Dear Fraggle, Don't Ever Let Me Stop You From Being Who You Are

Dear Fraggle,

You are generally a polite and cooperative little person. But every single time we ask you to go to the bathroom, you squawk and resist with ferocity.

Once you eventually concede, you spend 15 minutes doing god knows what in there. It doesn't seem to matter how often we ask you not to play in the bathroom, you are not deterred.

I think it's because, most of the time, your play isn't "play." Your play is work. You're working on something. You're practising, observing, exploring - and doing so in the most direct, linear way possible. The way a surgeon practises sewing up dolls.

So tonight, just after you went to bed, you got up to go to the bathroom just one more time "Because... In the middle of the night, if I *really* need to go pee, I can. Yeah I can. It's ok Mama."

You were in there for a while, but Hubby and I didn't pay much attention.

And then, just now, when I came up to bed, I found this on my bathroom counter.

A handful of about 50 sheets of toilet paper. Individually separated and stacked in a perfect little Fraggle pile.

And I've never been so happy.

Because this is YOU my darling. Quietly working in the bathroom and then toddling off to sleep on your own.

I love you. You are my joy.

Mama

It's not a secret what a mess I am

I don't know if you've figured this out about me, but I'm a giant stressball.  Shit stresses me the fuck out.  I get worried, and anxious, and up tight about crap that probably shouldn't matter, but for some reason it totally does.

Although I am not currently in a mental state strong enough to attempt to lessen my crazy, I can at least point it out.

One thing I am trying to improve? I'm trying - really trying - to acknowledge that what stresses me out probably doesn't stress other people out.  Especially Hubby.  And, of course, what stresses him out doesn't bother me in the slightest.  So when Hubby wants to clean the garage or insulate the crawl space, I need to let him - even when I'd rather he mop the floor or cut the grass.  (The grass has been cut about three times since April, just for the record.)

Unfortunately, I've been at home for five months, which means I sit around my house finding things that bother me, and then I add them to my list of things that need fixing.  Because crazy.  However, when I actually get to cross something off the list? True euphoria. Last weekend was a prime example.  

Yeah.  Those are our batteries.  And by "our" batteries, I mean they reside in our house but they really belong to Hubby who seems to have an unnatural and unrequited love for batteries.

Some are rechargeable (no, we're not total monsters who care nothing about the environment), but many are not. Most importantly, there is no way of knowing which ones work because all the dead ones just sit in the house for years and years waiting for me to take them to some sort of green recycling place or something, which I will clearly never do.

Thanks to my weird stress obsession, though, the batteries have now been sorted into three boxes: working; not working; and, probably not working but maybe working and we may never know so let's keep them and maybe we can put them in the tv clicker or something.

That's what you call SUCCESS, people.

Uh oh. Now what?

I can't lie.  Since being home on maternity leave (and advised to stay still for 2 months before that), there is a significant possibility that I am going entirely stir crazy - sick of staring at these walls, tired of trying to find productive things to do, starving for interaction.  And it seems I'll take interaction of any type...

This is Franco.

Earlier this week, Franco appeared at my sliding glass door, put his paws up on the window, and politely requested some peanuts.

I of course obliged because what if Franco is actually my Nana reincarnated?

When I texted Hubby to warn him of my indiscretion he wasn't super impressed, but he also didn't think much of it.

Then, last night, Franco returned! And, to my great astonishment, Hubby encouraged me to feed him.

Hubby: "Get him some peanuts!"

Me: "Really? Ok..."

Hubby: "No, put them close to the door, so he'll come closer."

Me: "Alright... Who are you by the way?"

Hubby: "No.  Closer.  Really close.  CLOSE!"

Me: "Wow, ok, they're nice and close.  What shall we name him?"

Hubby: "Franco."

Tuxedo Cat: "WHOA.  SQUIRREL.  I'mma get it...  SHHHH, you guys.  Quiet.  I'm working here."

As Tuxedo Cat sat at the door stalking poor Franco, Franco simply continued to eat his peanuts with zero interest in the idiot cat staring at him.  I suspect that Franco is a seasoned squirrel - well versed in sliding-glass-door-peanut-eating, even when there are stupid cats nearby full of empty threats.

But then, this morning, I've recognized the error in my ways...

Ooops.  We knew this would happen, didn't we.

When I texted Hubby, he called me a few minutes later.  Uh oh.  This merits a phone call?

Hubby: "What. Have. You. Done."

Me: "ME?! You encouraged me! Put it closer you said!"

Hubby: "Get my BB gun."

Me: "Nooo! That might be Nana!"

Hubby: "...?  Um, I'm not sure where we go from here..."

Me: "Me neither."

So much good happened today

Today was a good day.  Four things in particular made it better than average.

First, Hubby let me lounge in bed for an hour while he went downstairs with Fraggle.  I can't really accurately articulate how helpful this is.  If only he could be here to help me all the time, but noooooo, he needs a job.  Whatever.

Second, Fraggle fell asleep for a whole two hours this morning while I watched - wait for it - The Fast and the Furious.  The original.  This movie makes me happy.  It perfectly balances worst movie ever made with fun and cheesy.  Plus, it reminds me that I need to use my serious driving face more often. We should never forget the value of a serious driving face.

Third, the three of us made our way downtown for some lunch and wandering.  It was pretty spectacular - sunny day, friendly people, happy baby.  The best part of our outing? Driving into the parking lot and being stopped by an exiting driver who offered us his parking pass.  Yes, that's right, a stranger did us a kindness.  WEIRD.  Which we totally paid forward on our own way out of the lot.  Y'all need to do this. It's easy and it totally makes somebody's day.

Finally, and most importantly:

I had wine.  Well, a wine spritzer, but wine nonetheless. Since Fraggle came into the world, I have had a couple light beers, but I've been saving a glass of wine for the best possible opportunity.  Although the perfect giant glass of pinot will have to wait for another time, this was the sweetest tasting cheap spritzer in the history of the world.  Not gonna lie, I got a little tipsy.

So between the lazy morning, the so bad it's good movie, the free parking and of course WINE, today was basically the best day of all time.

Hubby darling, play me a tune

One of my absolute favourite things about Hubby?  He plays the gui-tar.  Scratch that, he doesn't play it, he masters it.  He's really quite remarkable on that friggin thing.

Sometimes I beg him to for the love of god put that thing down already, but most of the time Hubby's guitar playing is the highlight of my day.  Neither one of us can wait until he teaches our little girl to play along with him. (I'll just watch.  And continue to pretend I know how to sing.)

If you know any guitarists, especially any good ones, you know they usually have a few key influences.  In Hubby's case, John Mayer is the go-to.

Now.  You might not appreciate John Mayer. Sure, sometimes he comes across as kind of a douche, and you might not even like his sometimes cheesy tunes.  However, in case you don't already know, I'm here to tell you that John Mayer's skills on six strings are very nearly unmatched.

Often to my particular frustration, John Mayer has become the backdrop to our lives.  Mr Mayer was playing when Hubby and I decided to tie the knot.  Uncle D quoted him at our wedding ceremony... This is not roman candle, firework, Hollywood, hot pink love; this is I got your BACK love.  Not to mention every goddam road trip of all time.  And of course, without fail, every. single. one. of Hubby's daily guitar sessions.

Despite the over-exposure, I have what one could call a soft spot for those tunes, so naturally I was glad to see John perform on Ellen this week.  Watching him play his new bluesy song Olivia, I learned something: As it turns out, it isn't John Mayer's guitar that I love - it's Hubby's, when he plays Mayer's stuff.

So when I went upstairs, I made of point of sharing this tidbit with my dear husband, for which I was greatly rewarded...

As if I didn't love him enough already, my darling set me up with a full-fledged bedroom concert to entertain me while I showered, complete with Strat, amplifier, vocals, harmonica, and pedal board.

Oh, how much I adore him - even when he's been a total wiener on three separate occasions that day.

Hubby should never leave me to my own devices

Hubby is working today (yes, on a SUNDAY) so I'm all alone to entertain myself and/or accomplish things.  I wouldn't be so worried about the accomplish-things part, except that this tiny human is coming in, like, three months and oh my god there is so much to do.

We went to Ikea last night to purchase some I-need-this-or-I-will-be-a-bad-mother items, including: some shelves, some picture frames, and a stupid little white end table to sit next to the rocking chair so that I have a place to set my wine bottle while I'm breastfeeding.  

As I'm sure you can imagine, Ikea usually means Hubby has some work to do.

But Hubby's not here.  He has basically abandoned me to raise this poor child all on my own.

Or he's away for a few hours.  Whichever.

In any case, at 10:00 this morning I decided I could probably put the little table together myself.  This is how it went:

10:00
This doesn't look so bad.  Just one little box.

10:01
DAMMIT BOX OPEN.  OOOPPPEEENNNNNNNNNNNNnnnnnnnn

10:02
Oh, much easier with scissors.

10:03
Only a table top, three legs, a few screws?  I can do this.

10:04
Oh my god these legs are all wonky.  Which way is up?  Why does the picture show TWO screw holes.  There is only ONE.  Oh.  There's the other one.

10:05
Ok Tuxedo, not a toy.  Also, not even safe.  Like, you're seriously gonna get hurt.  These big metal poles are flailing around like nobody's business.

10:10
Fuck this.  FUCK YOU THREE WONKY LEGS AND A MILLION GODDAM SCREWS.

10:11
Oh.  It goes like that.

10:22
My hands smell like metal.

10:23
DAMMIT TUXEDO.

10:31
This doesn't fit.  This.  Doesn't.  Fit.  THISDOESN'TFIT.

10:32
OUCH MY HAND.

10:34
*Starts crying*

10:40
Perfect! Those screws don't have to be tight.  Hubby'll fix it.

10:44
Nap time!

 

Phase three of growing a tiny human

Hello dear friends.  Amazingly, I've managed to keep up with my iPhone pregnancy journal.  I know.  Incredible right?  So, picking up where I last left off...

December 26

[Telling the fam…]

Whoa THAT was a lot to take in. Glad everyone is excited but holy, overwhelming is an understatement.  

December 27

What do you mean the baby might not be ok?  Oh.  So that's the panic and fear everyone is talking about that will last for the next 50 years.  I was not AT ALL prepared for that.  The only thing keeping me sane right now? Tuxedo Cat is in a bag.

December 29

Much more emotionally stable today.  For now anyway.

December 31

I'm gonna be the dancin mom. All 90s all the time. I'm gonna learn all the backstreet boys dance moves. Mmmm Bop baby.

January 4

Dr appointment today. I love my doctor. I trust no one else. Everyone's a HACK. [And yes the baby was ok.  This is a reference to the fact that emergency room doctors are apparently not at all qualified to deal with such an array of medical concerns. My own doctor is never allowed to leave me.]

January 6

My doctor got me thinking about a midwife. Never considered it before. Don't know why. I guess I thought a 19 year old hippie named Willow wearing a hemp skirt would come to my house and whisper at me while I pushed a human out of my vagina “naturally” in a plastic kiddie pool. Turns out? Not exactly.

January 7

Hubby just came home from work with the RANKEST odor.  And proceeded to blame MY heightened sense of smell... uh, no. Do something about that.  Immediately.  

January 8

Wow. So, going to sleep at 7:30 every night is a real thing, eh.

January 9

I can't decide if dinner in bed is good for the soul or a very bad sign.  

January 10

Hey pants. You're too small. Fuck off.

January 11

Hubby was reading about baby proofing. "You're supposed to go around on your knees to see stuff from the baby's perspective. Luckily, Honey, I guess you won't have to do that."   Nice. Throw a short joke at the grumpy pregnant lady.

January 15

THERE ARE WINE SAMPLES IN THIS GROCERY STORE.  FUCK YOU, WORLD.  

January 30

Yay Hubby building the crib! I helped.  Mostly by sitting in the rocking chair.  But when asked to hold up one side, I totally did it.  I held that sucker up for at least 10 minutes.  ("held" = put my hand on it until I realized my hand was no longer needed because it was all done anyway)

My handywork

February 4

I was TOTALLY just advised by my doctor that my extra 300 calories per day can be junk food if good food is unappetizing.  Even better, Hubby needs to back off giving me a hard time about it. Bring on the Crispers.

February 8

So sleeping on my stomach is uncomfortable, and sleeping on my back will apparently result in the apocalypse. So, sides only? MY HIPS HURT.

February 9

February 10

I've had the most bizarre change of heart in the last couple of days. No more baby. Ha just kidding. I actually just think a boy would be good. Girls are assholes. I vote boy.

February 11

First day with elastic pants. I've put it off as long as humanly possible. One benefit: peeing is way easier when all you do is slide down your waistband.

February 19

Ultrasound day. Sitting in the waiting room.  No, Hubby, I don't have any games in my purse.  And to the lady filing her nails: STOP IT.

What do you MEAN it's a girl? What does that mean? 

February 20

Remember when I wanted to be kicked? So masochistic. Now? Stop kicking me you little brat! Ok don't,  But still.

February 28

Worst. Sleeping. Ever. Ouch my back. Ouch my hips. OUCH.

March 1

I'm beginning to think this baby is like Hubby. Can't sit still! My whole insides are flailing.  Either that or she's like me - a total asshole.  

March 3

My new nemesis? Indigestion. Which is particularly terrible for someone who physically does not know HOW to burp. (Swallow my air, I know I know. DOESN'T WORK YOU GUYS.)

March 4

We bought a stroller yesterday! And now I wish I had a baby to put into it. So far, all I have is a Tuxedo Cat.  But he likes riding around, that's for sure.  

March 5

My mood today equates to this: 

March 6

Bought our bassinet! And the cats love that too it.

March 7

Pregnant women resemble toddlers?  Um, yes.

March 9

Whatever you do, do NOT google "placenta images"

March 10

Ok. Who gave this little thing a bongo to play inside my uterus?  She could also probably stop jumping trampoline on my cervix.  

The last birthday of all time

Sadly, my five-day birthday celebration has come to an end.

I'm not normally one to extend the birthday process, particularly since I instituted my "I hate birthdays" policy 3 or 4 years ago - right around the time I became closer to age 30 than to age 20.  

However, I worked really friggin hard this winter - both at the office and in the laborious task of growing a tiny human - so I decided that a five day mini-holiday was in order.

Day 1

My actual birthday, which was mostly spent hanging around the house with my cats.  I might have even emptied the dishwasher, which has recently become a really effective storage system for clean dishes, while the counter has become a really big shelf for dirty ones.

I did have one agenda item for the day: renewing my driver's license and health card.  You know what that means, right?  It means getting my photo taken. DUN DUN DUN. And not just any photo - a photo that is going to last for the next FIVE GODFORSAKEN YEARS.

Five years is a long time, yo.  It's the difference between late twenties and mid thirties. Is PRE-BABY.  And it's even being taken on a day during which I actually have time to make myself look half-decent.

Given these indisputable facts, nobody in the history of the world has ever seen me with such cute hair and makeup on a random Friday afternoon.

TASK ACCOMPLISHED.

The rest of the evening was spent shopping around, without being rushed, and having a nice dinner with Hubby - who got me the best birthday gift ever.  

Days 2 and 3

Mini holiday with Hubby!  We drove to la belle provence, visiting Montréal for a night.

LOVED IT.  We wandered and shopped, went to a jazz club, shopped some more, walked 10,000 miles (which Hubby didn't even complain about!), bought new footwear, laughed hysterically at stupid shit that wouldn't be funny to anyone but us, and, la pièce de la resistance:  FISH PEDICURES.

I know some folks aren't on board with this particular activity, but I adored it.  Neither of us has been so relaxed.  We both nearly fell asleep and I don't remember the last time my mind was so clear and calm.

Day 4

I think we'll pretend this day didn't happen.  I was bummed this day, demotivated and tired.  I have these random Asshole Depression days once in a while that are not always attributed to any particular trigger.   So.  Forgetting it.  Moving on.

Day 5

BABIES! My wonderful friend let me accompany her to a museum with her lovely toddlers who of course were more entertained by walking/sliding/running up and down a ramp than by most other museumy-type things.

I then undertook some art projects for a friend's wedding festivities which if nothing else helped me feel productive.


And thus, the end of a five-day birthday break.  Which is perfect because I intend on having no further birthdays ever, for the rest of eternity, being frozen in my twenties forevermore.

Phase one of growing a tiny human

In case you missed my post the other day, I'm totally preggers you guys.  Full on growing a tiny human over here. 

Because I was desperately missing my blog and twitter outlet during the whole "try to keep this GIANT NEWS a secret for three entire months" time frame, I kept a brief diary in my kickass iPhone. 

Here are my earliest entries:

October 27

Miss Sarcasm arrived to visit me last night! We went to dinner and ate unpasteurized cheese and drank a glass of wine.  "Are you pregnant?" the waiter asked.  Nope! Bring on the bacteria cheese and alcohol!

But in the back of my mind? My period was due today... and yet, no sign of it...

October 28

Ok no period.  Must go to the drug store.  Then shopping and lunch with Miss Sarcasm!

I thought I'd take the test later tonight, once we went to bed.  But when I got home from lunch, I just couldn't wait any longer.  So I peed.  And guess what. 

1-2 what?  Children?

HOLY FUCK.  I was totally not expecting that.  I even bought 2 tests, because I'd need one of them next time, right?  Doesn't it take months and months to get pregnant? It's been maybe three months.  And I'm pretty sure we didn't even understand the precise timing requirements for the first two months.  So lucky...

And of course I couldn't even wait two minutes to tell Hubby.  Even though he was in the bathroom. 

"Hubby! Come out! I have something to tell you!"

When he walked out, I just said it.  "I'm pregnant!"  Then I hysterically laughed and waved a pee stick in his face and he just shouted "Are you serious?!" over and over while I freaked out. 

(Then for about 2 weeks after that, every single time he and I caught each other's eye, we'd raise our eyebrows, pull our cheeks back showing our teeth, and inhale deeply, to reveal an awkward panicked smile-type laugh.  Every. Single. Time.)

October 28

Oh, poor Hubby has to scoop the kitty litter.  SUCKER. 

Turns out, though, that I have to give up ALL THE THINGS.  What the fuck?  I can't even have a scalding hot bath - my favourite type of bath.  And yummy bacteria cheese? Gone.  And WINE. I can't even talk about wine. 

On the up-side, I get to use pregnancy as an excuse for pretty much everything.  So there's that.

October 29

I'm a mess. Fucking student doctor scaring the shit out of me and still managing to NOT answer a single one of my questions directly. I'm surely guilty for anything that goes wrong. This is too much responsibility.

October 31

And the hormones begin!  So emotional. Freak out at work and irritable with Hubby too. Not that that's any different, really, come to think of it.

Otherwise?  No symptoms!  No sore nipples, no sickness, no anything. I'm like one of those freaks who wouldn't know she's pregnant until a baby appeared in the toilet. (Which SERIOUSLY happened to a girl at my office. She really just thought she'd gained weight and had stomach problems. Until she gave birth in her bathroom. Then she called her mom. WHOA.)

I have to keep reminding myself that I haven't had my period. That's really the only proof for christsakes. 

November 7

I can't poop! That is so not like me.  I'm a pooping expert. 

And a nosebleed? What the fuck is that?

But Hubby found a random sign today, which is super exciting.

November 8

It's a sad day when I have to eat my cats' Metamucil.

November 9

I told hubby I wanted a girl.  A boy would be fine too, but I don't know what to do with a boy. Changing a diaper with one of those little things pointing at me would be super weird.

Later, Hubby spent a good five minutes crawling around on the kitchen floor, following me as I walked around, trying to hook my feet with the long string that he pulled out of his hoodie. Aaaannnddd this what having boys is like, then?

November 10

Are you in there little fetus? In 9 months will you come greet us? I will buy you some Adidas...




Oh, Phoebe.


More to come! Let the illness begin...

Where the fuck have I been? Not shopping.

Well, not dead, in case you were worried.  Not that many of you actually bothered to check.  Assholes. 

I'm not sure what that little month-long hiatus was all about.  It has been busy, with work, and Christmas, and you know, life.  But no worse than all the other times I've been drowning in my own misery while still managing to tell you all about it. 

For the record, I did write a whole post a couple of weeks ago, but my fucking Blogger iPhone app mysteriously lost the post when I tried to save it.  I cried a bit, and of course complained to my friends on the twitter, but I never re-wrote the damn thing.  Lazy bum. 

So here I am, a mere matter of days before Christmas and I have not even written to tell you that I've actually been in a damn pleasant Christmas mood for once!  (Compared to last year...)

When we put the Christmas lights in November, I didn't even care that it wasn't the official socially-accepted December 1st cut-off -- I totally turned those fuckers on every night at 4:30 like it was Santa's goddam village. 

When I say "we" put up the Christmas lights... that *might* be Hubby.

Since then I've been singing carols, and eating junk food, and doodling elf doodles, and watching holiday movies like is the last Christmas known to humanity (which if the Mayans have any say in it, it probably is). 


Elf doodles



I think the best part about this Christmas was that we agreed with our families: NO GIFTS.  This has seriously made all the difference to my otherwise Scroogy nature.  I find I'm not stressed about finding the perfect present, or making time to shop, or falling into the front door overloaded with bags and bags of crap.  I don't have to keep track of receipts.  I don't have to attempt to WRAP oddly shaped gadgets without ripping the paper.  I don't even have to THINK about anything other than visiting with my family, staring at my Christmas tree, and drinking gallons of eggnog.  Best.  Christmas.  Ever. 



Where's Waldo Tuxedo Cat



Now, I did get a couple of small tokens for those closest to us.  And I did send some gifts to friends who live far away.  I'm not a total asshole about it.  But the giant list of things to buy?  No such thing.  And it may be one of the better decisions I've ever made. 

I hope y'll are having a wonderful holiday time, or at least that you're drunk enough to pretend. 

I just want the pony treasure

GOBBLE GOBBLE. 

It's Thanksgiving here in Canada, so Hubby and I ventured down to visit the fam.  We first went to my Aunt and Uncle's house in small-town Ontario on Saturday night, and then yesterday we visited with Hubby's family in Hometown. 

Yesterday afternoon we went out walking at my happy place with Ma and Pa in law, Cousin J and her adorable dog, and Uncle D and Aunt K and their two girls.  (I call them "girls" because in my head they're still 2 and 5 years old.  Never mind the fact that it's been 11 years since I met them.)



My Happy Place.

Only, this wasn't just any ol' nature walk.  This was "geocaching." 

Have you heard of this, this geocaching? 

Here's what I understand:

People all over the world log onto GeoCaching.com and then they go on a treasure hunt.  The "treasures" are hidden in public places by other people and then marked by map coordinates.  Then hunters use their smartphones and GPS devices to locate the treasures (also known as "caches" to people who actually know what they're talking about).  When you find a cache, you sign your name, take a picture, and then log it on the website. 

It's all very exciting.

So we started off on the treasure hunt that Uncle D had planned out for us.  I was totally on board.  I love walking, I love nature, and I love doing fun things with our family. 

I also love treasure. 

So when Uncle D announced that we'd arrived at the GPS coordinates for the first cache, we went eagerly searching through the woods.  This went on for at least 5 minutes before we gave up.  Sorry, folks, but there was no damn treasure there.  Geocachers are LIARS. 

Despite our initial failure, we carried onward and upward.  We found the second, third, fourth, AND fifth caches.  SUCCESS! 

Although, it's possible that by the time we got to the fourth cache, I was losing interest.  I was far more fascinated by Hubby's poking stick. 



This is Hubby's poking stick. Notice its length, making surprise distance poking possible.




This is Hubby's poking face.  He needs to concentrate very carefully. 



This is Pa in Law, after having been mysteriously poked. 

I might have also been distracted by tiny hungry birds.   

That's a tiny hungry bird on Hubby's hand.  Eating birdseed that Hubby stole found.   

 

When Uncle D asked me to dig out the fourth little treasure box, I was mostly just annoyed that it wasn't the My Little Pony theme I had been promised, and that the congratulations letter was way too long. 

So it turns out that I'm not a good geocacher.   In any case, I've learned that geocaching is more about the experience of the hunting, rather than the finding of the treasure.  Just like life. 

(Although I may or may not have subsequently downloaded the geocaching app and learned that there are half a dozen treasures caches RIGHT NEAR MY HOUSE.  Maybe.)

 

 

We're all going to fall to our deaths. Basically.

For Christsakes.

It's been fairly discouraging at work lately. We're working on a big project and everywhere we turn there's a new fucking pothole in our way. "Can't go over it, can't go under it, gotta go through it."

So we patch up the potholes, or we find a way around, or we curse until we feel better and try to move on.

But sometimes they aren't just potholes. Sometimes they are giant fucking caverns and caves and mystery mad hatter rabbit holes that lead us to hell in a goddam coffin masquerading as a hand basket.

So it's frustrating.

To say the least.

And then tonight, I was pretty pleased with myself. I tolerated my day and managed to work EXACTLY eight hours. I arrived at 9:40 and then I was perfectly ready to leave at 5:40.

So I did.

I walked in the rain to the bus stop, waited, got onto a damp and smelly bus, opened my book, and tried to tune out the world for my next 45 to 50 minutes of peace.

And then, 5 minutes from my last stop, the bus just. stopped. moving. It just stopped.

Now. In a city of expert bus designers, our buses never just stop. There are bus lanes and terminals and all forms of this-isn't-a-subway-but-it's-almost-the-same-we-swear tactics that keep our buses running smoothly.

Sometimes.

Kind of.

Probably.

So when my bus came to a dead halt in the highway bus lane, my confusion slowly turned to frustration, which in my case usually leads to homicidal tendencies.

As you can surely imagine, my murderous rage didn't improve much as we sat there FOR 25 MINUTES. 

And do you care to know WHY this injustice was brought upon me?

Behold:

POTHOLE.

It was a fucking pothole, people.

No. Not a pothole. A SINKHOLE.

That's a car. IN A SINKHOLE.

That car there - the one with its ass end sticking out of the highway - is not hunting for buried treasure; it is not pretending it is a cartoon ostrich; it is not digging a fort.

No.

That car GOT SUCKED INTO THE EARTH BY THE COMMUTING DEMON WHO IS SET ON RUINING MY LIFE.

Don't worry. The guy got out ok. He just crawled out (wtf) and now he has a great story for dinner parties. 

As for me, not only did I get home an hour late, but now I'm terrified that the ground is just going to open up randomly under my feet like those apocalypse movies when the earth cracks and all the people try to run but the crack spreads and they all get sucked in and I'm obviously going to fall miles and miles to my eventual painful demise.

Or worse, I might get trapped in a muddy pit.

Either way, it ain't pretty.

I mostly just drank wine with a sticky face.

Cottage! Cottage cottage cottage! We went to the cottage!

K, so we don't have a cottage, but my best friend A does. Well, her family does. So every year for her birthday, all her friends pile into their cars and drive out to the lake.

And that's just what Hubby and I did this past weekend.  It all started on Saturday morning.

7:00 - Hubby and I wake up.

7:45 - Hubby starts shouting because WE HAVE TO LEAVE AT 8:00

8:15 - I get out of bed.

9:30 - Hubby starts shouting because he's done all the packing and all I've done is NOTHING.

9:45 - I vaccuum. 

9:55 - We leave.

10:01 - While Hubby is pumping gas, I offer to get him a coffee. I ask him what size but then I decide he only needs a small. He asks for medium. I say small. He says medium. I leave. The guy next to us laughs.

10:04 - I emerge with two small coffees. Both are the perfect size.

10:05 - Hubby admits that he bought too many bags of ice as we try to jam it all into our coolers. I remind Hubby that there are two refrigerators at the cottage. And two freezers.

10:06 - We realize that Hubby forgot the chicken. And the dip.

11:06 - We stop at a small town grocery store. We buy chicken and dip. And birthday candles.

12:07 - We arrive at the cottage. We want to make sandwiches. We realize that Hubby forgot to buy bread.

12:08 - The sun comes out and the alcohol begins to flow.

Best.  Cottage.  Ever. 

Sometime before sunset -  People play bocci ball. I drink wine. People play noodle wars. I drink wine. People swim and play ladder golf. I drink wine and beer. People make me dinner. I eat it. And I drink wine.

Noodle wars.

Sometime after sunset -  I make s'mores with Caramilk bars. My face gets really sticky. Someone tries to stuff a million marshmallows into someone else's mouth. I drink wine. Some other people play euchre. I drink wine. Hubby plays guitar while I shout requests in his direction. We sing. I drink wine, I think, although my memory is a little sketchy. I light candles in cupcakes and we all sing Happy Birthday. My face gets sticky again.

Later -  Hubby and I go to bed. Other people try to blame Hubby for annoying erratic iPod selections, even though he's asleep. Hubby's friend threatens to come into our room and "stramroll" Hubby. I know he won't dare because he fears me like the wrath of god. As he should. Hubby's friend abandons his threat, as predicted, adding "Laugh it up Marianna" as he walks away from our door.

Sometime after sunrise - Hubby and I get up. Hubby sits by the water.  I clean the cupcakes, cups, bottles, and gross guacamole off the picnic table. It takes too long.  I read my book for several hours in between breakfast and game  playing watching.

Later - We avoid rain repeatedly and finally give up and go inside. My friend does a puzzle. I start to help her until until I get annoyed.

Around 4:00 - Hubby and I drive home. We see a giant rainbow. 



Fact: I am PLAYFUL.

In honour of Miss Sarcasm's Operation Play More, here is a list of things I've done recently that I consider "playing" ...

1) I BOOKED A TRIP TO CHICAGO.  With other bloggers.  Yeah.  To drink beer and eat pizza. And to be ridiculous.  Because that's my specialty. 

2) I smeared yellow dandelion goop on my friend Phil's arm.  And then I ran away.

3) I made s'mores on the fire.  Yes, the fire.  That Hubby made.  This weekend.  In our house.  In June. 

4) I took off from work and bought popsicles for my colleagues.  And then I ate them.  K, not all of them, but at least two. 

5) I went to see Snow White and the Huntsman with the girls.  And I squealed childishly when the trailer for the final Twilight movie played.  And then I squealed even more when almost every scene in Snow White was the same as those in Twilight.  Like, THE SAME.  (Except for the ones with Charlese Theron.  Charlese Theron is a beautiful genius.)  Oh, and I also spent $4.51 on the smallest bag of peanut M&Ms known to humanity, simply to avoid eating the GREEN BEANS my friends were snacking on.  Losers. 

6) I became a #gooseabductor.  Rather, I tried to.  Not really geese.  More like goslings.  I've not yet been successful, but I haven't given up.  Hint for other potential goose abductors: mother geeses don't like when you try to abduct their babies. 

Days 7, 8, and 9 - Three birds stoned at once

At some point in the very distant past, I started partaking in something called a 30 day blog challenge.  Well, actually, I took the liberty of renaming it the 100 day blog challenge. 

But something tells me it's been more than 100 days.  When was September?

In any case, I've only done six entries. 

Yeah.  I'm a role model.  Whatever. 

Anyway, I decided randomly to go back to it.  In fact, I'm going to get three birds stoned at once here, and wrap up days 7, 8, and 9 all in one go.  Yay me.  You should be inspired.  I'm a big time over-achiever, yo. 

So.  Day 7.  A hobby you have. 

Umm, let me think, maybe... BLOGGING? 

Well, at least I used to do some blogging, if you exclude the last 10 or so days in which I've not blogged even once. 

Although I love blogging, sometimes there just isn't inspiration.  Other times there may be inspiration, but no time.   And lately there's been a lack of both those components.  (The truth is, if I'd had inspiration, I would have made time.  I'm selfish like that.) 

Alright. On to Day 8.  A picture of someone or something that has the biggest impact on you. 

Ok, so you're all waiting for me to show a picture of Hubby.  So here. 

Of course Hubby is the light of my life, my hero, the wind beneath my wings.  But I wanted to think beyond the obvious.  Get creative and whatnot.  

So I started thinking about what's had the greatest impact on me lately, and this is what I came up with. 

Miss Sarcasm is the cutest most wonderful friend ever, internet or otherwise, and she decided last night that she's going to come. visit. me. this. fall. 

And then I nearly died. 

And then Carm said she'd come too and then I basically fainted.

This brings us to the third stoned bird.  Day 9.  Short term goals for the month and why. 

Blog more.  Because it's fun.  (This relates to the Day 7 entry.  Clearly.) 

I'd also like to make fun summer plans.  I'd like to go to Chicago as part of a blogger beer and cheese fest.  WITH MISS SARCASM.  (Note Day 8.)  And then I'd like to return to the death coffin water slide.  And maybe do some island living.  Aaaaaanddd... hmmm... other fun stuff.  Whatever.  Nothing is off the table. 

Finally, I'd like to get off my ass.  My ass is a lot bigger these days (Depression will do that to a person) so I'd like to ride my bike.  Throw a frisbee.  Get back to yoga and maybe even kickboxing.

Basically, I'd like to stop feeling like shit about myself. 

So this post is the first step (or first three steps, I guess) in doing that. 

I'm a risk-averse cat mom.

Y'all know I love my cats. 

But did you know that I love them so much that I would never ever in a million years let them outside? 

It's scary out there! There are threats around every corner.  Poisonous plants, and pesky fleas, and SKUNKS.  And we all know how I feel about skunks. 

Way to risky.  Especially for a particularly risk-averse cat Mom.  Not to mention once they get out, there's no stopping them.  They'll want out all the time.  There's no going back. 

Hubby, on the other hand, has been bothering me for years - YEARS - to just let the damn kittens out already.  Just in the yard.  They'll be fine, he says.  We'll monitor them.  They'll keep us company.  They'll love it.  Look, they want out so badly! Ahhh, poor kitties.  Yadda yadda. 

Well, last weekend, after years of resistance, I gave in.  Just for Patches.  Patches is seasoned.  She is trustworthy.  She's calm, reasonable, and entirely disinterested in anything but grass and shade. 

Tuxedo, by contrast, is neurotic and as stupid as sin. 

So, after all my concern, I guess I'm glad I finally allowed this.  Not only was Patches over the moon with pleasure... she was the cutest. friggin. thing. EVER. in the history of the world. 
 

And yes, she paces and cries to go outside now.  But whatever.  I can live with that.

Randy Fenoli is an adorable genius

My best friend Skippy is getting married next year!  So excited for her.  I'm even more excited that she picked yours truly to be her Maid of Honour.  (Don't ever say Matron. I WILL kick you in the kidney.)

As part of my Maid of Honour duties, I saw an ad for a bridal show taking place in Buttfuck Nowhere 40 minutes outside of Hometown.  So what? you may be wondering. 

Well, first of all, you should know that leaving work, driving to Hometown, and then driving to a CHURCH in Buttfuck Nowhere for a bridal show was not necessarily my idea of the best Friday night activity ever. 

But I was WRONG. 

Not only were there yummy meatballs at one of the kiosks, and not only was there a 17 year old Courtney Love wannabe hanging around for me to make fun of, but there was also...

RANDY FENOLI from SAY YES TO THE DRESS. 

I  kid you not, my friends. 

"Look at me. I'm an adorable genius with a gorgeous outfit."

Now. What in god's name Randy was doing in Buttfuck is a question for someone far smarter than me,  However, he did happen to appear on the Marilyn Dennis Show in Toronto the day before, so maybe he was just maximizing his time here in the Great White North.

In any case, Randy was fabulous.  He didn't merely show up - he did a whole presentation.  He told stories, made jokes, showed pictures, answered questions, and signed at least a couple hundred autographed headshots.  He was genuine, kind, and honest.  And he looked adorable. 

Randy with Skippy's future mother in law.  That's not her real face. 

Randy's whole message to brides, and to women in general, was to elevate themselves.  We are all beautiful.  We all deserve happiness.  And our weddings should reflect the story of who we are as women.  We can have what we want.  We just have to go out there and grab it. 

I now heart Randy Fenoli. 


*A special dedication to Multi Tasking Mumma who, I found out later, was actually at this same friggin event with me.  Totally random that we'd be in the same blogging circles, and then accidentally cross paths in real life - only to figure that out when it was too late to actually chat.  Classic prank, Interwebs.  Classic prank.

A map of my favourite dead person spot

I went walking with Momma on Sunday.  I have a favourite walking place in Hometown, with gorgeous paths through the woods on the lake.  I love it.  It makes me happy and helps me find peace and it is therefore where you all should throw me when I die.  My ashes, I mean.  Not my body.  That would be weird. 




My favourite spot


I told Momma she'll have to show Hubby where my favourite spot is - you know, for my ashes.  But then it occurred to me that I kinda hope Momma's not still alive when I die.  I mean, OF COURSE I DO, but if I die before her..., I think that's somehow worse, isn't it? 

Although, come to think of it, that'd be WAY easier on me emotionally, so maybe it is a good idea for me to kick the bucket ahead of time.  

In any case, I now think it's important to draw a map of my favourite spot so you will all know where I want to be laid to "rest".  (Not that it really matters.  I'll be dead.  I won't know.)

When you throw me over the edge, you should also be sure to bring some birdseed.  I love feeding the birds at my Happy Place.  Maybe just try not to mix up the ashes and the birdseed.  I don't want birds eating me, if it can be avoided.  (But again, maybe I'll never know.  But maybe I will.  Maybe I'll haunt and follow you all everywhere you go, pointing out all your mistakes and laughing at you.  That sounds like me.)

Me feeding a bird.  Like Mary Poppins. 

If you need any further instructions, you should probably contact Hubby.  Or Momma. Even if she's already dead.  She's a little psychic or something, so I think if you called her, she'd probably just show up.  Watch out though - she's known to sneak up on people. And she's startling when she's alive, so dead? She'd be a friggin heart stopper. 

Leaping. Or something.

Some things I did today to make this extra 24 hours of leap time particularly spectacular and productive:

I fell back to sleep after showering this morning.

I got a stripey mark on my cheek from the towel on my head. 

I took this picture of my cats. 

I cried about a funeral I couldn't go to. 

I got a ride with Hubby to work, leaving him to attend a funeral on his own. 

I did some work. 

I threw a donut/cookie/coffee party for my colleagues.  Yay. 

I ate a giant ginger cookie. 

I drank a cup of coffee.  SCREW YOU, TEA. 

I ate a double chocolate donut. SCREW YOU, ARTERIES. 

I annoyed my boss by being forgetful at an inopportune moment.

I remembered to eat lunch. 

I annoyed my boss by being slightly argumentative all afternoon. 

I re-wrote someone else's work. 

I made Hubby pick me up from work at 6:30, on his way home from funeral services.

I had a bath.

I twittered. 

I "blogged".

And now I'm watching Modern Family. 

Click here.  ABC .com 

I call all that success. 

Carmen is a total hottie

I got a wicked birthday present this year.  I got to go out west for a short business trip.  But the business trip wasn't the present... aside from stupid work crap, there is one friggin sweet prize out west:  one of my bestest blogger friends, Carmen!  And we actually got to MEET.  Not just meet, but hang out.  In a bar.  With wine.  AND CHEESE.

In case you aren't already jealous (but let's be honest, how could you not be?), here are the top ten things you may or may have known about my awesome friend Carm. 

10) She will drive all the way from her house into the city to pick me up and take me to a bar. 

 9) She won't know what bar, but she'll find one with a parking lot. 

 8) She may or may not hit a pedestrian.  But she stops at green lights.   

 7) She'll flirt with the bartender and totally blame it on me.  But we'll get birthday shots.

 6) Her boobs are AHmazing.  (Said the old lady to the sailor.)

 5) She is wicked funny and totally gets my stupid sense of humour. 

 4) She spells humoUr correctly, because she's CANADIAN like me.

 3) She's a real human being - funny and genuine and smart and normal.  (Despite HUbby's concerns that she is some internet stalker/robot.)

 2) She is SUCH a good mom - doesn't put up with any shit! And so proud of her kids. 

 1) She won't hesitate to snuggle with me in my bed and take pictures.  But she will laugh till she snorts.  Although she'll excuse herself for snorting, because she's super polite like that. 

I had such a fun time with Carmen.  I wish she lived near me so we could hang out all the time.  I also wish all us awesome bloggers could get together more often - I'm considering Chicago this June... who's in?