I happen to stumble upon Mr. IQ unhappily dealing with some aspect of domestic non-bliss, I say perkily, "Bubble bubble bubble!! I'm miserable!" and usually this makes him laugh, (bitterly sometimes, it's true, but bitter laughs are better than no laughs, I always say.)
But when Mama is in a crappy mood, no-one is there to cajole me out of my crankiness. When the egg on the ceiling is getting me down, or the two small demanding children in my life refuse to nap and don't pass out until well after 10 PM on a day when all I want to do is sit on a couch and read, old momburger is left to stew alone in her own sorry little crank juices. Despite many wonderful traits, like the ability to make a really good ham sandwich, Mr. IQ is not particularly gifted at reading the emotions of others. As a result... I am ashamed to admit this, but sometimes I am more than just a little sympathetic with Hugh and his need to flee the domestic scene. Some days, I too, while scraping egg yolks off the ceiling and dealing with two kids screaming in my ear, have to resist the urge to run away from it all. Taking off to establish a magazine empire, live in a large mansion and make lots and lots of money certainly sounds tempting, I must say. Unfortunately, the idea of surrounding myself with a bunch of studs dressed up as bunnies is where my interest sort of peters out. (If, God forbid, in the throes of passion I were ever to reach out to stroke a set of tawny, muscular buttocks and found myself grappling instead with a large fluffy bunny tail, frankly, I don't know what I'd do: scream and sign up for years of therapy seems one likely possibility.)
So running away Hugh Hefner style is not, sadly, an option. Luckily, there are other things one can do to deal with the occasional bout of domestic misery. When, for example, an off-the-handle High Intensity is raging once again through one of her irrational four-year-old rants, I've found that flashing a surreptitious yet soul-satisfying finger her way does wonders to lighten the tension and improve the mood. I've done it so many times now, though, that the effect is sadly no longer soothing. It's an almost involuntary response at this point, and watching my extended digit slowly rise in her direction now does nothing but make me feel vaguely like a priapic teenage boy ( a discomforting feeling I can assure you.)
I'm not the only one around here for whom old tricks are wearing thin. Yesterday I came home to find High Intensity and Mr. IQ heavily engrossed in the Pretty Fingernail Game. Object: Collect pretty fingernails on your hand. Once you have them all, you win! As I watched Mr. IQ unhappily try to move the spinner, his hand crippled with the garish, purple coloured plastic fingernails he had already collected, his unread book lying beside him, I realized it was time for me to step in.
"Bubble bubble bubble!" I said dutifully, "I'm miserable!"
Mr. IQ slowly lifted his unhappy head and stared morosely at my large, moon-like, fluffy tail-less ass. He then flashed me a not-so-surreptitious finger. Then he lowered his eyes and continued to play the game, silently, without looking at me.
I don't believe in the happy family thing. I really don't, I think even functional families can be pretty miserable sometimes.
But I have to say, all this made me giggle. And later... much later... he laughed too.
Monday, May 21, 2007
I've Been Tagged!
...wow, now I know what the Constant Whiner meant when she was tagged...I feel... I feel so... popular!!...
Jessica at Jessi's Crochet Cafe has tagged me! This means I have to write seven random things about myself. I think I'll write seven random things about my blog.
1. I angst a lot about the grammar and spelling of this blog. Usually when I read a published post over the next day, my heart sinks a little because something is not right. In my last post, it was my use of the word "span" instead of "spun" that had me freaking out. Hyperventilating while frantically turning the pages of a dictionary is never the easiest of tasks, but I managed, and discovered, much to my relief, that "span" is an archaic past tense of spin, and so technically correct to use. Still...
2. I try not to swear too much in my blog, but sometimes a good F bomb just has to be thrown into a sentence for effect. Having said that, this, too, can sometimes be cause for some serious anguish. Do you say:
a) For fuck's sake?
b) For fuck sakes?
c) For fuck's sakes? OR
d) For fuck sake?
I know only one is proper (probably "a"), but what can I say? I love them all.
3. I occasionally hate my blog. This feeling usually crops up after I've read something by David Sedaris.
4. For all you doubters: My buddy Nitroglycol took up the challenge and mentioned ussell-Ray owe-Craye on his blog too, and guess what: HE GOT A HIT FROM ARIZONA FROM SOMEONE GOOGLING THE BIRDMAN'S NAME TOO!!!! I know it's him. I mean, if you were famous, wouldn't YOU want to know what the blog world was saying about you??
We need a third mention for total confirmation. C'mon you guys, humour me!!
5. That last point wasn't really a random fact, was it? The problem with me is that, despite being a math/science teacher, I'm not really a fact person. I'm a head in the clouds kind of person.
That's why a lot of chemistry experiments have gone awry in my classroom. Grease fires spring up and I'll say, absent-mindedly, "throw some water on that Billy, hey?" It's not a good thing. When my principal told me that working part-time next year might mean teaching classes outside of my area of "expertise", i.e., math and science, I agreed, saying, "I'll teach wood-working if I have to!!!" Then I went home and freaked out a bit: What if they gave me home-ec? But, as Mr. IQ pointed out, a recipe is really no different from a chemistry lab, and I don't know what I'm doing when I'm running one of those either, so it should be OK. If nothing else, teaching cooking will probably make for a good blog post or two...
6. A memory: One day my brother was recording songs from the radio while simultaneously having a massive fight with me. We were about twelve and ten, and the fight, I am sure, was all my fault: Being older and more obnoxious I'm sure I was tormenting him about something, but I've forgotten now what it was all about. While recording Don't Go Changing by Billy Joel, my brother suddenly decided he couldn't take it anymore and totally snapped, smashing a bowl that lay on the counter and screaming hysterically, "I HATE YOU!! I REALLY REALLY HATE YOU!!" This outburst was recorded along with the song and, over the course of the next year or so, played so many times around the house that even today if Don't Go Changing is playing in a mall or something, it sounds all wrong when, at the critical moment, you can't hear my brother freaking out on me in the background.
7. The thing that my brother smashed was a bowl containing friendship cake batter. My friend gave it to me. The idea was to add more ingredients, distribute some of the batter to five more friends and make the friendship cake with what was left. Needless to say, the chain was broken with the smashing of that bowl, and I faced seven years of bad luck, i.e., the fun-filled teenage years.
I'm sharing this story because, um, another chain is about to be broken here. Forgive me Jessica, I totally enjoyed BEING tagged, but I... I just don't feel comfortable tagging others. What if they don't want to be tagged? Then I would feel bad.
Although I DID toy with the idea of tagging Dooce...
Jessica at Jessi's Crochet Cafe has tagged me! This means I have to write seven random things about myself. I think I'll write seven random things about my blog.
1. I angst a lot about the grammar and spelling of this blog. Usually when I read a published post over the next day, my heart sinks a little because something is not right. In my last post, it was my use of the word "span" instead of "spun" that had me freaking out. Hyperventilating while frantically turning the pages of a dictionary is never the easiest of tasks, but I managed, and discovered, much to my relief, that "span" is an archaic past tense of spin, and so technically correct to use. Still...
2. I try not to swear too much in my blog, but sometimes a good F bomb just has to be thrown into a sentence for effect. Having said that, this, too, can sometimes be cause for some serious anguish. Do you say:
a) For fuck's sake?
b) For fuck sakes?
c) For fuck's sakes? OR
d) For fuck sake?
I know only one is proper (probably "a"), but what can I say? I love them all.
3. I occasionally hate my blog. This feeling usually crops up after I've read something by David Sedaris.
4. For all you doubters: My buddy Nitroglycol took up the challenge and mentioned ussell-Ray owe-Craye on his blog too, and guess what: HE GOT A HIT FROM ARIZONA FROM SOMEONE GOOGLING THE BIRDMAN'S NAME TOO!!!! I know it's him. I mean, if you were famous, wouldn't YOU want to know what the blog world was saying about you??
We need a third mention for total confirmation. C'mon you guys, humour me!!
5. That last point wasn't really a random fact, was it? The problem with me is that, despite being a math/science teacher, I'm not really a fact person. I'm a head in the clouds kind of person.
That's why a lot of chemistry experiments have gone awry in my classroom. Grease fires spring up and I'll say, absent-mindedly, "throw some water on that Billy, hey?" It's not a good thing. When my principal told me that working part-time next year might mean teaching classes outside of my area of "expertise", i.e., math and science, I agreed, saying, "I'll teach wood-working if I have to!!!" Then I went home and freaked out a bit: What if they gave me home-ec? But, as Mr. IQ pointed out, a recipe is really no different from a chemistry lab, and I don't know what I'm doing when I'm running one of those either, so it should be OK. If nothing else, teaching cooking will probably make for a good blog post or two...
6. A memory: One day my brother was recording songs from the radio while simultaneously having a massive fight with me. We were about twelve and ten, and the fight, I am sure, was all my fault: Being older and more obnoxious I'm sure I was tormenting him about something, but I've forgotten now what it was all about. While recording Don't Go Changing by Billy Joel, my brother suddenly decided he couldn't take it anymore and totally snapped, smashing a bowl that lay on the counter and screaming hysterically, "I HATE YOU!! I REALLY REALLY HATE YOU!!" This outburst was recorded along with the song and, over the course of the next year or so, played so many times around the house that even today if Don't Go Changing is playing in a mall or something, it sounds all wrong when, at the critical moment, you can't hear my brother freaking out on me in the background.
7. The thing that my brother smashed was a bowl containing friendship cake batter. My friend gave it to me. The idea was to add more ingredients, distribute some of the batter to five more friends and make the friendship cake with what was left. Needless to say, the chain was broken with the smashing of that bowl, and I faced seven years of bad luck, i.e., the fun-filled teenage years.
I'm sharing this story because, um, another chain is about to be broken here. Forgive me Jessica, I totally enjoyed BEING tagged, but I... I just don't feel comfortable tagging others. What if they don't want to be tagged? Then I would feel bad.
Although I DID toy with the idea of tagging Dooce...
Thursday, May 17, 2007
Lady Luck
....Yay! Yay! Yay!....
Several weeks ago, we went out for Chinese food, and at the end of the meal, they gave us more fortune cookies than there were people at the table. Mr. IQ opened one and immediately looked unhappy.
"Mine's terrible!" he complained, looking genuinely pissed off. Moments like this are always cause for great concern for me. Deep down I suspect that a true Alpha male, confident, rugged and wise, would not go into a big sulk over a crappy fortune cookie. Franklin D. Roosevelt would not have crumbled at the sight of a stupid slip of paper, not even one indicating that a Hawaiian naval base was under Japanese attack! Consequently, at such times I feel despair, followed by unspeakable guilt.
"What does it say?" I asked, burying my true feelings under a mask of curiosity, and he passed it over to me. Your lucky colour this week is purple it read.
"Well, we'll just have to dress you up like an Easter egg," I said pleasantly, "and purchase some lottery tickets."
Sometimes Mr. IQ has absolutely no sense of humour, and this was one of those times. Growling, he lunged for another cookie. "Ah, that's much better," he said beaming, and tossed it to me. It said: You will never have to worry about money.
"Yeah, swell, that's a great one all right," I said, glancing at the bill. Swearing, I spent the next ten minutes hunting for my bank card. That damn fortune was right -- during my frantic search, he didn't look worried at all, only a little superior.
"I told you to bring the card," he kept saying, smugly.
I can mock, but the reality is that we are total suckers around here for fortune telling. So yesterday at the thrift store when I found the Where My Heart Will Wander Fortune Box, I snapped it up without hesitation. It had three balls, red, green and black, which would roll into slots indicating, well, where your heart would supposedly wander. Green would happen first, red next and finally black. All three of us were itching to try it, although Mr. IQ, bless him, feigned a certain amount of indifference. I think he knew what I'd been thinking at the Chinese restaurant and was trying to ease my mind, re: the whole Rugged He-Man of the Canadian Prairies thing. Honestly, the way he can read my mind sometimes, you'd think I go around wearing a thong on my head.
We let High Intensity go first. She span the balls around with endearing concentration and ended up with her heart wandering
First: To exotic lands
Then: To something unexpected
And finally: To a cocktail lounge
The last part, naturally, made me giggle.
"What's a cocktail lounge, mom?" she asked and I said, "Where you go for a boozy beverage," because we're not really the types to sugarcoat the truth around here for the young 'uns.
"Oh, like a beer," she said, very pleased with her fortune, and handed the box over to her dad. He got his heart wandering:
First: to beautiful shoes
Then: to solitude
And finally: to cloud nine
Mr. IQ looked vaguely embarrassed. "I DO NOT have a shoe fetish!" he said defensively. Because I have a very pure mind, it took me a minute to understand what he was talking about, and when I did I felt vaguely revolted.
"Ugh," I said, wiggling my toes around uneasily in my (suddenly) damp-feeling sandals. "That's so gross..."
"Let me go again then," he said, and gave the balls a second twirl. This time he got:
First: To a cocktail lounge
Then: To beautiful shoes
And finally: To a deepening friendship
"Someone in the bar is gonna really like your shoes, obviously," I said, and grabbed the box before he could think about that too much. I then spent the next ten minutes trying to manipulate the balls into the places I wanted them to go.
"Where are you trying to land it?" Mr. IQ finally asked, watching my desperate moves with the last remaining ball.
"To chocolate cakes," I choked out impatiently. "Why can't I get it to go to chocolate cakes?"
He watched me curiously until he couldn't stand it anymore. "You know," he said carefully, and only a little bit patronizingly, "the best way to a chocolate cake is perhaps via a car ride to the nearest bakery."
I ignored him. He knew why I wanted things to work out for me in the fortune ball department, just as I knew, deep down, why at the restaurant he had wanted a good cookie fortune. For us, our lives are all about luck luck luck, and fate fate fate. It's how we get through our days, it's our modus operandi: Frankly, it's the only way we know how to live. We are not the types of people who go out and conquer the world, we're the types who sit back and just let things happen. Consequently, good fortunes are excellent and very necessary morale boosters as we weave our unplotted and unplanned journey through life. I blame this pathetic lifestyle choice, incidentally, on the fact that both of us were accidents, people who made it into this world despite no planning on the part of our parents. Consciously or not, we believe that since we both managed, despite some pretty overwhelming odds, to get ourselves conceived, everything else will probably fall into place for us too.
Surprisingly, it usually does.
Honestly, it's sometimes kind of scary how things work out. When we're totally broke and I'm soberly whipping up flour balls for supper because there is no money for groceries, a cheque will suddenly arrive unexpectedly in the mail. If we need a daycare worker because I happen to be returning to work in seventeen hours, an ad will miraculously appear on a telephone pole in front of our house. If I'm craving ketchup potato chips and it's midnight and I really don't feel like jumping in the car because it's -45 C outside, well --- well-- well then I'll probably have to forgo the chips, actually. Most unfortunately, it only works for the really big things in life.
Big things like my job: Back when I was an unemployed bum, living with my parents and fast approaching 30, my friend put my name on the substitute teacher list at the school he taught at. My parents forced me to pick up the phone when they knew the school was calling me to work. (Not rocket science: who else calls at six in the morning?) And then their math/science teacher went and thoughtfully had a nervous breakdown. As a result, I came in to sub for him and just never left. Very tidy. No application letters, no resume, no cruddy interview. Which is very good, because if I am certain of one thing in this world, it is that I would give a pretty lousy interview.
("What's your discipline style, Ms Whippersnapper?" they would ask, and I would bleat out, "Beat them 'til they bleed, ahaahahahaha," and they'd say, "Hey! Thanks for coming in!" and that would be that.)
So back in March when my principal told me he would not consider giving me part time next year, I really couldn't face the thought of sending out my resume to different school divisions. No, I resigned myself to staying where I was and miserably slogging my way through a full time assignment, dealing with not one but TWO daycare workers and living a life of chaos with underwear in the crisper, etc., etc., ugh ugh ugh. Silly me for worrying: given my track record, I should have known something would happen. And it did. My principal called two days ago and, what do you know:
I GET TO GO BACK PART TIME NEXT YEAR AFTER ALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
HUZZZAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!!!
I am so grateful, I rushed out at once and got the BIGGEST box of wine I could find (Northwest Territory Estates, 2008) which I plan to give my wonderful principal later this week as a token of my thanks.
Oh, you have no idea what a relief this is.
Wow, am I happy!
Several weeks ago, we went out for Chinese food, and at the end of the meal, they gave us more fortune cookies than there were people at the table. Mr. IQ opened one and immediately looked unhappy.
"Mine's terrible!" he complained, looking genuinely pissed off. Moments like this are always cause for great concern for me. Deep down I suspect that a true Alpha male, confident, rugged and wise, would not go into a big sulk over a crappy fortune cookie. Franklin D. Roosevelt would not have crumbled at the sight of a stupid slip of paper, not even one indicating that a Hawaiian naval base was under Japanese attack! Consequently, at such times I feel despair, followed by unspeakable guilt.
"What does it say?" I asked, burying my true feelings under a mask of curiosity, and he passed it over to me. Your lucky colour this week is purple it read.
"Well, we'll just have to dress you up like an Easter egg," I said pleasantly, "and purchase some lottery tickets."
Sometimes Mr. IQ has absolutely no sense of humour, and this was one of those times. Growling, he lunged for another cookie. "Ah, that's much better," he said beaming, and tossed it to me. It said: You will never have to worry about money.
"Yeah, swell, that's a great one all right," I said, glancing at the bill. Swearing, I spent the next ten minutes hunting for my bank card. That damn fortune was right -- during my frantic search, he didn't look worried at all, only a little superior.
"I told you to bring the card," he kept saying, smugly.
I can mock, but the reality is that we are total suckers around here for fortune telling. So yesterday at the thrift store when I found the Where My Heart Will Wander Fortune Box, I snapped it up without hesitation. It had three balls, red, green and black, which would roll into slots indicating, well, where your heart would supposedly wander. Green would happen first, red next and finally black. All three of us were itching to try it, although Mr. IQ, bless him, feigned a certain amount of indifference. I think he knew what I'd been thinking at the Chinese restaurant and was trying to ease my mind, re: the whole Rugged He-Man of the Canadian Prairies thing. Honestly, the way he can read my mind sometimes, you'd think I go around wearing a thong on my head.
We let High Intensity go first. She span the balls around with endearing concentration and ended up with her heart wandering
First: To exotic lands
Then: To something unexpected
And finally: To a cocktail lounge
The last part, naturally, made me giggle.
"What's a cocktail lounge, mom?" she asked and I said, "Where you go for a boozy beverage," because we're not really the types to sugarcoat the truth around here for the young 'uns.
"Oh, like a beer," she said, very pleased with her fortune, and handed the box over to her dad. He got his heart wandering:
First: to beautiful shoes
Then: to solitude
And finally: to cloud nine
Mr. IQ looked vaguely embarrassed. "I DO NOT have a shoe fetish!" he said defensively. Because I have a very pure mind, it took me a minute to understand what he was talking about, and when I did I felt vaguely revolted.
"Ugh," I said, wiggling my toes around uneasily in my (suddenly) damp-feeling sandals. "That's so gross..."
"Let me go again then," he said, and gave the balls a second twirl. This time he got:
First: To a cocktail lounge
Then: To beautiful shoes
And finally: To a deepening friendship
"Someone in the bar is gonna really like your shoes, obviously," I said, and grabbed the box before he could think about that too much. I then spent the next ten minutes trying to manipulate the balls into the places I wanted them to go.
"Where are you trying to land it?" Mr. IQ finally asked, watching my desperate moves with the last remaining ball.
"To chocolate cakes," I choked out impatiently. "Why can't I get it to go to chocolate cakes?"
He watched me curiously until he couldn't stand it anymore. "You know," he said carefully, and only a little bit patronizingly, "the best way to a chocolate cake is perhaps via a car ride to the nearest bakery."
I ignored him. He knew why I wanted things to work out for me in the fortune ball department, just as I knew, deep down, why at the restaurant he had wanted a good cookie fortune. For us, our lives are all about luck luck luck, and fate fate fate. It's how we get through our days, it's our modus operandi: Frankly, it's the only way we know how to live. We are not the types of people who go out and conquer the world, we're the types who sit back and just let things happen. Consequently, good fortunes are excellent and very necessary morale boosters as we weave our unplotted and unplanned journey through life. I blame this pathetic lifestyle choice, incidentally, on the fact that both of us were accidents, people who made it into this world despite no planning on the part of our parents. Consciously or not, we believe that since we both managed, despite some pretty overwhelming odds, to get ourselves conceived, everything else will probably fall into place for us too.
Surprisingly, it usually does.
Honestly, it's sometimes kind of scary how things work out. When we're totally broke and I'm soberly whipping up flour balls for supper because there is no money for groceries, a cheque will suddenly arrive unexpectedly in the mail. If we need a daycare worker because I happen to be returning to work in seventeen hours, an ad will miraculously appear on a telephone pole in front of our house. If I'm craving ketchup potato chips and it's midnight and I really don't feel like jumping in the car because it's -45 C outside, well --- well-- well then I'll probably have to forgo the chips, actually. Most unfortunately, it only works for the really big things in life.
Big things like my job: Back when I was an unemployed bum, living with my parents and fast approaching 30, my friend put my name on the substitute teacher list at the school he taught at. My parents forced me to pick up the phone when they knew the school was calling me to work. (Not rocket science: who else calls at six in the morning?) And then their math/science teacher went and thoughtfully had a nervous breakdown. As a result, I came in to sub for him and just never left. Very tidy. No application letters, no resume, no cruddy interview. Which is very good, because if I am certain of one thing in this world, it is that I would give a pretty lousy interview.
("What's your discipline style, Ms Whippersnapper?" they would ask, and I would bleat out, "Beat them 'til they bleed, ahaahahahaha," and they'd say, "Hey! Thanks for coming in!" and that would be that.)
So back in March when my principal told me he would not consider giving me part time next year, I really couldn't face the thought of sending out my resume to different school divisions. No, I resigned myself to staying where I was and miserably slogging my way through a full time assignment, dealing with not one but TWO daycare workers and living a life of chaos with underwear in the crisper, etc., etc., ugh ugh ugh. Silly me for worrying: given my track record, I should have known something would happen. And it did. My principal called two days ago and, what do you know:
I GET TO GO BACK PART TIME NEXT YEAR AFTER ALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
HUZZZAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!!!
I am so grateful, I rushed out at once and got the BIGGEST box of wine I could find (Northwest Territory Estates, 2008) which I plan to give my wonderful principal later this week as a token of my thanks.
Oh, you have no idea what a relief this is.
Wow, am I happy!
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Letter to Fangs
...how dare your birthday be on Mother's Day??? It's MY day, MY DAY, damn it all...
Happy Birthday Sweetie!!
Just think. One year ago today I was in the hospital screaming my guts out because you had the audacity to start heading out into this world during the nurses' paperwork/shift change hour when no drugs are administered. I shrieked blue bloody murder through the whole miserable ordeal and even, at one point, shouted, "I'm DYIIIIING!!" but not even a measly Tylenol was thrown my way. In response to my anguished cries, your father, always the voice of reason and heavily engrossed in some weighty news article, looked up from his reading and said, very matter-of-factly, "You're not dying, you know," before going back to his paper. Funnily enough, I found this incredibly not comforting at all! So I continued to scream and the Powers That Were continued to not give me any drugs or pain relief until finally you popped out. Well, I'll use the common phrasing there, but really, getting you out was not in any way similar to the opening of a champagne bottle, believe me: It was a lot less fun.
No offense.
When we left the hospital, I was given a questionnaire to fill out. One of the questions was:
How well did we manage your pain? Please indicate all that applied to you.
Epidural _____
Gas ________
Morphine ____
Quick puff on crack pipe (which I MOST CERTAINLY would have brought in with me had I known what lay ahead)______
Cool cloth on forehead ______
My X on the "cool cloth on forehead" option was so filled with bitterness and resentment it ripped through the page. Now, of course, I'm sort of masochistically proud that I did it all sans drugs, but it took a while to get me to that point, let me tell you. I was screaming SO LOUD and all that damn nurse did was continuously shove that wet rag into my face. I could have killed her, and her little wet rag too. But time, as they say, heals all deeply traumatic and mind altering psychological wounds. I'm all over it now. Really.
They say it takes weeks, sometimes even months before a mother truly bonds with her child and falls in love with her, but for me it didn't take that long. On our first night home from the hospital, you were lying on my lap, and yer Pa was off picking up a pizza and suddenly you puked up what seemed like a whole liter of the reddest blood I've ever seen. I panicked, screamed, and started to bawl. Your grandma was there and she shoved me out the door when your dad returned, and we belted it for the Children's Hospital. We didn't bother with the baby seat: I clutched you in my arms all the way there, and, thinking you were dying, stared into your face trying to memorize your features. You were awake and stared back at me in that wise way babies sometimes have. I thought you were dying. I thought you were dying.
When we got to the hospital there was a line-up, but I ignored it and went rushing up to the nurses' station, shrieking, "My baby's vomiting blood!" And the nurses -- well, they didn't even glance up from what they were doing. One actually turned her back on me. The other one just looked very bored.
"So," she asked in a really weary voice, "Are your nipples cracked honey?"
...And... so... they... were...
Ugh! You had been drinking my nipple blood!
When you're old enough to read this, no doubt you'll be even more grossed out by that than I was, but remember this: The whole event was the turning point. It was when you transformed from The Baby to My Baby. That horrific and terrifying trip to the hospital was the moment when I first realized how jagged-rich and cutting-deep my love for you was.
Fangs at three months: "Before the teeth came in"
Happy birthday, Baby.
Happy Birthday Sweetie!!
Just think. One year ago today I was in the hospital screaming my guts out because you had the audacity to start heading out into this world during the nurses' paperwork/shift change hour when no drugs are administered. I shrieked blue bloody murder through the whole miserable ordeal and even, at one point, shouted, "I'm DYIIIIING!!" but not even a measly Tylenol was thrown my way. In response to my anguished cries, your father, always the voice of reason and heavily engrossed in some weighty news article, looked up from his reading and said, very matter-of-factly, "You're not dying, you know," before going back to his paper. Funnily enough, I found this incredibly not comforting at all! So I continued to scream and the Powers That Were continued to not give me any drugs or pain relief until finally you popped out. Well, I'll use the common phrasing there, but really, getting you out was not in any way similar to the opening of a champagne bottle, believe me: It was a lot less fun.
No offense.
When we left the hospital, I was given a questionnaire to fill out. One of the questions was:
How well did we manage your pain? Please indicate all that applied to you.
Epidural _____
Gas ________
Morphine ____
Quick puff on crack pipe (which I MOST CERTAINLY would have brought in with me had I known what lay ahead)______
Cool cloth on forehead ______
My X on the "cool cloth on forehead" option was so filled with bitterness and resentment it ripped through the page. Now, of course, I'm sort of masochistically proud that I did it all sans drugs, but it took a while to get me to that point, let me tell you. I was screaming SO LOUD and all that damn nurse did was continuously shove that wet rag into my face. I could have killed her, and her little wet rag too. But time, as they say, heals all deeply traumatic and mind altering psychological wounds. I'm all over it now. Really.
They say it takes weeks, sometimes even months before a mother truly bonds with her child and falls in love with her, but for me it didn't take that long. On our first night home from the hospital, you were lying on my lap, and yer Pa was off picking up a pizza and suddenly you puked up what seemed like a whole liter of the reddest blood I've ever seen. I panicked, screamed, and started to bawl. Your grandma was there and she shoved me out the door when your dad returned, and we belted it for the Children's Hospital. We didn't bother with the baby seat: I clutched you in my arms all the way there, and, thinking you were dying, stared into your face trying to memorize your features. You were awake and stared back at me in that wise way babies sometimes have. I thought you were dying. I thought you were dying.
When we got to the hospital there was a line-up, but I ignored it and went rushing up to the nurses' station, shrieking, "My baby's vomiting blood!" And the nurses -- well, they didn't even glance up from what they were doing. One actually turned her back on me. The other one just looked very bored.
"So," she asked in a really weary voice, "Are your nipples cracked honey?"
...And... so... they... were...
Ugh! You had been drinking my nipple blood!
When you're old enough to read this, no doubt you'll be even more grossed out by that than I was, but remember this: The whole event was the turning point. It was when you transformed from The Baby to My Baby. That horrific and terrifying trip to the hospital was the moment when I first realized how jagged-rich and cutting-deep my love for you was.
Fangs at three months: "Before the teeth came in"Happy birthday, Baby.
Wednesday, May 09, 2007
Oooh! Oooh! Ooooh!!!
...don't try to discourage me in my delusions here, OK? And do me a favour: Mention him on YOUR blog too and tell me if you get a hit from Arizona...
Oh my GOD you guys, guess, just guess who came to my blog last night!!
USSELL-RAY OWE-CRAY!!!!
How do I know this, you ask? Because someone from Arizona googled the name into Blog Search yesterday and this showed up on my sitemeter. "Who on earth," I asked myself when I saw the referral, "would be checking blogs for HIM??" Then I thought.... and did some checking... and found that the owe-Cray man LIVES IN ARIZONA!! Well, I'm no dummy, I can put two and two together. It MUST have been him!
(Loud girly scream.)
I should point out that I'm not the kind of person who really hero-worships movie stars. But I've seen Master and Commander: Far Side of the World so many times I probably should be named an honorary third lieutenant and, uh, well, he plays the Captain in that movie, and, uh, men in uniform and all that, and... oh jeez, listen, just go and rent the movie. You'll see what I mean.
Once I realized he'd been reading my blog, naturally I went over the post with a fine-toothed comb and to my horror discovered SEVERAL awkwardly phrased sentences that, for the life of me, I just COULDN'T figure out how to correct. (Does this happen to you too?) In fact, I had to go to bed and sleep on it before I knew what to change. Of course, my corrections are too late for Russell to see. Now he thinks I'm just a big lame blackhead squeezer who doesn't see anything through to completion, including a properly constructed sentence! Oh, this is so terrible! Blogging sucks!
(gloomy black cloud of unhappiness)
Off to sulk now.
Oh my GOD you guys, guess, just guess who came to my blog last night!!
USSELL-RAY OWE-CRAY!!!!
How do I know this, you ask? Because someone from Arizona googled the name into Blog Search yesterday and this showed up on my sitemeter. "Who on earth," I asked myself when I saw the referral, "would be checking blogs for HIM??" Then I thought.... and did some checking... and found that the owe-Cray man LIVES IN ARIZONA!! Well, I'm no dummy, I can put two and two together. It MUST have been him!
(Loud girly scream.)
I should point out that I'm not the kind of person who really hero-worships movie stars. But I've seen Master and Commander: Far Side of the World so many times I probably should be named an honorary third lieutenant and, uh, well, he plays the Captain in that movie, and, uh, men in uniform and all that, and... oh jeez, listen, just go and rent the movie. You'll see what I mean.
Once I realized he'd been reading my blog, naturally I went over the post with a fine-toothed comb and to my horror discovered SEVERAL awkwardly phrased sentences that, for the life of me, I just COULDN'T figure out how to correct. (Does this happen to you too?) In fact, I had to go to bed and sleep on it before I knew what to change. Of course, my corrections are too late for Russell to see. Now he thinks I'm just a big lame blackhead squeezer who doesn't see anything through to completion, including a properly constructed sentence! Oh, this is so terrible! Blogging sucks!
(gloomy black cloud of unhappiness)
Off to sulk now.
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
Finishing Wood, and Other Things
...gotta stop watching those damn home improvement shows...
Yay! Exciting times here at the House of Whippersnapper. Last night, I started yet ANOTHER project that I will NEVER, EVER, EVER finish!! Stripping, sanding and varnishing all the wood trim in our house is a task that I, blessed with the attention span of a two year old child and the innate, stick-to-it abilities of kumquat, have about as much of a chance of finishing as I do completing a doctorate on solitaire chess moves and yet I MUST start this. The inner masochist in me absolutely COMPELS ME to set myself up for failure. It's a compulsion bordering on mental illness: If Mr. IQ collects books and "neat things," well, I accumulate abandoned projects. Quilts, diaries, baby books, old furniture that needs to be refinished, they're all scattered around this house, serving only one purpose, that being to MAKE ME FEEL GUILTY. Oh, and to make you-know-who feel smug and superior.
Everyone I know likes to rub my inability to finish things in my face. Even my brother. Several years ago, when courting his now wife, he wrote a little love poem to her which I just happened to accidentally stumble upon one day while hunting through the far dark corners of his locked desk drawer. It contained the following lines:
My sister stops doing
Everything she starts
But I'll never stop
Loving you
As you may have guessed, he went on to become an ath-may ofessor-pray, not a world famous poet. Hmmm, it has just occurred to me that people tend to like writing poems which highlight all my personal failings. Suddenly feeling quite resentful.
The difficulty I have completing things hit a new low two years ago during spring break, when the only goal I set for myself was to try out this coconut cream cake recipe I read about in a gourmet magazine. I'm not much of a baker, but for some reason, the picture of this cake just triggered something in the coconut cream pleasure center of my brain, and I HAD to make it. But try as I would, I just couldn't get past the creamy filling stage. I made it at least four times, and each time succumbed to the temptation and gobbled it up before managing to wedge said filling between two light fluffy cake halves and covering it with delicious icing.
So pathetic.
I have to say, though, I'm feeling pretty optimistic about this latest project. I bought this great product called Peel Away, which is ridiculously expensive, but pretty fun to work with. You slap it on the wood, cover it with plastic and 24 hours later just peel everything off. I'm feeling optimistic, because the peeling part of the process really appeals to the grosser side of my personality, i.e., the side of me that likes to squeeze blackheads and pick at the cradle cap on Baby Fangs' scalp. Oh my heavens, did I really just admit to enjoying these things? How absolutely embarrassing. If my grade six teacher or my brother read this, no doubt they'd write a poem about it.
I feel quite ill
Watching my sister squeeze her blackheads
But I'll never feel ill
Squeezing you
Damn smug PhD types!! I'll show him! I WILL finish this project! I WILL get it done! It's like the time Russell Crowe and I were walking on the beach together back in 2001. We were holding hands, and he looked at me and said, "Look Whippersnapper, it's
Yay! Exciting times here at the House of Whippersnapper. Last night, I started yet ANOTHER project that I will NEVER, EVER, EVER finish!! Stripping, sanding and varnishing all the wood trim in our house is a task that I, blessed with the attention span of a two year old child and the innate, stick-to-it abilities of kumquat, have about as much of a chance of finishing as I do completing a doctorate on solitaire chess moves and yet I MUST start this. The inner masochist in me absolutely COMPELS ME to set myself up for failure. It's a compulsion bordering on mental illness: If Mr. IQ collects books and "neat things," well, I accumulate abandoned projects. Quilts, diaries, baby books, old furniture that needs to be refinished, they're all scattered around this house, serving only one purpose, that being to MAKE ME FEEL GUILTY. Oh, and to make you-know-who feel smug and superior.
Everyone I know likes to rub my inability to finish things in my face. Even my brother. Several years ago, when courting his now wife, he wrote a little love poem to her which I just happened to accidentally stumble upon one day while hunting through the far dark corners of his locked desk drawer. It contained the following lines:
My sister stops doing
Everything she starts
But I'll never stop
Loving you
As you may have guessed, he went on to become an ath-may ofessor-pray, not a world famous poet. Hmmm, it has just occurred to me that people tend to like writing poems which highlight all my personal failings. Suddenly feeling quite resentful.
The difficulty I have completing things hit a new low two years ago during spring break, when the only goal I set for myself was to try out this coconut cream cake recipe I read about in a gourmet magazine. I'm not much of a baker, but for some reason, the picture of this cake just triggered something in the coconut cream pleasure center of my brain, and I HAD to make it. But try as I would, I just couldn't get past the creamy filling stage. I made it at least four times, and each time succumbed to the temptation and gobbled it up before managing to wedge said filling between two light fluffy cake halves and covering it with delicious icing.
So pathetic.
I have to say, though, I'm feeling pretty optimistic about this latest project. I bought this great product called Peel Away, which is ridiculously expensive, but pretty fun to work with. You slap it on the wood, cover it with plastic and 24 hours later just peel everything off. I'm feeling optimistic, because the peeling part of the process really appeals to the grosser side of my personality, i.e., the side of me that likes to squeeze blackheads and pick at the cradle cap on Baby Fangs' scalp. Oh my heavens, did I really just admit to enjoying these things? How absolutely embarrassing. If my grade six teacher or my brother read this, no doubt they'd write a poem about it.
I feel quite ill
Watching my sister squeeze her blackheads
But I'll never feel ill
Squeezing you
Damn smug PhD types!! I'll show him! I WILL finish this project! I WILL get it done! It's like the time Russell Crowe and I were walking on the beach together back in 2001. We were holding hands, and he looked at me and said, "Look Whippersnapper, it's
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Fever 'n' Ague
...ugh...
Totally ill, and Baby Fangs keeps trying to suckle from my runny, snot-filled nose.
Yeah, exactly.
Totally ill, and Baby Fangs keeps trying to suckle from my runny, snot-filled nose.
Yeah, exactly.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Sunday Night Office Update (Part II)
...posted on a Friday! I love this! Boy, this will be a fun thing to look forward to next week, huh, guessing which day I'll publish my Sunday office update again!...
Well, here's the situation. He SAYS work has been done. I SAY he's full of shit. He SAYS many, many boxes have been removed. I SAY the room looks worse than it did a week and a half ago. He says "Faaaaaaaaaawwwwk," as another pile of books collapses on him. I say, "heh heh heh." He says, "Time to take a break," and doesn't do anything for many days. I say, "Garrrrrrrr," and, snapping, throw everything that is left in the room ( a considerable pile of crap) outside on the front lawn. He says good naturedly, "Gee, why did you do that?" and hauls everything back into the front hallway. I say, "Yay, we can see the office floor for the first time since we moved in here!" He says, "@#&*%*!!, now everything is disorganized." I say, "Are you KIDDING ME??" and search for a hint of irony in his eyes. He says, "Grumble grumble grumble," and pretends to sort papers. I say, "My blog buddies all told me to drink lots of red wine, and I think I'm going to go do that now." He says, "Not only is everything all messy, but I think several very important papers blew away in the wind." I say, "Yay, more stuff gone!" and take a deep slug from the cheap colostomy bag of Cabernet we keep in our fridge at all times.
("Help get me through all this," I whisper, and stroke the gross, bloody-looking bag fondly.)
In other words, things have gotten a little ugly.
Part of the problem, of course, is this blog. I never used the computer before, so I was never in this room. The door was always shut, and what the eyes don't see, the heart don't bleed. But now that I'm in here all the time, well, things have to change. I want flowers. I want warmth. I want a book-lined study that gives the (incredibly) misleading impression that we are very, very clever, academic types. I want pictures on the wall. I want light music playing and a well-worn but comfortably organized atmosphere. I want to hide all the Mauve Binchy novels and have copies of scholarly tomes strewn casually about. Damn it, I want to stare out of my window as I write my wise, poetic, thought-provoking, Earth-changing, face-of-new-literature posts and see nature, a little forest perhaps, with a stream running through it and an occasional deer or two running by. I want. I want. I want to change my appearance so I look a little less like a crazy, moustached, bigger version of Cindy from Three's Company and a bit more like Noam Chomsky. I want an extra 30 IQ points. I want a WHOLE DIFFERENT LIFE COMPLETELY, AND IT ALL STARTS WITH THE OFFICE, BABY!!!! YOU HEAR ME??? ONCE THE OFFICE CHANGES, LIFE AS I'VE KNOWN IT WILL NEVER BE THE SAME!!!!!
Whoa! Ha ha ha! Well, I guess I let my imagination run a little wild there! Um, anyway.
(so embarrassed)
'Oooooh look, you can see the floor.'
The highlight of the (alleged) organizing process so far occurred on Tuesday, when Mr. IQ came rushing out of the room with something waving from his hand. He looked like the archangel Gabriel himself had descended from the heavens and singled him out for special treatment.
"Look, something stained this paper and made a picture!!!" he said excitedly, shoving it into my face.
I looked at it and refused to be impressed. "If it had looked like Jesus or Richard Nixon," I grumbled bad-naturedly, "we could have sold it for thousands of dollars on eBay and hired someone else to clean out this shithole."
My wise words hit him soundly in the cerebrum. "You're right," he said sadly, and crumpled up the picture and threw it into the recycling bin.
Huzzah! One item down, 7,469,987 to go!!
***
For whatever reason, whenever things get ugly in the office organization department, things brighten up for me in the form of a Perfect Post award. Thanks, CCE! Really, it made my week.
Well, here's the situation. He SAYS work has been done. I SAY he's full of shit. He SAYS many, many boxes have been removed. I SAY the room looks worse than it did a week and a half ago. He says "Faaaaaaaaaawwwwk," as another pile of books collapses on him. I say, "heh heh heh." He says, "Time to take a break," and doesn't do anything for many days. I say, "Garrrrrrrr," and, snapping, throw everything that is left in the room ( a considerable pile of crap) outside on the front lawn. He says good naturedly, "Gee, why did you do that?" and hauls everything back into the front hallway. I say, "Yay, we can see the office floor for the first time since we moved in here!" He says, "@#&*%*!!, now everything is disorganized." I say, "Are you KIDDING ME??" and search for a hint of irony in his eyes. He says, "Grumble grumble grumble," and pretends to sort papers. I say, "My blog buddies all told me to drink lots of red wine, and I think I'm going to go do that now." He says, "Not only is everything all messy, but I think several very important papers blew away in the wind." I say, "Yay, more stuff gone!" and take a deep slug from the cheap colostomy bag of Cabernet we keep in our fridge at all times.
("Help get me through all this," I whisper, and stroke the gross, bloody-looking bag fondly.)
In other words, things have gotten a little ugly.
Part of the problem, of course, is this blog. I never used the computer before, so I was never in this room. The door was always shut, and what the eyes don't see, the heart don't bleed. But now that I'm in here all the time, well, things have to change. I want flowers. I want warmth. I want a book-lined study that gives the (incredibly) misleading impression that we are very, very clever, academic types. I want pictures on the wall. I want light music playing and a well-worn but comfortably organized atmosphere. I want to hide all the Mauve Binchy novels and have copies of scholarly tomes strewn casually about. Damn it, I want to stare out of my window as I write my wise, poetic, thought-provoking, Earth-changing, face-of-new-literature posts and see nature, a little forest perhaps, with a stream running through it and an occasional deer or two running by. I want. I want. I want to change my appearance so I look a little less like a crazy, moustached, bigger version of Cindy from Three's Company and a bit more like Noam Chomsky. I want an extra 30 IQ points. I want a WHOLE DIFFERENT LIFE COMPLETELY, AND IT ALL STARTS WITH THE OFFICE, BABY!!!! YOU HEAR ME??? ONCE THE OFFICE CHANGES, LIFE AS I'VE KNOWN IT WILL NEVER BE THE SAME!!!!!
Whoa! Ha ha ha! Well, I guess I let my imagination run a little wild there! Um, anyway.
(so embarrassed)
'Oooooh look, you can see the floor.'"Look, something stained this paper and made a picture!!!" he said excitedly, shoving it into my face.
I looked at it and refused to be impressed. "If it had looked like Jesus or Richard Nixon," I grumbled bad-naturedly, "we could have sold it for thousands of dollars on eBay and hired someone else to clean out this shithole."
My wise words hit him soundly in the cerebrum. "You're right," he said sadly, and crumpled up the picture and threw it into the recycling bin.
Huzzah! One item down, 7,469,987 to go!!
***
For whatever reason, whenever things get ugly in the office organization department, things brighten up for me in the form of a Perfect Post award. Thanks, CCE! Really, it made my week.
Monday, April 30, 2007
How to be Good
...in which a confusing and exasperating trip to the grocery store is described in great and only slightly fictionalized detail... yes, I know this has been done before, and by much better writers than me, but it's MY blog so I get to do it too....
Purchasing groceries has become so complicated lately, and not just because I'mtoo embarrassed to return standing firm in my decision to boycott Stupidstore. Our food shopping trip last Saturday was a true exercise in 21st century guilt and uncertainty. Who would have thought that good old Harry's Foods could bring out such an stimulating range of neurotic emotion?
As I remember, we wheeled into the fruit and veggie section first.
"Well, I really think we have to start going 100% organic, for the kids' sakes," I said firmly. "All those pesticides, they're just not good for them."
"I don't know," said Mr. IQ, looking worried, "the organic stuff is pretty expensive."
"Are you saying we should save some pennies and risk giving our babies cancer?" I demanded.
"Well, no, but... "
"There you are then!" I said, bustling over to the organic section.
"I want grapes!" said High Intensity.
"Sure!" I said cheerily, and then stopped dead in my tracks. A small tray containing maybe 20 grapes was $7.99. "Ughhfkkgahh" I choked out, unable to speak properly. Luckily Mr. IQ jumped in to save me.
"We can't buy organic food," he said, "it's all flown in from thousands of miles away. It's not produced locally."
I looked at him gratefully. "Yah, think of the fossil fuels being used!"
"That's definitely not something we should be supporting."
"So true," I said. Slowly I scanned the aisles. "But then what...."
"No produce!" declared Mr. IQ decisively. Quickly he moved the cart towards the bakery section. "How's about we buys a pie?"
I snorted. We are not pie-buying people, not even at Thanksgiving. "I don't think so," I said. "Get some bread."
"But wheat is grown with pesticides too..."
"I know but... you know.... sandwiches..." I said helplessly. Mr. IQ grabbed a loaf off the shelf.
"Not that one!" I said, "It has to be whole wheat!"
"This is whole wheat!" said Mr. IQ, confused. "100% whole wheat, look, it says on the label."
"I know, but according to the CBC, that kind of whole wheat is just like white bread. The labels are very misleading. You have to get... WHOLE whole wheat."
"Huh?"
"Um, I don't remember exactly," I said, not wanting to admit that I had turned off the radio discussion to play my Dr. Hook CD. "But just because it says whole wheat doesn't mean it actually is. You have to... look for grains or something."
"Oh for fuck's sake..." Silently, we scoured the bread aisles for WHOLE whole wheat.
"How about this one," asked Mr. IQ, holding up a loaf. Carefully, we inspected it. "Look, there's a grain," he said pointing. On the crust there was a lump of some kind.
"Is that a fiber-filled, colon cancer-fighting lump? Or a white bread lump?" I asked suspiciously.
"I don't know!" said Mr. IQ, poking it tentatively with his finger. That got High Intensity's attention.
"You touched it, now you have to take it!" she said sternly.
"Why?" asked Mr. IQ.
"Germs, dad," she said. She didn't add "Duh" but she might as well have, it was pretty obvious she was thinking it.
"Fine, we'll take it," I said, grabbing it and throwing it into the cart, despite my conflicted emotions. "Where to next?"
"Let's stay here," said High Intensity. "Can we get a cake?"
In the meat section, Mr. IQ's eyes glazed over a bit as he stared at the steaks.
"We should have a BBQ now that spring is finally here," he said.
"Red meat!!" I said, "are you crazy?"
"But you turn into a limp, lifeless worm if you don't eat red meat occasionally," he said, holding the steaks close to his chest defiantly. He didn't add, "And as cranky as a three-balled rhinoceros," but he sure as hell wanted to.
"Yes, but the steroids will give us breast and prostate cancer," I said primly.
"And I'll start menstruating when I'm seven," piped in High Intensity helpfully. No, of course she didn't say this. I whispered it in his ear.
"Fine," said Mr. IQ, hastily putting the meat back, "we'll get chicken instead."
"We certainly will not!!" I said, "I read somewhere that there's arsenic in chicken feed, we can't risk feeding that to the kids!"
"Okay, fish then. How about salmon? Salmon is a super-food: It has Omega-3 fatty acids!"
"But farmed salmon has parasitic lice-y type things growing on them."
"Wild salmon then. "
"Wild salmon is endangered."
"Tuna?"
"Hello mercury poisoning!"
"Luncheon meats?"
"Killer nitrites."
"Cheese, and we can make pasta."
"Saturated fat city, dude. You'd have a heart attack before the meal was over. Besides, milk products cause osteoporosis."
A little tic was starting to become noticeable around Mr. IQ's left eye.
"Get out of here!" he said, "They're full of calcium!"
"I know, but it doesn't matter. That "good for bones" thing is just a big lie being promoted by the dairy farmers. It's actually the vegans who end up with the strongest bones in old age."
"Look, we managed to get bread, can we just find something to put on it?" he asked piteously, "I mean, I'm totally starving."
"Well, uh, I was thinking of some nice tofu."
"TOFU?"
"Yah, I saw a recipe, you just mush it up, and, uh, add some spices and it's supposed to be really... delicious."
"But tofu has estrogen in it."
"So?"
Mr. IQ's voice lowered to a whisper. "Man boobs," he hissed worriedly, "Could... could eating it give me man boobs?"
Half an hour later, our one loaf of bread was starting to look pretty lonely in the cart.
"Let's just circle around one more time," I said, ever the optimist, "there must be SOMETHING we can buy."
"Like maybe something like potato chips," grumbled High Intensity
"Oh GOD," said Mr. IQ, snapping, "GET ME OUT OF HERE, just GET ME OUT OF HERE, I CAN'T STAND THIS ANY LONGER."
"Good idea," I said, "but, uh, can we go by the baby section first?"
"And the candy aisle?" asked High Intensity.
In the baby aisle we didn't make eye contact as I grabbed a box of environmentally destructive disposable diapers.
"Those stay in the ground forever you know," said High Intensity, having been fed all the propaganda by her school last week during Earth day celebrations.
"Hey! That's pretty smart!" said Mr. IQ.
I made a panicked noise. "DON'T CALL HER SMART!!" I whispered.
"Why not?" he asked.
"According to this article I read, telling kids they're smart just kills their work ethic and sets them up for failure!!"
Mr. IQ looked slightly ill.
We paid for the diapers and headed out into the wrinkle-creating, skin cancer-causing/vitamin D forming, cancer PREVENTING sunshine. Then we got into our fossil fuel-consuming, greenhouse gas producing/absolutely fucking necessary vehicle and headed for home. Unhappily, we split the loaf of bread for dinner. Then Mr. IQ broke down at midnight and ordered pizza. It was totally delicious.
As that old wicked witch would say: "Oh, what a world, what a world."
Purchasing groceries has become so complicated lately, and not just because I'm
As I remember, we wheeled into the fruit and veggie section first.
"Well, I really think we have to start going 100% organic, for the kids' sakes," I said firmly. "All those pesticides, they're just not good for them."
"I don't know," said Mr. IQ, looking worried, "the organic stuff is pretty expensive."
"Are you saying we should save some pennies and risk giving our babies cancer?" I demanded.
"Well, no, but... "
"There you are then!" I said, bustling over to the organic section.
"I want grapes!" said High Intensity.
"Sure!" I said cheerily, and then stopped dead in my tracks. A small tray containing maybe 20 grapes was $7.99. "Ughhfkkgahh" I choked out, unable to speak properly. Luckily Mr. IQ jumped in to save me.
"We can't buy organic food," he said, "it's all flown in from thousands of miles away. It's not produced locally."
I looked at him gratefully. "Yah, think of the fossil fuels being used!"
"That's definitely not something we should be supporting."
"So true," I said. Slowly I scanned the aisles. "But then what...."
"No produce!" declared Mr. IQ decisively. Quickly he moved the cart towards the bakery section. "How's about we buys a pie?"
I snorted. We are not pie-buying people, not even at Thanksgiving. "I don't think so," I said. "Get some bread."
"But wheat is grown with pesticides too..."
"I know but... you know.... sandwiches..." I said helplessly. Mr. IQ grabbed a loaf off the shelf.
"Not that one!" I said, "It has to be whole wheat!"
"This is whole wheat!" said Mr. IQ, confused. "100% whole wheat, look, it says on the label."
"I know, but according to the CBC, that kind of whole wheat is just like white bread. The labels are very misleading. You have to get... WHOLE whole wheat."
"Huh?"
"Um, I don't remember exactly," I said, not wanting to admit that I had turned off the radio discussion to play my Dr. Hook CD. "But just because it says whole wheat doesn't mean it actually is. You have to... look for grains or something."
"Oh for fuck's sake..." Silently, we scoured the bread aisles for WHOLE whole wheat.
"How about this one," asked Mr. IQ, holding up a loaf. Carefully, we inspected it. "Look, there's a grain," he said pointing. On the crust there was a lump of some kind.
"Is that a fiber-filled, colon cancer-fighting lump? Or a white bread lump?" I asked suspiciously.
"I don't know!" said Mr. IQ, poking it tentatively with his finger. That got High Intensity's attention.
"You touched it, now you have to take it!" she said sternly.
"Why?" asked Mr. IQ.
"Germs, dad," she said. She didn't add "Duh" but she might as well have, it was pretty obvious she was thinking it.
"Fine, we'll take it," I said, grabbing it and throwing it into the cart, despite my conflicted emotions. "Where to next?"
"Let's stay here," said High Intensity. "Can we get a cake?"
In the meat section, Mr. IQ's eyes glazed over a bit as he stared at the steaks.
"We should have a BBQ now that spring is finally here," he said.
"Red meat!!" I said, "are you crazy?"
"But you turn into a limp, lifeless worm if you don't eat red meat occasionally," he said, holding the steaks close to his chest defiantly. He didn't add, "And as cranky as a three-balled rhinoceros," but he sure as hell wanted to.
"Yes, but the steroids will give us breast and prostate cancer," I said primly.
"And I'll start menstruating when I'm seven," piped in High Intensity helpfully. No, of course she didn't say this. I whispered it in his ear.
"Fine," said Mr. IQ, hastily putting the meat back, "we'll get chicken instead."
"We certainly will not!!" I said, "I read somewhere that there's arsenic in chicken feed, we can't risk feeding that to the kids!"
"Okay, fish then. How about salmon? Salmon is a super-food: It has Omega-3 fatty acids!"
"But farmed salmon has parasitic lice-y type things growing on them."
"Wild salmon then. "
"Wild salmon is endangered."
"Tuna?"
"Hello mercury poisoning!"
"Luncheon meats?"
"Killer nitrites."
"Cheese, and we can make pasta."
"Saturated fat city, dude. You'd have a heart attack before the meal was over. Besides, milk products cause osteoporosis."
A little tic was starting to become noticeable around Mr. IQ's left eye.
"Get out of here!" he said, "They're full of calcium!"
"I know, but it doesn't matter. That "good for bones" thing is just a big lie being promoted by the dairy farmers. It's actually the vegans who end up with the strongest bones in old age."
"Look, we managed to get bread, can we just find something to put on it?" he asked piteously, "I mean, I'm totally starving."
"Well, uh, I was thinking of some nice tofu."
"TOFU?"
"Yah, I saw a recipe, you just mush it up, and, uh, add some spices and it's supposed to be really... delicious."
"But tofu has estrogen in it."
"So?"
Mr. IQ's voice lowered to a whisper. "Man boobs," he hissed worriedly, "Could... could eating it give me man boobs?"
Half an hour later, our one loaf of bread was starting to look pretty lonely in the cart.
"Let's just circle around one more time," I said, ever the optimist, "there must be SOMETHING we can buy."
"Like maybe something like potato chips," grumbled High Intensity
"Oh GOD," said Mr. IQ, snapping, "GET ME OUT OF HERE, just GET ME OUT OF HERE, I CAN'T STAND THIS ANY LONGER."
"Good idea," I said, "but, uh, can we go by the baby section first?"
"And the candy aisle?" asked High Intensity.
In the baby aisle we didn't make eye contact as I grabbed a box of environmentally destructive disposable diapers.
"Those stay in the ground forever you know," said High Intensity, having been fed all the propaganda by her school last week during Earth day celebrations.
"Hey! That's pretty smart!" said Mr. IQ.
I made a panicked noise. "DON'T CALL HER SMART!!" I whispered.
"Why not?" he asked.
"According to this article I read, telling kids they're smart just kills their work ethic and sets them up for failure!!"
Mr. IQ looked slightly ill.
We paid for the diapers and headed out into the wrinkle-creating, skin cancer-causing/vitamin D forming, cancer PREVENTING sunshine. Then we got into our fossil fuel-consuming, greenhouse gas producing/absolutely fucking necessary vehicle and headed for home. Unhappily, we split the loaf of bread for dinner. Then Mr. IQ broke down at midnight and ordered pizza. It was totally delicious.
As that old wicked witch would say: "Oh, what a world, what a world."
Thursday, April 26, 2007
Oh So Tired
...hey, I kind of like it when the font is screaming at you, it makes it look like I've gone insane!!!!...
We had a playdate here yesterday. "Playdate." The first hundred times I used that word I said it smirking, my fingers making little quotation marks in the air to show how dumb and corny I thought it was. Now it's part of my vocabulary, said more with a shudder of horror than with amusement. The mother was very nice, and thoughtfully injected her daughter with a triple dose of speed and amphetamines before she dropped the kid off, just to ensure we'd all have a really good visit. I shall be sure to return the favour the next time I dump High Intensity off at her place. It's really great the way mothers look out for each other these days.
Actually, it was a relatively short playdate, lasting only about an hour. They spent the majority of the time eating a box of these weird sausage casing-enclosed popsicles I picked up in Chinatown, which I threw at them about 15 minutes into the date because they were already screaming at each other and I just WASN'T IN THE MOOD. And don't you all be thinking to yourself, "And she calls herself a TEACHER????" I teach civilized TEENAGERS not wild pre-school animals, OK? Anyway, they split the box, and when the mother came to pick up her kid I was lying limply on the front steps and the two of them were chasing each other around the pine tree in hyper-crazy circles. The lawn was strewn with what looked like hundreds of used condoms, foreshadowing, perhaps, the parties they'll be having ten years from now. "They're Chinese popsicle wrappers," I explained, but I think the mother thought I was speaking euphemistically because she gave me a funny look. Hopefully she now thinks I'm crazy and incompetent and won't entrust the care of her daughter to me again. Ha, who am I kidding? She'd do anything for an hour's free time, she doesn't care what psycho is taking care of her kid. I know this to be true, because I feel the same way.
Mental fatigue is wearing me down. As she grows older, Baby Fangs is getting more and more pissy about being left alone on the floor with a bottle of Windex for company. High Intensity is always demanding, and while part of me, I can assure you, treasures this time I have with her, part of me is always screaming inwardly, "GIVE ME A BREAK ALREADY!! I JUST WANT HALF AN HOUR TO MYSELF!! IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?" And everything, everything that I do occurs in these horrible, monotonous, frustrating cycles that I can't seem to break free of. Cycles like:
-The Cleaning Cycle-
1. Tidy room
2. Tidy another room
3. Return to first room and tidy again
4. Bang head against door
5. Repeat
-The Personal Hygiene Cycle-
1. Wash and put on clean(ish) clothes
2. Bravely endure puking and/or diaper malfunctioning and/or crazy crafting-experiment- gone-awry scenario
3. Moan a bit
4. Repeat
-The High Intensity Cycle-
1. Hear screams
2. Calmly deal with it
3. Hear more screams
4. Less calmly deal with it
5. Hear hysterical "Old Porky is off to the Vienna Sausage Factory" type screams
6. Snap
7. Room banishment/sobbing
8. Repeat
-The Brain-Numbing, Don't-Have-to-Think, Cheezy 70's Music Cycle-
1. Play Doctor Hook's Greatest Hits CD
2. Feel pathetic
3. Reminisce about good-bye party in S. Korea when forced by lovely post office students to get on stage and perform karaoke version of Sharing the Night Together (oooh-yah, all right) without being allowed to get mercifully drunk first
4. Quiver with embarrassment
5. Watch with fondness as High Intensity gets down to Sexy Eyes
6. Realize she's going to be like those losers in junior high who were into Elvis because that's all their parents listened to
7. Feel guilt
8. Repeat
Actually, it's this last cycle that really gets me down. Listening to crap because it's all my poor overloaded brain can deal with means that I'm really in a bad place. But lucky for me, I have a daughter who is not completely unsympathetic to my situation. The other day I was in her room and we were drawing together, and suddenly I closed my eyes and rested my head on her bed. She looked up from what she was doing and stared at me with a concerned expression. "Do you feel," she asked curiously, "like a dog? A dog on a scale that's about to die?"
"Yes, exactly like that."
"I thought so," she said, and let me rest quietly for at least two minutes.
It was a nice break.
We had a playdate here yesterday. "Playdate." The first hundred times I used that word I said it smirking, my fingers making little quotation marks in the air to show how dumb and corny I thought it was. Now it's part of my vocabulary, said more with a shudder of horror than with amusement. The mother was very nice, and thoughtfully injected her daughter with a triple dose of speed and amphetamines before she dropped the kid off, just to ensure we'd all have a really good visit. I shall be sure to return the favour the next time I dump High Intensity off at her place. It's really great the way mothers look out for each other these days.
Actually, it was a relatively short playdate, lasting only about an hour. They spent the majority of the time eating a box of these weird sausage casing-enclosed popsicles I picked up in Chinatown, which I threw at them about 15 minutes into the date because they were already screaming at each other and I just WASN'T IN THE MOOD. And don't you all be thinking to yourself, "And she calls herself a TEACHER????" I teach civilized TEENAGERS not wild pre-school animals, OK? Anyway, they split the box, and when the mother came to pick up her kid I was lying limply on the front steps and the two of them were chasing each other around the pine tree in hyper-crazy circles. The lawn was strewn with what looked like hundreds of used condoms, foreshadowing, perhaps, the parties they'll be having ten years from now. "They're Chinese popsicle wrappers," I explained, but I think the mother thought I was speaking euphemistically because she gave me a funny look. Hopefully she now thinks I'm crazy and incompetent and won't entrust the care of her daughter to me again. Ha, who am I kidding? She'd do anything for an hour's free time, she doesn't care what psycho is taking care of her kid. I know this to be true, because I feel the same way.
Mental fatigue is wearing me down. As she grows older, Baby Fangs is getting more and more pissy about being left alone on the floor with a bottle of Windex for company. High Intensity is always demanding, and while part of me, I can assure you, treasures this time I have with her, part of me is always screaming inwardly, "GIVE ME A BREAK ALREADY!! I JUST WANT HALF AN HOUR TO MYSELF!! IS THAT TOO MUCH TO ASK?" And everything, everything that I do occurs in these horrible, monotonous, frustrating cycles that I can't seem to break free of. Cycles like:
-The Cleaning Cycle-
1. Tidy room
2. Tidy another room
3. Return to first room and tidy again
4. Bang head against door
5. Repeat
-The Personal Hygiene Cycle-
1. Wash and put on clean(ish) clothes
2. Bravely endure puking and/or diaper malfunctioning and/or crazy crafting-experiment- gone-awry scenario
3. Moan a bit
4. Repeat
-The High Intensity Cycle-
1. Hear screams
2. Calmly deal with it
3. Hear more screams
4. Less calmly deal with it
5. Hear hysterical "Old Porky is off to the Vienna Sausage Factory" type screams
6. Snap
7. Room banishment/sobbing
8. Repeat
-The Brain-Numbing, Don't-Have-to-Think, Cheezy 70's Music Cycle-
1. Play Doctor Hook's Greatest Hits CD
2. Feel pathetic
3. Reminisce about good-bye party in S. Korea when forced by lovely post office students to get on stage and perform karaoke version of Sharing the Night Together (oooh-yah, all right) without being allowed to get mercifully drunk first
4. Quiver with embarrassment
5. Watch with fondness as High Intensity gets down to Sexy Eyes
6. Realize she's going to be like those losers in junior high who were into Elvis because that's all their parents listened to
7. Feel guilt
8. Repeat
Actually, it's this last cycle that really gets me down. Listening to crap because it's all my poor overloaded brain can deal with means that I'm really in a bad place. But lucky for me, I have a daughter who is not completely unsympathetic to my situation. The other day I was in her room and we were drawing together, and suddenly I closed my eyes and rested my head on her bed. She looked up from what she was doing and stared at me with a concerned expression. "Do you feel," she asked curiously, "like a dog? A dog on a scale that's about to die?"
"Yes, exactly like that."
"I thought so," she said, and let me rest quietly for at least two minutes.
It was a nice break.
Tuesday, April 24, 2007
Sunday Night Office Update
...well, except that I'm posting this on Tuesday morning: I really need to learn how to post pictures by myself...also, I can't seem to get the font size to calm down here...damn it, I really need to take a computer course...
When I was in grade six, my teacher, Ms Y, got the brilliant idea to have me and Chris Badboy, the two class slobs, share a desk together. The idea was for us to wallow together for a while in our collective sordid mess until one, or both of us, cracked. She figured when we hit the inevitable rock bottom we'd come to our senses, realize this was no way to live, and together figure out a way to spend the rest of the school year in organized harmony. It did not work out. We hit rock bottom on the second day, and stayed there, week after week, month after nightmarish month. It would have been bad enough with only one person's crap crammed into that space, but with both of our stuff all mixed together, there was no hope. Just the words, "OK class, everybody find a pen," would send both of us into a whimpering panic. At least 137 times a day we'd frantically empty out the desk in an attempt to find our math notebooks, coloured pencils, whatever was needed. Then we'd cram everything back in. It wasn't much fun. In retrospect, we must have made for some funny stories in the staff room.
The desk we shared was actually a long rectangular table with a big open mouth-like space below for storing stuff. My parents have a picture of us sitting beside it on science fair day; I'm proudly holding the frog I dissected and Chris Badboy is sort of smiling sheepishly beside me. The storage area of our table is clearly visible and you can see all the stuff we've jammed into it spilling out in all directions. Hilroy notebooks are folded into two. A small half-eaten sandwich is gasping for air somewhere in the center. Papers limply droop out in odd places, looking like toilet paper tails hanging unnoticed from people's pants. Sometimes out of curiosity, we would give these papers little tugs to see where it would take us. Occasionally it would unearth something good, like a missing assignment, or a tasty lost chunk of lunch, but mostly, it would only cause a startlingly loud avalanche. Then we'd be in trouble.
At Christmas, Ms Y wrote a poem about our class based on A Visit from St. Nicholas. Her line for us was:
With Ms Y at the front, leading the rest
There was Whippersnapper and Chris in
One h*** of a mess
Ms Y was a stubborn thing, and even though her plan backfired and we learned absolutely nothing about the art of tidiness from each other, she sadistically kept us stewing together in our collective slob juices until the end of the school year. When we cleaned out our space in June, Chris Badboy had the misfortune to stumble upon a plastic bag wedged near the back of all our compressed crap, and made the mistake of opening it and taking a peek inside. There lay the frog I had dissected for the science fair back in February. My memory is a little foggy, but I do vaguely remember a shrill girlish scream, followed by a slimy plastic bag being thrust into my hands and a scampering sound of footprints running far, far away. It's sad, really. Chris Badboy and I never really spoke much again to each other after that year, and in grade nine he was sent away to some special farm for kids with drug problems. I really hope sniffing that rotting frog wasn't what originally sent him fleeing into the comforting arms of memory-fogging substance abuse. That would make me feel bad.
I'm reminiscing about all of this tonight because if I thought sharing a DESK with a fellow slob was bad, well, sharing a HOUSE with one has been, well, just a little worse. But school is over, and the office transformation is about to begin in earnest and if that isn't reason for bleary-eyed optimism, I just don't know what is! But to ensure that the operation doesn't fizzle out and stall over the course of the next few weeks, as is its wont to do, I've decided to post pictures of the damn room, and every Sunday I will continue to do so until the stupid thing is finished. Ugh, here they are, how embarrassing:
Note the attractive pink walls with girlish trim. Note the stuff spilling out everywhere. Please accept the very real and fervent vow that not a SINGLE THING IN THIS ROOM, (except, I suppose, the computer, partly) BELONGS TO ME!! Yes, it has been like this since we moved into this house four and a half years ago. (Note to people living with pack rats: Never say to the movers, "Oh, just dump everything in there for now, he'll sort through everything and organize it later." Later could mean very later indeed.) I think Ms Y would be pretty amused to know that living with a total uberslob has indeed worked magic on my soul, and I am now obsessed with organization and neatness. You should have had us sharing a house, Ms Y!! That would have worked!!
I realize that any last remnants of pride I may have are being tossed to the wind with the posting of these pictures, but keep in mind, at least 75% of the contents of this room were actually removed in March to either the basement or to thrift stores. That's right, you're looking at a "cleaned up" version of this space. By the way, if you could spare the time, be sure to leave a comment on how incredibly UGLY the desk is. He found it in a back lane and dragged it home to be with us. Now he refuses to part with it. What a nightmare, it's like the Santa Claus Trophy, only way bigger, so I can't hide it behind a pillow or something. Again, I must remind myself that he's not:
1. A wife-beating alcoholic
2. A two-timing bastard
3. Stephen Harper
...so it could be a lot worse. Right?
When I was in grade six, my teacher, Ms Y, got the brilliant idea to have me and Chris Badboy, the two class slobs, share a desk together. The idea was for us to wallow together for a while in our collective sordid mess until one, or both of us, cracked. She figured when we hit the inevitable rock bottom we'd come to our senses, realize this was no way to live, and together figure out a way to spend the rest of the school year in organized harmony. It did not work out. We hit rock bottom on the second day, and stayed there, week after week, month after nightmarish month. It would have been bad enough with only one person's crap crammed into that space, but with both of our stuff all mixed together, there was no hope. Just the words, "OK class, everybody find a pen," would send both of us into a whimpering panic. At least 137 times a day we'd frantically empty out the desk in an attempt to find our math notebooks, coloured pencils, whatever was needed. Then we'd cram everything back in. It wasn't much fun. In retrospect, we must have made for some funny stories in the staff room.
The desk we shared was actually a long rectangular table with a big open mouth-like space below for storing stuff. My parents have a picture of us sitting beside it on science fair day; I'm proudly holding the frog I dissected and Chris Badboy is sort of smiling sheepishly beside me. The storage area of our table is clearly visible and you can see all the stuff we've jammed into it spilling out in all directions. Hilroy notebooks are folded into two. A small half-eaten sandwich is gasping for air somewhere in the center. Papers limply droop out in odd places, looking like toilet paper tails hanging unnoticed from people's pants. Sometimes out of curiosity, we would give these papers little tugs to see where it would take us. Occasionally it would unearth something good, like a missing assignment, or a tasty lost chunk of lunch, but mostly, it would only cause a startlingly loud avalanche. Then we'd be in trouble.
At Christmas, Ms Y wrote a poem about our class based on A Visit from St. Nicholas. Her line for us was:
With Ms Y at the front, leading the rest
There was Whippersnapper and Chris in
One h*** of a mess
Ms Y was a stubborn thing, and even though her plan backfired and we learned absolutely nothing about the art of tidiness from each other, she sadistically kept us stewing together in our collective slob juices until the end of the school year. When we cleaned out our space in June, Chris Badboy had the misfortune to stumble upon a plastic bag wedged near the back of all our compressed crap, and made the mistake of opening it and taking a peek inside. There lay the frog I had dissected for the science fair back in February. My memory is a little foggy, but I do vaguely remember a shrill girlish scream, followed by a slimy plastic bag being thrust into my hands and a scampering sound of footprints running far, far away. It's sad, really. Chris Badboy and I never really spoke much again to each other after that year, and in grade nine he was sent away to some special farm for kids with drug problems. I really hope sniffing that rotting frog wasn't what originally sent him fleeing into the comforting arms of memory-fogging substance abuse. That would make me feel bad.
I'm reminiscing about all of this tonight because if I thought sharing a DESK with a fellow slob was bad, well, sharing a HOUSE with one has been, well, just a little worse. But school is over, and the office transformation is about to begin in earnest and if that isn't reason for bleary-eyed optimism, I just don't know what is! But to ensure that the operation doesn't fizzle out and stall over the course of the next few weeks, as is its wont to do, I've decided to post pictures of the damn room, and every Sunday I will continue to do so until the stupid thing is finished. Ugh, here they are, how embarrassing:
Note the attractive pink walls with girlish trim. Note the stuff spilling out everywhere. Please accept the very real and fervent vow that not a SINGLE THING IN THIS ROOM, (except, I suppose, the computer, partly) BELONGS TO ME!! Yes, it has been like this since we moved into this house four and a half years ago. (Note to people living with pack rats: Never say to the movers, "Oh, just dump everything in there for now, he'll sort through everything and organize it later." Later could mean very later indeed.) I think Ms Y would be pretty amused to know that living with a total uberslob has indeed worked magic on my soul, and I am now obsessed with organization and neatness. You should have had us sharing a house, Ms Y!! That would have worked!!I realize that any last remnants of pride I may have are being tossed to the wind with the posting of these pictures, but keep in mind, at least 75% of the contents of this room were actually removed in March to either the basement or to thrift stores. That's right, you're looking at a "cleaned up" version of this space. By the way, if you could spare the time, be sure to leave a comment on how incredibly UGLY the desk is. He found it in a back lane and dragged it home to be with us. Now he refuses to part with it. What a nightmare, it's like the Santa Claus Trophy, only way bigger, so I can't hide it behind a pillow or something. Again, I must remind myself that he's not:
1. A wife-beating alcoholic
2. A two-timing bastard
3. Stephen Harper
...so it could be a lot worse. Right?
Friday, April 20, 2007
Totally Over the Top
...this is so weird, you just might want to run away right now...it doesn't even make any sense....
....(I'm terribly angry)....
It looks like my plan to boycott Stupidstore is going to have to be shelved for a while, at least with regards to our bacon supplies. A thirteen-year-old was found here in the West End with a fully loaded semi-automatic weapon which he apparently used to threaten at least one person with. Having such armed miscreants in our midst means there is no way we can go ahead with our plan to become independent pork producers. If we bought a pig and set it free for the summer, as was my plan, our little curly-tailed porcine buddy would for sure become fodder for target practice. Then I'd stumble upon the little delinquent eating MY spare ribs. Given what occurred on Sunday, I know I would NOT be able to control my temper, and I'd say, "Hey, gimme back my spare ribs, you little bastard!" Then I'd yank them away from him! Yeah, that's what I'd do. But the jerk would have already eaten everything else.
Of course, taking the spare ribs would send this little freak OVER THE EDGE. He'd have been saving the best part of the pig for last, and now it would be gone! He'd run home and make a crazy little "multi-media package" and send it off to some television station. Then he'd head over to our back yard and take out everything. Cows, chickens, even the ostrich we'd purchased for its "leaner than beef yet still rather tasty" flesh. Total destruction. He'd take out himself too, naturally. Big news. The television network would receive their little "care package" and OF COURSE they would run it on air! The big executives would practically piss themselves thinking of the through-the-roof ratings and their subsequent bonuses! Then it would get on the Internet, and every misguided youth in the country would watch it. Pig-shooter boy would become a cult celebrity! Fabulous! You really can't make this stuff up!
Meanwhile back at home, Mr. IQ would be despondent over the loss of the pig, sobbing disconsolately into his pillow at night and really getting on my nerves during the day, singing a sad, warbling rendition of "Mama's little baby loves crackling, crackling..." all the freaking time.
"Aughh, snap out of it already!!" I'd finally shriek. So he'd go off to get some counseling, from someone like, oh, I don't know, maybe... George W. Bush. He'd say, "I know I'm Canadian, George, but you seem to really understand this gun thing, so I've come down here for some comfort and advice."
"Well, IQ, " George would say, sneaking a look at the clock surreptitiously, "I wouldn't worry too much about it. Your little pig friend is in heaven now. No more pain!"
Mr. IQ would furrow his brow, and look confused. "But, uh, I'm not sure my pig was a practicing Christian, George..."
"And his killer is burning in the deepest pits of hell!! Surely you can take comfort from that!"
"Well, uh, I guess... but I've never really believed in he--..."
"Look IQ-tee-toot toot, your problem is you're concentrating on the past, when the future is what it's all about. You made mistakes. Now deal with them. Repopulate the garage. More pigs. More cows. More ostriches. And this time, no fooling around."
"Huh?"
"Guard 'em boy! Guard 'em with your life!"
"Gggg..guard them?"
"With a gun boy! Here, I'll give you mine!" George would reach into the crotch area of his pants and pull out his heater. It would be warm, but not because he's recently fired it. (At least I hope not for your sake buddy!!) (Heh heh heh.)
"Uh, thanks George," Mr. IQ would say, holding it awkwardly.
"Listen," George would murmur, getting confidential, "I wanna ask you something, since it relates to what we've all been talking about here."
"Okay, shoot," Mr. IQ would say, fondling his new gun.
"I've got a new campaign slogan and I'm hoping they run with it in 2008. It's, uh, A Chicken in Every Pot, 'cause There's a Gun on Every Lot! Do you like it? It's snappy, don't you think?"
"Whippersnappy," Mr. IQ would mumble politely. George would blush with pleasure.
"I made it up myself," he'd say, somewhat shyly.
"It's great."
Encouraged, George would get brave. "I've got another one too!"
"Hit me baby, one more time!!" Mr. IQ would say encouragingly, twirling the gun and his Farrah Fawcett-like hair around and then pretending to shoot a bad man.
"Guns don't kill pigs, pigs kill pigs!! As in, scum-sucking criminal-type pigs, not police pigs, kill, you know, the tasty kind of pigs..."
"Not as catchy..."
George would look a little crushed. "Yah," he'd admit, "That one needs some working on." An awkward silence would follow. George would pretend to do something important, like shuffle papers.
"Well, I've got to get going" Mr. IQ would say, taking the hint and heading for the door, "Thanks a lot. I feel a lot better. It could have been a lot worse, I mean, after all, it was only a bunch of dumb animals we lost. It's not like it was 32 NICE INNOCENT UNSUSPECTING PEOPLE WHO WERE KILLED or anything like that."
George would stop shuffling his papers and look genuinely shocked. "Good god man," he'd say, "Of COURSE it wasn't PEOPLE! If it was PEOPLE we'd have to... BAN GUNS or something!!"
Both men would start laughing uproariously: Ha! Ha! Ha!
Everything just makes me so sick these days.
....(I'm terribly angry)....
It looks like my plan to boycott Stupidstore is going to have to be shelved for a while, at least with regards to our bacon supplies. A thirteen-year-old was found here in the West End with a fully loaded semi-automatic weapon which he apparently used to threaten at least one person with. Having such armed miscreants in our midst means there is no way we can go ahead with our plan to become independent pork producers. If we bought a pig and set it free for the summer, as was my plan, our little curly-tailed porcine buddy would for sure become fodder for target practice. Then I'd stumble upon the little delinquent eating MY spare ribs. Given what occurred on Sunday, I know I would NOT be able to control my temper, and I'd say, "Hey, gimme back my spare ribs, you little bastard!" Then I'd yank them away from him! Yeah, that's what I'd do. But the jerk would have already eaten everything else.
Of course, taking the spare ribs would send this little freak OVER THE EDGE. He'd have been saving the best part of the pig for last, and now it would be gone! He'd run home and make a crazy little "multi-media package" and send it off to some television station. Then he'd head over to our back yard and take out everything. Cows, chickens, even the ostrich we'd purchased for its "leaner than beef yet still rather tasty" flesh. Total destruction. He'd take out himself too, naturally. Big news. The television network would receive their little "care package" and OF COURSE they would run it on air! The big executives would practically piss themselves thinking of the through-the-roof ratings and their subsequent bonuses! Then it would get on the Internet, and every misguided youth in the country would watch it. Pig-shooter boy would become a cult celebrity! Fabulous! You really can't make this stuff up!
Meanwhile back at home, Mr. IQ would be despondent over the loss of the pig, sobbing disconsolately into his pillow at night and really getting on my nerves during the day, singing a sad, warbling rendition of "Mama's little baby loves crackling, crackling..." all the freaking time.
"Aughh, snap out of it already!!" I'd finally shriek. So he'd go off to get some counseling, from someone like, oh, I don't know, maybe... George W. Bush. He'd say, "I know I'm Canadian, George, but you seem to really understand this gun thing, so I've come down here for some comfort and advice."
"Well, IQ, " George would say, sneaking a look at the clock surreptitiously, "I wouldn't worry too much about it. Your little pig friend is in heaven now. No more pain!"
Mr. IQ would furrow his brow, and look confused. "But, uh, I'm not sure my pig was a practicing Christian, George..."
"And his killer is burning in the deepest pits of hell!! Surely you can take comfort from that!"
"Well, uh, I guess... but I've never really believed in he--..."
"Look IQ-tee-toot toot, your problem is you're concentrating on the past, when the future is what it's all about. You made mistakes. Now deal with them. Repopulate the garage. More pigs. More cows. More ostriches. And this time, no fooling around."
"Huh?"
"Guard 'em boy! Guard 'em with your life!"
"Gggg..guard them?"
"With a gun boy! Here, I'll give you mine!" George would reach into the crotch area of his pants and pull out his heater. It would be warm, but not because he's recently fired it. (At least I hope not for your sake buddy!!) (Heh heh heh.)
"Uh, thanks George," Mr. IQ would say, holding it awkwardly.
"Listen," George would murmur, getting confidential, "I wanna ask you something, since it relates to what we've all been talking about here."
"Okay, shoot," Mr. IQ would say, fondling his new gun.
"I've got a new campaign slogan and I'm hoping they run with it in 2008. It's, uh, A Chicken in Every Pot, 'cause There's a Gun on Every Lot! Do you like it? It's snappy, don't you think?"
"Whippersnappy," Mr. IQ would mumble politely. George would blush with pleasure.
"I made it up myself," he'd say, somewhat shyly.
"It's great."
Encouraged, George would get brave. "I've got another one too!"
"Hit me baby, one more time!!" Mr. IQ would say encouragingly, twirling the gun and his Farrah Fawcett-like hair around and then pretending to shoot a bad man.
"Guns don't kill pigs, pigs kill pigs!! As in, scum-sucking criminal-type pigs, not police pigs, kill, you know, the tasty kind of pigs..."
"Not as catchy..."
George would look a little crushed. "Yah," he'd admit, "That one needs some working on." An awkward silence would follow. George would pretend to do something important, like shuffle papers.
"Well, I've got to get going" Mr. IQ would say, taking the hint and heading for the door, "Thanks a lot. I feel a lot better. It could have been a lot worse, I mean, after all, it was only a bunch of dumb animals we lost. It's not like it was 32 NICE INNOCENT UNSUSPECTING PEOPLE WHO WERE KILLED or anything like that."
George would stop shuffling his papers and look genuinely shocked. "Good god man," he'd say, "Of COURSE it wasn't PEOPLE! If it was PEOPLE we'd have to... BAN GUNS or something!!"
Both men would start laughing uproariously: Ha! Ha! Ha!
Everything just makes me so sick these days.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Regret
...oh bloody hell, it's that damn conscience of mine bugging me again...
It has occurred to me that sticking my bloodshot, rage-swollen head into the personal space of a little old lady and hurling inanities about parks and the human condition and grocery shopping on a beautiful spring day is not the best way to help speed up humanity's slow and uncertain journey towards that idyllic time in yon future when we as a world come together to embrace, call an end to all hostility and shake the collective kumbaya snuggle-boogie together.
And it's certainly not the sort of action that is going to help rid the world of these horrible, horrible school shootings.
Sigh. Yeah, she was rude and cranky and brusque, and, just between you and me, I truly think she was about as concerned for my baby's safety as she is about the fate of endangered Peruvian rain forest species. Really, truly, honestly, I think all she wanted to do was just boss me around.
But.
Kurt Vonnegut wouldn't have gone over to an old lady and given her hell, even if said old lady was a big crank.
And:
1. As Pamela pointed out, she's sure as hell not amassing a fortune working as a door greeter at Superstore.
2. It was her Sunday afternoon too, and the first nice day of year for her as well. And what was she doing? Working.
3. But why did she have to be so nasty?
I hope she's thinking about the whole incident too. I hope she's thinking about that crazy woman who ranted on about... (what the hell was she ranting on about anyway?...) and thinking:
1. Wow, it must be hard taking care of two small children all by yourself. (It is. And I've been doing approximately 99% of the childcare around here for at least a week because Mr. IQ has exams right now.)
2. That baby was awfully sweet. Was she really making everyone smile?
3. But... but why did she have to be so nasty?
***
By the way: Thanks for being tactfully silent on this point. I suspect you were all thinking of this yourselves, and decided to let me figure it out on my own. Blog people are swell.
It has occurred to me that sticking my bloodshot, rage-swollen head into the personal space of a little old lady and hurling inanities about parks and the human condition and grocery shopping on a beautiful spring day is not the best way to help speed up humanity's slow and uncertain journey towards that idyllic time in yon future when we as a world come together to embrace, call an end to all hostility and shake the collective kumbaya snuggle-boogie together.
And it's certainly not the sort of action that is going to help rid the world of these horrible, horrible school shootings.
Sigh. Yeah, she was rude and cranky and brusque, and, just between you and me, I truly think she was about as concerned for my baby's safety as she is about the fate of endangered Peruvian rain forest species. Really, truly, honestly, I think all she wanted to do was just boss me around.
But.
Kurt Vonnegut wouldn't have gone over to an old lady and given her hell, even if said old lady was a big crank.
And:
1. As Pamela pointed out, she's sure as hell not amassing a fortune working as a door greeter at Superstore.
2. It was her Sunday afternoon too, and the first nice day of year for her as well. And what was she doing? Working.
3. But why did she have to be so nasty?
I hope she's thinking about the whole incident too. I hope she's thinking about that crazy woman who ranted on about... (what the hell was she ranting on about anyway?...) and thinking:
1. Wow, it must be hard taking care of two small children all by yourself. (It is. And I've been doing approximately 99% of the childcare around here for at least a week because Mr. IQ has exams right now.)
2. That baby was awfully sweet. Was she really making everyone smile?
3. But... but why did she have to be so nasty?
***
By the way: Thanks for being tactfully silent on this point. I suspect you were all thinking of this yourselves, and decided to let me figure it out on my own. Blog people are swell.
Monday, April 16, 2007
Picnic
...and the blogger would just like to preface this with the confirmation that she is NOT going crazy, really; she's mourning the death of Kurt Vonnegut. Also, she read a brutal article about a young Sierra Leone girl who had her hands amputated when she was twelve years old and it's been haunting her all weekend. I suppose, for the purposes of this post, it would have had more symbolic resonance if it was her feet that had been chopped off, but so it goes....
Baby Fangs has gigantic hands. When she crawls on the floor they sort of splay out on either side of her, and my intense and unconditional love for her does not prevent me from noticing that when she does this she has an appearance not unlike that of a tree frog. A tree frog with Clarence Darrow's head. She has started to stand up on her own which means she is probably weeks away from walking and then (*sob*) she won't be a baby anymore, technically she'll be a toddler. This has me worried, at least from a blog perspective, because while "Baby Fangs" has a rather sweet, benign sound to it, "Toddler Fangs" sounds ominous, and makes me think of Chucky dolls with knives. When she's standing upright, her huge, tree frog-like hands aren't at all apparent, so calling her my little tree frog won't work.
And I refuse to call her Clarence.
When High Intensity was a baby, she looked like, um, uh, well.... like Adolf, uh... Hit...ler..... We took pictures of her, and with the suspenders, affixed black, squarish moustache, hair combed over just so and German war songs blasting out from the stereo, the resemblance was quite striking. Oh boy, now you think I'm a Nazi. I'm not. Well, maybe a recycling Nazi.
But speaking of Nazis...
Today was the first nice day of the year. The plan was to spend the day walking to Superstore to pick up items for a picnic, and then go to the park. But when we got to the store we were STARVING so we stopped in the food area where they've set up tables and ate our lunch there. I people-watched, and I have to say, the miserable winter we just went through has been hard on the fine folk of this city. Wow, did people look bad. Grey and foul and not smiling at all. However, when they saw Baby Fangs, crawling her jerky, enthusiastic, tree frog crawl around the floor, they would beam. Everyone smiled at her, even people you would not think would smile at a baby, even people who looked like they hadn't smiled since Diefenbaker was in power. They would slow down their grocery carts and give her waves and one guy who looked like a mafia hit man bent down to pat her head. It was nice seeing all these gloomy people, who were spending the first nice day of the year inside, shopping for mountains of groceries, perk up when they saw her. I felt like I was doing a community service. I was very proud of her.
And then. The Nazi Door Greeter came rushing over and snapped at me impatiently to get my baby off the floor. "She might get hurt," she told me brusquely. I felt like a child who'd been reprimanded by a control-freak teacher. Crushed, I sat there for a little longer with Baby Fangs on my lap and continued to watch people, but it wasn't any fun anymore, and no-one was smiling, and what kind of world is this anyway when a baby isn't allowed to crawl about?
I got MAD.
I don't usually get mad, I mean MAD mad at little old ladies just doing their job. But for whatever reason, this really hit a nerve. I stared at the food hoping to see something delicious to take my mind off it all, but since I'm on a Spring Health Kick (which is going about as well as my January Health Kick went, thanks for asking) there really wasn't anything good enough to distract me from my ANGER.
So when we left, I went over to the old lady and gave her hell. Then we went outside, and the plain-clothes store detective came running after me. And I started to bawl, right there in the parking lot. I said it was pathetic that on such a nice day everyone was inside shopping. I said the baby was cheering everyone up. I said people should be at the park. I said I was the mother, and I could look after my kid just fine by myself. Then I said, " I must sound like a total nut," and was not contradicted.
I am totally embarrassed, but in my defense I know I'm right. I am a teacher. I know people, and her crawling on the floor there was not pissing off ANYONE except the Nazi Door Greeter. And she was not in any danger because I was watching her like a hawk. I would chew off my own arm before I'd let something bad happen to her.
Kurt Vonnegut would have liked to have seen babies crawling around on the floor.
But anyway, that's it, I'm done with Superstore. We're going back to the land, and becoming totally self-sufficient with regards to our food. I'll dig up the back yard and plant tomatoes, cabbages and yams. And orange trees. It's very important to eat one item of citrus a day. We'll keep a cow in the garage and I'll learn how to make cheese, jam and ketchup potato chips. Hmmmm, we'll need to get some Bordeaux grapes growing back there too. Ooooh, squishing them with our feet to make wine will be fun! We'll let a pig run wild through the streets of the West End in the summer and then come autumn, Pa, I mean, Mr. IQ will catch it, butcher it, smoke it, and blow up the bladder for High Intensity and Baby Fangs to play with. Ha!
That'll show that stupid Superstore a thing or two.
Baby Fangs has gigantic hands. When she crawls on the floor they sort of splay out on either side of her, and my intense and unconditional love for her does not prevent me from noticing that when she does this she has an appearance not unlike that of a tree frog. A tree frog with Clarence Darrow's head. She has started to stand up on her own which means she is probably weeks away from walking and then (*sob*) she won't be a baby anymore, technically she'll be a toddler. This has me worried, at least from a blog perspective, because while "Baby Fangs" has a rather sweet, benign sound to it, "Toddler Fangs" sounds ominous, and makes me think of Chucky dolls with knives. When she's standing upright, her huge, tree frog-like hands aren't at all apparent, so calling her my little tree frog won't work.
And I refuse to call her Clarence.
When High Intensity was a baby, she looked like, um, uh, well.... like Adolf, uh... Hit...ler..... We took pictures of her, and with the suspenders, affixed black, squarish moustache, hair combed over just so and German war songs blasting out from the stereo, the resemblance was quite striking. Oh boy, now you think I'm a Nazi. I'm not. Well, maybe a recycling Nazi.
But speaking of Nazis...
Today was the first nice day of the year. The plan was to spend the day walking to Superstore to pick up items for a picnic, and then go to the park. But when we got to the store we were STARVING so we stopped in the food area where they've set up tables and ate our lunch there. I people-watched, and I have to say, the miserable winter we just went through has been hard on the fine folk of this city. Wow, did people look bad. Grey and foul and not smiling at all. However, when they saw Baby Fangs, crawling her jerky, enthusiastic, tree frog crawl around the floor, they would beam. Everyone smiled at her, even people you would not think would smile at a baby, even people who looked like they hadn't smiled since Diefenbaker was in power. They would slow down their grocery carts and give her waves and one guy who looked like a mafia hit man bent down to pat her head. It was nice seeing all these gloomy people, who were spending the first nice day of the year inside, shopping for mountains of groceries, perk up when they saw her. I felt like I was doing a community service. I was very proud of her.
And then. The Nazi Door Greeter came rushing over and snapped at me impatiently to get my baby off the floor. "She might get hurt," she told me brusquely. I felt like a child who'd been reprimanded by a control-freak teacher. Crushed, I sat there for a little longer with Baby Fangs on my lap and continued to watch people, but it wasn't any fun anymore, and no-one was smiling, and what kind of world is this anyway when a baby isn't allowed to crawl about?
I got MAD.
I don't usually get mad, I mean MAD mad at little old ladies just doing their job. But for whatever reason, this really hit a nerve. I stared at the food hoping to see something delicious to take my mind off it all, but since I'm on a Spring Health Kick (which is going about as well as my January Health Kick went, thanks for asking) there really wasn't anything good enough to distract me from my ANGER.
So when we left, I went over to the old lady and gave her hell. Then we went outside, and the plain-clothes store detective came running after me. And I started to bawl, right there in the parking lot. I said it was pathetic that on such a nice day everyone was inside shopping. I said the baby was cheering everyone up. I said people should be at the park. I said I was the mother, and I could look after my kid just fine by myself. Then I said, " I must sound like a total nut," and was not contradicted.
I am totally embarrassed, but in my defense I know I'm right. I am a teacher. I know people, and her crawling on the floor there was not pissing off ANYONE except the Nazi Door Greeter. And she was not in any danger because I was watching her like a hawk. I would chew off my own arm before I'd let something bad happen to her.
Kurt Vonnegut would have liked to have seen babies crawling around on the floor.
But anyway, that's it, I'm done with Superstore. We're going back to the land, and becoming totally self-sufficient with regards to our food. I'll dig up the back yard and plant tomatoes, cabbages and yams. And orange trees. It's very important to eat one item of citrus a day. We'll keep a cow in the garage and I'll learn how to make cheese, jam and ketchup potato chips. Hmmmm, we'll need to get some Bordeaux grapes growing back there too. Ooooh, squishing them with our feet to make wine will be fun! We'll let a pig run wild through the streets of the West End in the summer and then come autumn, Pa, I mean, Mr. IQ will catch it, butcher it, smoke it, and blow up the bladder for High Intensity and Baby Fangs to play with. Ha!
That'll show that stupid Superstore a thing or two.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Phases
..."Sweep the floor, and sweep it again tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and the day after that and everyday of your life; --if not that floor, why then --some other floor"...
Those are the words of Edna St. Vincent Millay, written when she was nineteen years old. I guess she didn't like sweeping floors. Her biographer said that "few young women have ever put it more clearly --or fiercely--" how much she hated housework. I suppose she was indicating that this was an early sign of her promise as a poetess. Yah, I can see that. It takes a real GENIUS to express how much SWEEPING THE FLOOR SUCKS.
Oh, ignore me, you know I'm just jealous. When I read about all of this in her biography I knew that she would go on to write the funky My candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night poem and never sweep another damn floor in her life. Inspired, I tried my own hand at writing a little floor-sweeping emancipation ditty, but it lacked the passion, the fervor, the nymphomaniac, drug-addicted, father-abandoned-me-in-my-youth sort of stimulus needed to dash off a real zinger and free me from my bondage to the broom. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to get away from the lines:
Old Fangs explodes at both ends
I'm covered in her shite..
And why was this? Why did I have to be so crude? Because last Tuesday, at approximately 3:17 pm, we here at the House of Whippersnapper entered that much anticipated "Anal Phase" of High Intensity's (so far!) really fun and charming journey towards mature adulthood. And I say "we" because while it may be only old H.I. who is technically going through it, all members of this household are suffering, my friend. All of us.
Although there had been little hints here and there that we were getting close to this much heralded developmental phase, we most definitely reached the point of no return on Tuesday when she presented me with the following picture and gleefully shouted what it (so obviously) was:
Despite the frequent updates I make on this blog regarding the condition of my bowels and the crude bean dinner references I write about with embarrassing regularity, I'm not really an outhouse humour sort of gal. Thus, when I saw this picture, my eyes widened until they were the size of large, overripe melon balls. My mouth gaped open and I could not muster the force needed to keep my dumbfounded tongue from limply hanging out of it. And my larynx, jolted awake by the emergency signal from my much horrified brain, let out an unhappy sort of noise reminiscent of a cow in labour. Perhaps I was overreacting but... those turds. They were so gross. And why... why did there have to be... so many?
In short, the picture kind of shocked me.
Now, High Intensity is not the sort of lass who spends a great deal of time considering the feelings of others. Dare I say, she often takes an unhealthy and discomforting amount of delight inworking me up into a neurotic, fire-spitting frenzy pissing me off a little. But this situation was different. I wasn't angry. I was only... speechless. And I guess this kind of freaked her out a bit, because old momburger, despite everything, is never really ever at a loss for words. Quickly, she flipped the picture 180 degrees. "It's not a bum, mom!" she shouted anxiously, "Actually, it's mountains! With snow falling on them!"
Oh how beautiful. Snow falling on mountains. Old Georgia High Intensity O'Keefe. Perhaps an early sign of her promise as a great landscape artist?
Somehow, I think not.
Those are the words of Edna St. Vincent Millay, written when she was nineteen years old. I guess she didn't like sweeping floors. Her biographer said that "few young women have ever put it more clearly --or fiercely--" how much she hated housework. I suppose she was indicating that this was an early sign of her promise as a poetess. Yah, I can see that. It takes a real GENIUS to express how much SWEEPING THE FLOOR SUCKS.
Oh, ignore me, you know I'm just jealous. When I read about all of this in her biography I knew that she would go on to write the funky My candle burns at both ends; it will not last the night poem and never sweep another damn floor in her life. Inspired, I tried my own hand at writing a little floor-sweeping emancipation ditty, but it lacked the passion, the fervor, the nymphomaniac, drug-addicted, father-abandoned-me-in-my-youth sort of stimulus needed to dash off a real zinger and free me from my bondage to the broom. And no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't seem to get away from the lines:
Old Fangs explodes at both ends
I'm covered in her shite..
And why was this? Why did I have to be so crude? Because last Tuesday, at approximately 3:17 pm, we here at the House of Whippersnapper entered that much anticipated "Anal Phase" of High Intensity's (so far!) really fun and charming journey towards mature adulthood. And I say "we" because while it may be only old H.I. who is technically going through it, all members of this household are suffering, my friend. All of us.
Although there had been little hints here and there that we were getting close to this much heralded developmental phase, we most definitely reached the point of no return on Tuesday when she presented me with the following picture and gleefully shouted what it (so obviously) was:
Despite the frequent updates I make on this blog regarding the condition of my bowels and the crude bean dinner references I write about with embarrassing regularity, I'm not really an outhouse humour sort of gal. Thus, when I saw this picture, my eyes widened until they were the size of large, overripe melon balls. My mouth gaped open and I could not muster the force needed to keep my dumbfounded tongue from limply hanging out of it. And my larynx, jolted awake by the emergency signal from my much horrified brain, let out an unhappy sort of noise reminiscent of a cow in labour. Perhaps I was overreacting but... those turds. They were so gross. And why... why did there have to be... so many?In short, the picture kind of shocked me.
Now, High Intensity is not the sort of lass who spends a great deal of time considering the feelings of others. Dare I say, she often takes an unhealthy and discomforting amount of delight in
Oh how beautiful. Snow falling on mountains. Old Georgia High Intensity O'Keefe. Perhaps an early sign of her promise as a great landscape artist?Somehow, I think not.
Sunday, April 08, 2007
Happy Easter!
...Yay, it's Saturday night! Mr. IQ has been working SO hard, and he needed a night off. So I laced his dinner with sedatives and when he finally passed out on the stairway I tenderly covered him with a blanket and made a mad dash for the computer! And here I am! Finally! Unlimited computer access without someone standing over my shoulder and making me feel guilty! I blame him entirely for me writing Karma Sutra instead of Kama Sutra in the last post! Damn it, he doesn't give me enough time to edit myself properly!!...
I am not, it must be confessed, much of a gourmand. I have been known to open cans of tomatoes and eat them like soup. Cold soup. High Intensity, on the other hand, has developed into the Grumpy Gourmet. If I give her a bowl of canned diced tomatoes (nicely warmed) and try to pass it off as soup, she'll say, "Mom, this is canned tomatoes," and refuse to eat any of it.
"But it's tomatoes aux fines herbes," I told her the first time I did this, pointing to the French side of the label. "That means it's very fancy."
She fell for it once, and cautiously tried some. But never again.
A few years back, someone at my school got the bright idea to put together a cookbook comprised of our staff's favourite recipes. Of course, I cook a lot more now, especially with Julia High Intensity Child around, but back then I never cooked. It would have been a little embarrassing handing in a recipe like:
Open can of tomatoes
Heat, if feeling ambitious
Um, maybe take the contents out of the metal can first? It's going into the microwave...
Wow, I thought I was lazy.
Eat.
So I ignored the request for a recipe. But even though I did not contribute to the book, I still received a copy of the thing. And for reasons that are difficult to explain, became weirdly, inexplicably fascinated with this one potato recipe I found in it. I have never made the dish, but its ingredients haunt me, and I've described it to practically every person I know. I always have a good time with it:
Me: Wanna hear about this recipe?
You: Sure!
Me: A potato recipe!
You: Right on!
Me: Okay, here are the ingredients. Ready?
You: Yah!
Me: A package of hash browns.
You: Right on! Hash browns!
Me: A can of cream of mushroom soup.
You: I LIKE where this is going!!
Me: Two cups sour cream.
You: Hallelujah!
Me: One cup shredded cheese.
You: KILLER!
Me: A cup of butter!!
You: Suicide! Coronary city, batman!!
Me: And rashers and rashers of bacon!!
You: AUGHGHGH!!!
Me: Mix, bake and serve!!
You: Death in a pan! Love it!
Me: It's called "Bertha's Potatoes!"
You: Bertha, them's some lard-ass potatoes you got there, man!
Us Together: Ha! Ha! Ha!
Over the years this "Bertha's Potatoes" recipe has assumed mythical proportions in my brain, symbolizing, well, I guess symbolizing everything that I think is wrong with North American culture right now. I mean, don't get me wrong. I like my cheese. I like my sour cream. And of course I like butter, hash browns and bacon. But all mixed together and then served as a side dish? Too much, man. Too much.
This weekend my in-laws are in town for Easter. They phoned us on Thursday and said they were rolling into town for the weekend with a ham. They are big meat eaters, and my step-mother-in-law prides herself on never, ever eating vegetables, so when they're here I tend to cook things I don't normally eat. Armed with the culinary motto of my aunt, who is a great cook ("twice the sugar, even more fat!") we tackle huge, ambitious, butter-laden recipes which invariably lead to failure. During our huddled conferences near the end of the cooking process, a panicked Mr. IQ will whisper, "It tastes terrible! Augh! Augh! What do we do? What do we do?" and I will whimper, " I don't know!! Add more sugar! Add more fat!" And both of us will start running around the kitchen like crazy Swedish chefs melting butter frantically and hunting for the sugar bowl.
Wow, have we ever served some wretchedly awful meals.
Having not quite recovered from making Christmas dinner yet, the news that we were to cook up the big Easter spread didn't exactly fill me with feelings of euphoric glee, but they're family and we love them, so of course we agreed to their plan. Less than enthusiastically, I hit the Internet to find an Easter menu, and found one. Can we say Bertha's potatoes times one million? In addition to the Holiday Ham, there are the "Potatoes Grand Mere", "Party Potatoes" and "Parker House Rolls", as well as two desserts, a sassy Lemon Truffle Pie and its sweet ingenue cousin, Little Miss Strawberry Pie. The Potatoes Grand Mere call for two cups of whipping cream, one tablespoon butter and 1/3 cup Parmesan cheese. The "Party Potatoes" contain 1/2 cup butter, one package of cream cheese, 1/2 cup sour cream and then three additional tablespoons of butter. And to make the Parker House Rolls you'll need one cup of whole milk (and yes, they specify "whole" milk), 1/2 cup butter, and then even "more melted butter." I didn't even look at the recipes for the pies. My heart was already seizing up from the potato recipes, and just seeing the words "more melted butter" had made my stomach start swearing and I'd been forced to undo the top button of my pants.
Bertha's Potatoes, you've been replaced.
I spent most of Friday in a bit of a depressed stupor, dreading Sunday for about four thousand different reasons, but then, miraculously, I was saved. Dinner is going to be at Mr. IQ's step-brother's place, and all we have to do is bring a salad and dessert! Yay!
Have a great Easter!
I am not, it must be confessed, much of a gourmand. I have been known to open cans of tomatoes and eat them like soup. Cold soup. High Intensity, on the other hand, has developed into the Grumpy Gourmet. If I give her a bowl of canned diced tomatoes (nicely warmed) and try to pass it off as soup, she'll say, "Mom, this is canned tomatoes," and refuse to eat any of it.
"But it's tomatoes aux fines herbes," I told her the first time I did this, pointing to the French side of the label. "That means it's very fancy."
She fell for it once, and cautiously tried some. But never again.
A few years back, someone at my school got the bright idea to put together a cookbook comprised of our staff's favourite recipes. Of course, I cook a lot more now, especially with Julia High Intensity Child around, but back then I never cooked. It would have been a little embarrassing handing in a recipe like:
Open can of tomatoes
Heat, if feeling ambitious
Um, maybe take the contents out of the metal can first? It's going into the microwave...
Wow, I thought I was lazy.
Eat.
So I ignored the request for a recipe. But even though I did not contribute to the book, I still received a copy of the thing. And for reasons that are difficult to explain, became weirdly, inexplicably fascinated with this one potato recipe I found in it. I have never made the dish, but its ingredients haunt me, and I've described it to practically every person I know. I always have a good time with it:
Me: Wanna hear about this recipe?
You: Sure!
Me: A potato recipe!
You: Right on!
Me: Okay, here are the ingredients. Ready?
You: Yah!
Me: A package of hash browns.
You: Right on! Hash browns!
Me: A can of cream of mushroom soup.
You: I LIKE where this is going!!
Me: Two cups sour cream.
You: Hallelujah!
Me: One cup shredded cheese.
You: KILLER!
Me: A cup of butter!!
You: Suicide! Coronary city, batman!!
Me: And rashers and rashers of bacon!!
You: AUGHGHGH!!!
Me: Mix, bake and serve!!
You: Death in a pan! Love it!
Me: It's called "Bertha's Potatoes!"
You: Bertha, them's some lard-ass potatoes you got there, man!
Us Together: Ha! Ha! Ha!
Over the years this "Bertha's Potatoes" recipe has assumed mythical proportions in my brain, symbolizing, well, I guess symbolizing everything that I think is wrong with North American culture right now. I mean, don't get me wrong. I like my cheese. I like my sour cream. And of course I like butter, hash browns and bacon. But all mixed together and then served as a side dish? Too much, man. Too much.
This weekend my in-laws are in town for Easter. They phoned us on Thursday and said they were rolling into town for the weekend with a ham. They are big meat eaters, and my step-mother-in-law prides herself on never, ever eating vegetables, so when they're here I tend to cook things I don't normally eat. Armed with the culinary motto of my aunt, who is a great cook ("twice the sugar, even more fat!") we tackle huge, ambitious, butter-laden recipes which invariably lead to failure. During our huddled conferences near the end of the cooking process, a panicked Mr. IQ will whisper, "It tastes terrible! Augh! Augh! What do we do? What do we do?" and I will whimper, " I don't know!! Add more sugar! Add more fat!" And both of us will start running around the kitchen like crazy Swedish chefs melting butter frantically and hunting for the sugar bowl.
Wow, have we ever served some wretchedly awful meals.
Having not quite recovered from making Christmas dinner yet, the news that we were to cook up the big Easter spread didn't exactly fill me with feelings of euphoric glee, but they're family and we love them, so of course we agreed to their plan. Less than enthusiastically, I hit the Internet to find an Easter menu, and found one. Can we say Bertha's potatoes times one million? In addition to the Holiday Ham, there are the "Potatoes Grand Mere", "Party Potatoes" and "Parker House Rolls", as well as two desserts, a sassy Lemon Truffle Pie and its sweet ingenue cousin, Little Miss Strawberry Pie. The Potatoes Grand Mere call for two cups of whipping cream, one tablespoon butter and 1/3 cup Parmesan cheese. The "Party Potatoes" contain 1/2 cup butter, one package of cream cheese, 1/2 cup sour cream and then three additional tablespoons of butter. And to make the Parker House Rolls you'll need one cup of whole milk (and yes, they specify "whole" milk), 1/2 cup butter, and then even "more melted butter." I didn't even look at the recipes for the pies. My heart was already seizing up from the potato recipes, and just seeing the words "more melted butter" had made my stomach start swearing and I'd been forced to undo the top button of my pants.
Bertha's Potatoes, you've been replaced.
I spent most of Friday in a bit of a depressed stupor, dreading Sunday for about four thousand different reasons, but then, miraculously, I was saved. Dinner is going to be at Mr. IQ's step-brother's place, and all we have to do is bring a salad and dessert! Yay!
Have a great Easter!
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