How to be good at chores in 16 easy steps

Parenthood is an unrelenting barrage of chores. It's a barrage of other things too, but the chores - good god the chores.

Now, to be clear, I don't really care about chores. My house is not one of those pristine magazine houses. On a good day, it barely passes for hygienic. My house is a solid tolerable, and often in some state of repair or renovation (thank you Hubby).

Generally my house borders on embarrassing, but can sometimes look like at least I turned on the robot vacuum.

However, I still do chores. A fucking endless, painful, surprising series of chores that keep my house precariously perched on the fence between "hmm what's that lingering stench?" and "holy shit we gotta call someone my socks are stuck to the floor wait is that poop of course it is what else would it be."

So today I had a single chore goal. Usually, I have zero chore goals. Each day passes with a three-year old yelling and running and making all matter of messes (including, but not limited to, playdoh on the table, milk on the couch, rice on the floor, and paint in her hair) as well as a six-month old who actively spits all of his saliva, food and breastmilk on any and all surfaces.

Whatever chores get done in between all that are a miracle. On an average day, the dishes don't get done and piles of clean and/or dirty laundry become excellent floor pillows for Hubby and I during our best "yes I'm parenting even if I am laying on the floor with my eyes closed" moments.

But this morning, Fraggle marched into our bedroom at her precise 7:17 and announced that her nighttime diaper had leaked into her pants, and therefore into her sheets.

Enter: chore goal.

Today's chore simply had to ensure that I am a good enough parent that my kid doesn't have to sleep in a possibly pee-ish bed.

Chore goal failed, as I'm sure you predicted. Because life.  Fraggle napped in her possibly pee-ish sheets this afternoon.

BUT - I did not allow myself to be deterred. I swore, tonight I will be a better parent than I was this morning. Tonight I will change those godforsaken sheets if it kills me.

And kill me it nearly did.

After washing windows, making dinner, sorting closets, and then feeding, bathing and bedding the baby, this is what it takes to complete a single chore goal in my house:

Step 1 - Strip the pee-ish sheets.

Step 2 - Realize you don't have a clean sheet.

Step 3 - Go down to the main floor to retrieve the clean laundry hamper, for the clean sheet.

Step 4 - Return upstairs, put away those clean clothes, spread out the clean sheet but then realize you don't have a clean towel to lay under the sheet to protect the mattress from other pee-ish nights.

Step 5 - Go down to the basement to retrieve a clean towel from the dryer.

Step 6 - Fold all the laundry from the dryer and put it into a hamper.

Step 7 - Put the wet stuff from the washer into the dryer.

Step 8 - Put new stuff in the washer.

Step 9 - Carry the hamper up - wait, stop - scoop the kitty litter.

Step 10 - Wash hands.

Step 11 - Carry the bag of cat feces up to the garbage.

Step 12 - Take the recycling out because it's overflowing on the back deck and Hubby keeps ranting about it.

Step 13 - Wash hands.

Step 14 - Return to the basement to retrieve the clean laundry hamper, dig out the clean towel buried at the bottom because fucking idiot.

Step 15 - Heave the clean laundry hamper up the stairs and make the child's bed.

Step 16 - Put the pee-ish sheets into another hamper - wait, stop - all the hampers are already in use fuck that - launch the dirty pee-ish sheets over the stair railing.

Oh, and, you have to do all that silently because - duh - sleeping baby.

There it is.  Now you, too, can be the best mediocre parent. You're welcome. Pass the beer.

Goddamit, New Year. Gimme a break.

Happy New Year!  And sincere apologies if you, too, are in the process of readjusting to the throes of Real Life.  

Having 10 days of vacation during the Christmas holidays is a blessing and a curse.  What we actually need is 10 days off beforehand to prepare all the things (Sorry Gram, I haven’t mailed your gift yet but I still love you.), and then 10 days off afterward to recover.  

If you’re like me, you run yourself ragged before and during Christmas (Sure, let’s make lunch for 15 people on Boxing Day.), and then spend the remaining holiday sitting in your pajamas eating Lindt chocolates and watching Downton Abbey.  

Until.  

Until the return to Real Life, where all of a sudden it snows two feet, and shifts from a balmy, non-winter 16 degrees on Christmas Eve, to a painful, colder-than-a-witch’s-titty minus 30 degrees the Monday I return to work.  

This is all miserable for most people, I’d venture.  For me, add a toddler who needs to wear nine layers of wool and can’t zip up her own snowsuit because her giant mittens turn her arms into little, useless, puffy snowman sticks floating off the side of her body.  Plus:  A tiny human growing increasingly cumbersome in my abdomen, making it near impossible to bend, sit, stand, breathe, or otherwise function.  

It’s all a bit much.  

Then today happened.  Still minus 30 degrees, still a floating arm toddler, still a breathless mess, and – wait for it – stuck in a snowbank.  

Driving away from daycare, I misjudged (read: didn’t look at) the width of the poorly-ploughed residential street and drove into a pile of snow/ice boulders and couldn’t move an inch.  I don’t know if you’ve ever floored your car in reverse, but if you’re stuck, nothing happens except a big cloud of exhaust.  

The whole situation left me hunched over the front wheel, seven months pregnant, sad and tiny yellow shovel in hand, ridiculous pashmina scarf in my face, hacking away at the bottom of my already demolished bumper.  At minus 30.  With the gas light on - because of course it was.  

Fifteen minutes and several cursey rants later, I managed to rock my car free and make it to a gas station in time to pump 17 dollars’ worth of over-priced gas at a freezing, windy gas station.   

I’ll take my year on maternity leave with no sleep and a screaming baby now, thanks.  

Careful. Don't pee in the bath.

Last Friday was a good day.

Just like every Friday, we kicked it off with Baby-Mommy Yoga (aka "Baby-Mommy Sitting On A Mat").  This is the highlight of my week due mostly to the lovely moms I get to hang out with and our visit to the coffee shop afterward.

Later that afternoon, I got to experience my favourite part of motherhood - watching her learn.  You see, after a month of plainly sitting in her bouncer and staring at the toys, she finally figured out how to actually bounce. And bounce and bounce and bounce.

When Hubby arrived home, he played with Fraggle while I - wait for for - GOT DRESSED UP AND WENT TO A PARTY.  Yes, that's right.  I curled my ever-decreasing hair, put on a dress and heels, and went to dinner with a room full of adults - adults who spoke to me about adult topics.

(Although I adore talking with my mom friends at a coffee shop following Baby-Mommy Mat Sitting, my conversation earlier that day was primarily centred around the fear of having my nipples bitten off by a teething baby, and the joyous procedure of sucking snot out of her nose.)

Not only did I relish in adult conversation, I also enjoyed belting out K-Os' "The Dog Is Mine" at the highest possible volume on my fancy car stereo, ate a giant steak meal, downed a glass of pinot grigio, and... ATE ICE CREAM FOR THE FIRST TIME IN FOUR MONTHS.  (Thank you Fraggle for your improved tolerance of dairy in my diet.)

I arrived home a mere two and a half hours later after what felt like a miraculous three days of freedom.  After ranting to Hubby about my joyous solo outing, I headed upstairs for my regular evening bath, Kobo e-reader in hand.

This is where I was unceremoniously reminded of my new parental identity.

I was enjoying my hot bath and e-book, when I suddenly had the urge to pee.  Now, in case you didn't already know, a mother's bladder control is not what it once was, before she pushed a tiny human out of an even tinier hole.  So, the urge to pee is not something that can be ignored.  I jumped out of the tub and in my haste dropped my e-reader directly into the water.

This was precisely my fear four years ago when Momma bought it for me.  Of course the damn thing went sketchy.  Ruined I was sure.

Hubby happened to come up and I begged him, dripping wet and precariously holding my pee, to bring me some rice - because when you accidentally immerse your electronic device in water, burying it in rice helps eliminate the moisture.

That said, I had little hope of saving my Kobo, humbled by my realization that no day is perfect.

It seems, however, that the universe was watching out for me that day, because guess what?  My Kobo works.  Perfectly.

So now I want to thank the people of Kobo for making an e-reader with the durability to survive a new mother, a bathtub, and weak bladder control.  And also Uncle Ben's rice, for supporting its recovery. My only question is if the rice is still edible...

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.

Kickin' ass and takin' names. Or not.

Today was going well.  Better than yesterday at least. 

Baby Fraggle woke at a decent time, and we were on track - on track for our newly created get-the-baby-to-nap-so-we-don't-go-insane plan.  She had a half-nap this morning IN HER CRIB (never mind the fact that I sat there with her) before we walked over to the grocery store and pharmacy. 

I was kickin' ass and takin' names.  These are big accomplishments, people.  Don't doubt me. 

Furthermore, on the way home I encountered an actual mail man at the actual mail box, with whom I had an actual conversation and he even mailed my actual letters. 

By the time we arrived home, Fraggle was still sleeping in her stroller (WIN), so we sat on the front step allowing me a precious 10 minutes to soak up the sun and tweet up something fierce.

Then something went awry...

About 15 minutes after coming inside, I noticed the front door was open. 

Fucking holy hell shitballs craphole dammit where are the fucking cats. 

Tuxedo was, as usual, under the shrub by the front step, since he's too damn stupid to venture far.  I spooked him, so he came flying into the house - covered cobwebby junk.   

Patches though.  Where was Patches?  I called her name, no luck.  I clinked her food bowl, no luck. 

Umm, uh oh. 

And a tiny human inside that I couldn't, ya know, leave alone. 

This is when it happened.  A matter of time, really.  The "turns out I don't love the cats as much as the child" moment officially occurred.  It's been coming for a while (such as when they are meowing like lunatics at 3am), but this was the true moment in which changing and feeding the baby was potentially more important than hunting for the stupid cat...

But then it wasn't. 

So back in the stroller goes the baby, and off we go, wandering through the neighbours' backyards, clinking bowls and shouting PATCH for everyone to hear.  The little shithead emerged from a backyard a few houses down, running for the food her clinking bowl seemed to indicate. 

Thanks to all that I missed the baby's "sleep window" so Fraggle is now accidentally sleeping in her swing, rather than her crib (but at least sleeping thank heaven). 

Oh, and I just unloaded the grocery bag and it turns our that I bought the wrong fucking coffee.

So, not acing this motherhood thing yet, eh?

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!

 

My life: the movie.

Life in this house is a matter of several stupid moments strung together into a series of idiocy that must at least merit a low budget short-film with a cast of unknown actors.

==================

Hubby:  I vacuumed the whole basement yesterday. 

Me:  Oh, great. 

Hubby:  And then, once I finished, I noticed that the vacuum hose was detached.  Just the beater was working.  Nothing was getting sucked up.  ...  So I vacuumed the whole thing again. 

Me:  *laughing at Hubby's expense*

==================

 

I was in a deep sleep this morning.  It was 4:38 am.  I was dreaming.  And then I was shockingly and abruptly awakened by a giant anvil falling onto my chest! 

 

Ok, so it was less of an anvil, and more of a Tuxedo Cat who got spooked by Hubby's pillow-flip, ran onto my chest, and pushed off into the air. 

 

But it felt like an anvil.  And I was so dazed and confused that hyperventilation quickly followed, while both Hubby and Tuxedo Cat stared and waited for calm to return and logic to reign. 

 

==================

 

Hubby:  The new IOS6 came out today.  You can update your phone. 

 

Me:  Yeah?  How long does it take?

 

Hubby:  Oh, about 30 or 45 minutes I guess. 

 

Me:  And can I use my phone while it updates?

 

Hubby:  Well, no .

 

Me:  ...

 

Hubby:  You're never going to do it, are you?  You'll just have the old version forever. 

 

Me:  Yeah, that's what I was thinking. 

 

==================

Ever been drunk before? I bet you have.

Have you ever gone to bed at 2:30am totally wham-shammered a little bit tipsy, only to find that you took the sheets off earlier that day and forgot to replace them before drinking several glasses of red wine throughout the evening?

No?

Well, good on ya, because it's tricky making the bed under those circumstances.  Trust me. 

First of all, you have to pick all the matching pillowcases of the right sizes and shapes. Then you have to struggle with that damn fitted sheet, which means you may or may not end up stumbling and falling face-first into the mattress.  Repeatedly. Probably. 

Also?  All those duvet cover buttons are fucking difficult. 

So what led to this disaster, you might be wondering?

Hubby's buddy, known around here as Larry (as in: Larry, Hubby, and Moe), came for a visit with his adorable and hilarious - and very wine-generous - girlfriend.  Let's call her Shemp. 

Shemp brought the red wine, and then when that ran out, Hubby miraculously found a couple more bottles. Before we knew it: I was winning at Taboo; Hubby was throwing Taboo cards across the room; Shemp was suggesting we play Apples to Apples instead; Hubby was spilling red wine on the carpet; Shemp was grinding a salt shaker all over the stain; Larry was showing off the speckled reddish purple spots on his socks; Shemp was vacuuming up the salt; and I was eating stuffed crust pizza. 

And then, THEN, is when things took a turn for the better.  Because that's when, my dear friends, my favourite activity of all time took place.

Late night living room dance party, y'all. 

Which if you've ever read my bio, you know is truly the best thing that could ever happen.

Now.  You'd think that all that jumping and hopping and singing and running and moon-walking and sock-sliding would somehow reduce the effects of the red wine... but I think it has the opposite effect.  Like, somehow, it gets your blood pumping rapidly so all the alcohol goes coursing through your veins even faster than it normally would.  Or something. 

So by the time 2:30 came around, and the last song had been played (Beyoncé, If I Were a Boy - DUH), finding the bed unmade was a matter worth shouting and complaining about.  I nearly stole Larry and Shemp's guest bed. 

That said, it's been a while since I've laughed so hard at Hubby, so at least there's that. 

I'm a golf pro. Deal with it.

I went golfing tonight.  And by "golfing" I mean "sitting in the cart and drinking beer while Hubby and our friends golfed" because I don't golf. 

How people could voluntarily expose themselves to utter frustration and pain by trying to use a long stick to hit a tiny little ball hundreds of metres down a giant green field, I will NEVER understand. 

So instead, I volunteered to drive the cart.  And get the beers. 

Here.  I drew it for you. 

This is Hubby and our friends teeing off. 
That pink ball is Hubby's. 
Just kidding. 
But that is him wearing his aviators. 
Except he shoots all wonky.  A righty lefty. 

And this is me.  In my cart.  Supervising. 

Then I took some pictures. 
Boredom was setting in. 
It had been one hole. 

Me, running to catch the beer cart. 
WAIT! HELP ME!

Me, drinking my beer, paying no attention whatsoever to the golfers. 

Me, tweeting. 
Telling stories about that time Hubby tried to fake out his buddies while driving the cart. 
Except he faked too far and ended up driving the fucking thing into the waterhole. 
Apparently the best part was his popping up shouting "HELP ME!" to his buddies.
So they could help him yank the cart out of the lake. 
Nice one, Hubby.

Me, hunting for long-lost golf balls. 
Just for the pure thrill of it. 
And constantly being reminded to stay out of the line of fire of people actually playing golf on the golf course. 

The four of us eating dinner.
Hubby stewing a bit about his game. 
Me trying to ignore all golf talk entirely. 

And apparently we all became zombies. 

Another "Wow, I'm awesome" installment. And also? OUCH.

Remember that time I ran upstairs in the dark, carrying the cat, stubbed my toe, and impaled my ribs with the vacuum?

That was good times. 

And I was unceremoniously reminded of how much fun that had been early this morning. 

I was in the closet, in my underwear, trying to find something to wear to work.  Hubby had already left, so I was just watchin' the news and hangin' out with Tuxedo and Patches.  And Scarlet. (Scarlet is my iPhone.)

And then I heard Hubby return.  And when he called up "Hello?" I quickly stepped out of the closet to respond. 

Or, rather, I tried to step out of the closet. 

Before I knew what the fuck was going on, I caught my right foot somewhere between Patches' four feet and her fat droopy belly, stumbled, sidestepped, attempted some sort of martial-arts-double-flip-swivel-kick, and then landed sideways with my back smashing into the closet doorknob. 

"FUCK.  Fucking CHRIST mother effing ass shit fuckface FUCK!"

The dutiful Hubby that he is: "Are you ok?!"

"NO."

But I was.  I mean, I lost some lung air, I'm pretty sure there's a tender dent in my back flesh, and my bus ride to work was way too fucking JOLTY, but, yeah, generally I survived the incident. 

And so did Patches, thank goodness.  She sat on the floor looking up at us with shocked "innocent" eyes wondering what in the name of all that is holy fucking happened.  And she may or may not be afraid to go in the closet from now on. 

But we're both fine.  Ice and advil fixes a lot of stuff. 

Poor Hubby. And I'm an idiot.

Last night Hubby and I were preparing for bed - cleaning up the kitchen, feeding the cats, arguing about kitty litter, and the like. 

We were putting away the remnants from dinner, and I was packing the leftovers for my lunch at work (because the effing cafeteria is a renovation disaster, so they can't make all the food, not that the food was any good to begin with, but now it's just worse, unless I toast my own toast where every other person before me has left all their fucking dirty toast crumbs in the margarine). 

As I was packing up my lunch of left-overs, a thought crossed my mind.  And for those of you who are married (or something similar), you may know what it's like to live with someone and basically just blurt out every random thought because... well... because the other person is in earshot. 

Me:  You know what I've determined?

Hubby:  What?

Me:  That if I cook all the red peppers at night and then reheat them in the microwave at work the next day, they're way to soggy.  I'm much better off if I just cut RAW red pepper into my tupperware.  Then, when I warm up the pasta, the peppers cook just enough to be non-soggy. 

Hubby:  ?

Me:  Fuck you! 

Hubby:  What?!

Me:  That look on your face!

Hubby:  WHAT LOOK?!

Me:  That "fuck, did she really just tell me that whole thing, how do I keep a straight face" look.

Hubby:  Well, man!

Me:  WE'VE BEEN TOGETHER FOR 11 YEARS!!  THERE'S NOTHING INTERESTING LEFT TO SAY!

Hubby:  *Laughing hysterically*  How did you know my face?!

Me:  WE'VE BEEN TOGETHER FOR 11 YEARS!!!  I KNOW THAT STUPID FACE. 

Hubby:  *annoyingly quoting my red pepper story*

Me:  *laughing, but wanting to punch him so taking off up the stairs*

Some punk chick attacked me with a flamethrower!

FACT:  I. Am. Awesome.

Honestly. I make some seriously excellent, well-informed, and very intelligent choices.

I was writing my very heartfelt blog post Sunday night. When I finished, I was listening to my lovely song, and I set the laptop down on the coffee table - where it basically lives most of the time.

Later, when Hubby and I were heading off to bed, I began to close the laptop and snapped my hand back in utter dismay. The effer BURNED me. The hell?!

I looked down to find that I had left the friggin pisser sitting too close to my lovely purple Ikea candle, and I had therefore effectively melted the damn thing.

AWESOME.

Luckily it was just the plastic casing around the screen, and just in one spot. I think the monitor is ok, and everything else functions properly – so far – but now I’m forced to remind myself of my own fucking idiocy every time I use it. Not to mention that Hubby now insists on buying is own laptop. The shitty one can be mine, he says.

It was shitty before, but now with the giant melted hole in the back, it's basically a stupid piece of junk. Its outsides match its insides.

Actually, come to think of it, maybe it looks kinda badass – like maybe I used it to shield myself from a bullet. OR A FLAMETHROWER. I could definitely make up a pretty wicked story about a flamethrower.

By the grace of who knows what, Hubby wasn’t nearly as upset as I would’ve been had the stupidity been reversed. He basically just shrugged and declared how asinine I am.

“You’re a moron.”

Um, yeah.

I'm a mess. A mess with a dirty mind.

I don't like busy weekends.  I much prefer to sit on my ass with my kickass iPhone and blame my boredom on the illusion that I have nothing interesting to do. 

This weekend, however, I booked myself solid.  For two reasons: 1) I do kinda hate being bored; and, 2) I have to get out into the world, diversify, have something other than work/twitter to look forward to. 

Friday night I went for drinks with coworkers.  My friend / former boss didn't stop me when I tried forced me to guzzle my beer, so it's fair to say I was a little giddy during the walk back to the bus station. 

Imagine my delight when we stopped at the beer store and I. GOT. CARDED. 

Carded, people.  Like, as if I was 18 or something. 

And then I laughed hysterically like a serial killer off her Ritalin for at least five minutes, thoroughly humiliating myself and my friend / former boss. 

I continued to giggle all the way to the bus stop. "Oh, Hubby will be so glad I bought him Guinness!"  And then I looked at my friend, and then into my bag, and then at my friend, and then into my bag...

Me: "Fuck."
Him: "Fuck.  I'll wait here.  You run!"

Dammit.  I had to run all the way back to that damn beer store to pick up the beer I was so blatantly gleeful about that I then FORGOT ON THE COUNTER. 

And then I ran back. 

And then I couldn't breathe for 20+ minutes. 

The rest of the weekend was in some ways an improvement from there. 

Saturday I waited 32 obnoxious minutes for my optometrist, who was EATING LUNCH.

But then I had dinner with my amazing friend LB and played with her two adorable babies.  I also cuddled her drooling cat, which is always a highlight for me.  But then our outing somehow caused the end of the world because her babies got fevers which can only be blamed on me. 

Sunday required a drive out of town for my best friend.  I'm her MAID (don't ever say matron) of HONOUR (don't ever say disgrace) and we went to a bridal show and lunch.  It was super fun and I even got Christmas/birthday gifts INCLUDING wine and peanut M&Ms, so there.  

Sunday night I studied for my French test which I later decided to delay until Thursday because I'm stupid.  Also, I'm unproductive because I spend way too much time laughing at crap like this:

Only you, my dear readers, will not judge me for my childishness here.

 

Are we sure *today* wasn't Friday the 13th?

I was running an hour late this morning.  No different than every single other morning (because mornings are assholes), but still, it sucks. 

When I finally got going, I tried to drive to the bus station with a frosty windshield and summer tires (becasue I've been to lazy/cheap to get the winter tires switched). 

Despite the impending snow storm, I finally got to the bus station.  And immediately proceeded to fall UP the stairs.  IN FRONT OF PEOPLE.  

I picked my ass up off the floor, just in time to see my bus pulling away.  So I took off up another set of stairs to run - and I mean RUN - across the pedestrian overpass to catch the bus at the next stop. 

Note:  Running when you've not done any cardio activity in several months is a problem. 

But I made it!  I basically suffocated, but I made it. 

Unfortunately, I then spent what felt like 20 minutes trying to dig my bus tickets out of my coat pocket while the bus driver sat there and stared at me.  And so did everyone else.  He wouldn't drive until I handed them over.  He just sat there.  What did he think? I was pretending? 

I found the damn things and apologized.  He seemed to perk up, and expressed his concern that bus tickets are a pain in the ass for everyone.  Including him.

The bus started moving and I made my way to my seat.  And then I began to DIE.  It was 150 degrees in there and the heat was blowing RIGHT ON ME.  Plus I was all hot and bothered from running a mile at top speed. 

It took another 20 minutes to get my coat, scarf, and gloves off, to blow my cold runny nose, and to situate my kickass new iPod and kickass iPhone within reach. 

Sigh. 

And then this. 

And then all of a sudden all was right in the world again.

Fucking r-tards.  Don't ring the bell until your stop comes.  And if you ring it early, you better damn well get off at the next stop if nobody else does because if you make my bus stop moving for no effing reason I WILL kill you.  Amateurs. 

UPDATED: I'm an AWESOME cyclist

I was having a pretty good weekend. 

If you follow me on twitter you might know that 5 hours of my Saturday were spent on a MAJOR cleaning spree, the likes of which this house has NEVER seen in the three years that we've lived here.  And perhaps in its 25 years since it was built.  

I cleaned so much that I was actually sore this morning.  I cleaned so much that my cuticles are a disaster.  I cleaned so much that the top of my kitchen cabinets will NEVER mess with me again. 

As for today, I planned to make some progress in my Diversification Plan by going for a nice bike ride with my friend V.  It was a gorgeous day and it feels great to get out into the fresh air. 

So I went out and got myself some new gym pants and asked Hubby to load my lovely new bicycle into the back of his truck.  There I was happily sitting in the drivers seat of the red pickup, ready to trek out to V's new house and go for a ride by the river. 

Everything was going fine.  V may be an expert bicyclist, but she's very patient with my novice skills.  Needless to say, it was a leisurely trip. 

Until we got to the half-way point, when she asked if I wanted to actually get a work out at all.  Um. What has the last 30 minutes been?  But ok, sure, sounds good.  The next thing she said was worrisome. 

"Ok, so the hill is pretty big, so use your gears."

Fuck. 

Well.  That douchebag of a hill can lick my ASS because I managed to make it to the top.  I almost died, and I still can't feel my legs, and I was about 10 minutes behind V but I still did it.

Don't congratulate me yet. 

Remember how this was only the half-way point? Yeah.  I had to ride all the way back. 

That was ok.  I made it through, and then V says: 

"Oh, you mind if we just ride a bit further to find a better way back?"

Ummm.

And we were about 5 minutes from home when it happened. 

Ok, so this might be a slight exaggeration.  Maybe.  But still. 


UPDATED:

It turns out that there was a 4.1 earthquake here yesterday afternoon, so I was obviously knocked off my bike by the sheer force of the tremors.  For the record. 

Also, my crotch/ass bones hurt like you would NEVER BELIEVE.

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My first Wordless Wednesday... on Thursday

Cottaging...

My coffee-ground moo-stachio.

My splinter wound. It's worse than it looks. Trust me.

How many sunglasses can YOU wear at one time?

I'm going to sue my best friend

We were at my best friend's cottage this weekend and I may have to amputate my left hand. 

I think I could live without my left hand if I really had to, but if I do have to cut it off, I will most certainly sue my best friend for mal-treatment via cottage dock and severe emotional trauma. 

I was TRYING to do something nice, too.  One of my fellow cottage guests thought it would be a good idea to put her dog into the canoe.  I don't know about you, but I know very few people who can stay balanced in a canoe, let alone a damn dog. 

So I was trying to help the friggin thing out of the boat, leaning over the edge of the dock.  (And I can neither confirm nor deny the consumption of alcohol on said dock - because that could be detrimental to the outcome of my legal proceedings.)  I was kneeling on the dock, leaning over the side into the canoe and trying to help Hubby lift the doggie to safety. 

Well.  Somehow I shoved my hand into the edge of the dock and managed to jam 324 pieces of ancient wood chips into my palm.  And it's possible that something I ate or drank - I'm not sure what - may have inhibited my ability to recognize and respond to my impending panic attack. 

Basically, I shouted at nobody in particular, showed my bloody wound to Hubby, and then took off up to the cottage to find... I don't know what. 

Luckily my nurse friend Sarah was able to save me from this crisis situation by offering to conduct a cottage-style open-hand surgery. 

I sat at the picnic table with my left hand face up on the table and my right hand on my white wine anesthesia while Nurse Sarah dug out the 752 pieces of dock shrapnel that were embedded into my flesh.

I tried to read a book as a form of distraction, but mostly every other word just came out as "fuck". 

Our other friend came up to table and told me that Hubby asked if I was ok.  I looked up, and there was Hubby frolicking in the lake beneath a capsized canoe.  "Yeah.  He looks really concerned." 

In the end, Nurse Sarah couldn't even get the last bastard piece of shrapnel out of my hand.  She said the laceration below was a hindrance to a safe operation.  And she didn't have her scalpel.  She said my skin will hopefully discharge the foreign body within a day or two. 

Either that, or we'll have to amputate. 

And by the looks of it, it'll be the second one. 

UPDATED:

Given that my palm is two times its normal size, leaking some really nasty shit, and isn't even the correct flesh colour anymore, I went to see a nurse today.  After digging around in my hand for a few minutes she determined that I'll have to come back for another medical "procedure" on Thursday. 

Awesome.

This cheesy post also appears on Cheesy Bloggers.
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I'm basically your personal GPS device.

Hubby and I have been living in this city for almost 3 years a very short time, and as I've said before, it isn't always easy to navigate.  Sometimes the streets move around or change direction over night and the next day I just can't find my way. 

But Friday my mom and quasi-stepdad came ot visit and when I started driving us all downtown for lunch and window shopping Mom mentioned how impressive it was that I knew where to go.  Yes, I said.  I am very impressive. 

So I decided to draw a very advanced colour-coded map so if you ever decide to hang out here for a day you'll know how to get around.  You're welcome. 

I know you want to click on this so you can see it better. You don't want to miss anything.

My Last Will and Testament

My stay-cation is awesome.  It's nice not to have to go to work.  Not to have to go anywhere, actually.  Like the old days when I was unmedicated and missing my marbles.  

Friday I was lazy but decided at the height of mosquito hour - 8:30pm - that it was a good time to mow the lawn.  But then I MAY have accidentally cut the electric mower extension cord in half.  Maybe.  It was one of those "wow, I'm awesome" moments that we can all be pretty proud of. 

Saturday Ma- and Pops-in-law came to see Hubby's concert.  It was great.  Except that Hubby sent me asked me to go to the mall to buy him some new shirts.  When I got home he quickly tried on - and quickly dismissed - every last one of them.  All five shirts.  Whatever.

Sunday was Twitter movie night, and it was awesome.  Except Johhny depp didn't join us.  Bummer.

Tuesday was supposed to be "return to the death coffin waterslide" day, but the weather wasn't nice enough.  So instead we went back to the mall and exchanged all of Hubby's shirts. 

Then I finally bought a bike helmet and we went on a 15 km bike ride along the river.  That's long for me.  Shut it.  Hubby later said that it was fun, but he won't be doing it again any time soon.  I loved it, but my back is nearly immobile today.  Pathetic wimpy back.  (It didn't help that some harmless after-biking garden weeding eventually became two and half hours of obsessive/compulsive gardening, trimming, raking, and generally green-thumbing all over my yard.)

After all of that, Hubby said his highlight of the day was me in the aisle at dirty Canadian Tire trying on numerous cheap (and of course too large) bike helmets with the tags hanging in my face and the helmet sliding off the back of my head.  Yeah, that was HILARIOUS.

Today was saved for a pedicure and lunch with my lovely pregnant friend.  Her fortune cookie said she was more influential than she knows.  True dat.  Mine said to be a teacher I have to be a student.  Fair play. 

All of this has been speckled with reading my book in my back yard, napping, laundering, and cuddling with my cats.  If the weather cooperates, I will attempt to conquer the death coffin waterslide again tomorrow.  It was nice knowing you all. 

I leave my new bike to Angela, my fuchsia x-trainers to Chick, and to Miss Sarcasm I leave all my cheese and my twitter account (so Jimmy Fallon can follow her too). I want Elle to have my wheelbarrow so she can return the favour.  (She knows what that means.)  And I think Theresa needs my "pool" for her "cottage", and maybe Carm needs all my underwear.

I love the rest of you, but I don't have any other cool stuff, so tell me what you want and I'll try to arrange it.


*This is not my real Will. Hubby gets everything. Maybe he'll honour this, and maybe he won't. You'll just have to wait and see.

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Why I hate baseball

My friend hoodyhoo just returned from vacation which included an I'm sure very boring baseball game.  She made me think of the one and only major league ball game I've ever been to. 

In eighth grade we went to see the good ol' Toronto Blue Jays at Skydome for our graduation trip.  If you've never heard of them it's because they haven't won a game since the early 1990s. 

The whole class was seated behind one of the bases.  I don't know which base.  Are there three?  Maybe the second one.  Yeah, behind base number two. 

Anyway, it was surely the most boring thing I've ever witnessed.  Throwing fuzzy peaches at your eighth grade ex-boyfriend can only entertain a person for so long. 

At some point we realized that our classmate Collin was way up in the nosebleed section.  WAY up there.  I don't know how we knew that.  Eighth graders didn't have texting devices in 1998. 

But there he was.  Sitting and waving from the upper atmosphere.  And of course this was a friggin GENIUS idea. 

So off we went.  Wandering up through the ballpark as high as we could.  I don't remmeber much of the trip.  I must have been too lightheaded to commit it to memory.

Once we got situated and waved to our friends, some douchbag Ball Cop found us and asked us what we were doing away from our seats. 

Wtf?  There was nobody - not a single soul - up there.  And those seats cost, what? Three, four bucks?

Perhaps we should've explained that it was just for fun.  But we were too chicken.  So we did what any reasonable fourteen year olds would do. 

We lied. 

We lied through our fuzzy-peached teeth. 

We claimed we were looking for our friend Michael - Michael who was the ultimate dork and didn't even come on the trip in the first place.  But for some reason his was the first name that came to mind. 

We said he was lost and we were worried about him. 

The lie seemed to work, until we were walking behind the Ball Cop down the layers of walkways, with him on his radio searching for a weird kid with high jeans and shaggy hair. 

Yeah.  It was like a park-wide search party.

So what did we do?

We lied.  Again. 

When we got back to our bleacher level, we raced down the steps, ran up to a random kid in our class (Jacob) and whispered for him to play along. Then we started yelling: "Michael! Where have you been? We've been looking everywhere for you!"

He half-smiled with giant question marks written across his face while we nervously waved away the Ball Cops with a thumbs up.  I have no idea if they bought it or not. 

This is the kind of antics I got into as a kid.  The dorky loser kind.

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