When All You Need Is Some Chocolate

The other day was one of those long, difficult and confusing days that only year end/tax season can give you. The kind of day where you're already trying to not cry because of some family drama (over a cat of all things), and by the end of your workday - for your day job - you're going to have three hours of extra bookkeeping to do at some point tonight - you're feeling like you've been through only the first of several wringers in a commercial laundromat.

So when Hubby called to request that I stop on the way home to get cream for the coffee, and some munchies for the game, and suggested that I get a treat for myself, I thought, ooh. Lindor chocolate.

I stopped at this Save-On Foods on the way home. Don't be fooled by the misnomer, by the way. I picked up the cream and some potato chips, and I wandered around until I finally found the bulk bins that house the Lindts. It took a while because I had to go through the book aisle to find them. Poor me.

The dark chocolate balls were on sale (exciting!) and there was a NEW flavour, citrus, which sounded tantalizing. The citrus balls were not on sale, so being the honest soul that I am, I wrote down the bin numbers for both chocolates.

I made my way to the express till, the line up for which was only slightly less long than those of the other ten tills that were open. Which is all of them. Every single till was open, and they were all at least five people deep.

And, I got the new girl.

Usually this isn't a problem. Usually.

Since the chocolates were the most important purchase, they were the first on the belt. I dutifully informed the cashier that one number was for the dark chocolates and that the other was for the citrus. She put the two dark balls on the scale and punched in the SKU. Then she punched in the SKU again. She was reaching for the one citrus ball when I pointed out that she'd just charged me twice for the dark balls. It even displayed so on the till screen.

"But there are two," she said with a perplexed look on her face.

"They're sold by weight, not by each," I replied. "And you just sold them to me twice."

The look of confusion only increased as she looked at the screen, and read back to me the per gram amount as if it were the amount I were going to pay. "See," she said. "It's only that much, and there are two."

At this point I realized three things:

1. She did not understand the difference between sold by weight and sold by each, nor that if it was by each, she wouldn't have had to put them on the scale.
2. She didn't even know how to read her till.
3. I was not in the right frame of mind to try to explain any of these concepts to her in such a way that would a) teach her b) without making her feel like a useless idiot. I wasn't even in the mood to bring over a supervisor and hold up a long line of tired looking folks just so I could have a fucking chocolate.

"Take them off," I said.

She looked perplexed again. "Just take them both off."

She did, and she managed to scan everything else in without too much trouble, and I know what you're thinking: so you had to pay for some chocolate twice! How much difference could it really be? Buddy, Lindt isn't cheap shit. It makes a huge difference!

Anyway, on my way out I thought I'd stop by the service counter and say, "Hey, so, some training for your tellers before you throw them to the wolves by themselves on an express till at the just-got-off-work rush would probably be cool." But the line up there was even longer.

So I left and walked out to the car, and just as I was starting it Hubby phoned to see if I was okay (because I was taking so long. Stupid book aisle). I said yeah.

"Are you crying?" he asked.

"I needed some chocolate," I said. "And I didn't get any."

I then related the whole story.

"Just come home and have some supper," he said.

So I did. And afterwards he went online to fill in the customer satisfaction survey, which was requested at the bottom of my receipt by the way. I eventually got an automatically generated "we'll get in touch with you" emails. I'm still waiting. . .

Don't Shame Me in to Sharing

This lovely little cartoon was on Facebook.

If the caption above the cartoon had not said "Share if you are against bullying" above the strip, I definitely would have shared.

If the only caption that the cartoon had was "Share if you are against bullying," I might have shared.But since the second caption (the one below the cartoon) said, "I bet 99% won't," I'm not sharing.

Why?

Because I feel bullied (and like I'm being shamed).

This applies to ALL of those lovely cartoons/pictures/eCards that beautifully encourage you to espouse the indicated cause.

By all means, share and post pictures and cards and whatnot for the things that you believe in and hold dear to your hearts.

But please don't make me feel like you're going to think that I'm an asshole if I don't. How about you just share the card without the guilt trip?

I bet you more people would share.

AND, you'd know who shared because they WANTED to -- not because they thought that you'd think less of them for not sharing, and not because they don't have the guts to say, "Fuck off, you bully!"

Positive Thinking Day

Saturday was Positive Thinking Day.

Seeing that got me thinking about all of the Gratitude Challenge postings that are popping up all over Facebook. Since when is it a Challenge to be grateful? It's called having good manners, people, and it's as simple as saying "please" and "thank-you".

You know how you teach manners to your kids? You model the behaviour, that's how. You can tell them and explain to them what good manners are until you're blue in the face, but they're kids, so they're not listening to you. But they are watching you. Every move you make. Even when you're sleeping.

So, if you're modeling good manners, you're being grateful everyday, and that's pretty darn simple.

As far as positive thinking goes, if you're telling me that my kid is a glass-is-half-empty kind of guy and that we need to change that outlook in him, you might want to take a look at your own Glass Theory outlook on life!

Modeling. It's all about the modeling.

BMBR: Bought for Love (You Don't Know Jack) by Michelle Hughes

Language Warning

You're right, I don't know Jack. And I don't fucking want to.

I haven't finished this book, and I probably won't. The only reasons I'm 75% along are that it's short, and my kids were watching Pocoyo while I sat down to eat, and Mockingjay was in my purse, which was down by the front entrance. Too far.

I think Miss Hughes read 50 Shades, and saw all of the other BDSM-themed books flooding the market these days, and thought, "I can do that, too!" but she didn't put enough thought in to things like research and grammar and punctuation.

Jack doesn't want a Submissive; he wants a submissive wife who will raise his kids and do whatever he says when he says and how the fuck dare she say no. To anything. Including sex.

Yeah, that's rape, buddy.

You know, when the chick you're about to fuck--and she's a virgin by the way (which you know)--says "No" because you pushed in way to hard and didn't stop and kept stretching her until she realized that it would feel good if she just relaxed and went with it, well, when she said "No", you should have, like any decent man, actually stopped. Certainly you wouldn't have even gotten to that point if you'd known what you were doing. If you'd known what you were doing, things would've gone slowly enough that you'd have known before she said no that you should slow, stop, wait for things to stretch before making sure she was okay, then continuing on slowly.

And, telling her that it's okay that she's in a lot of pain because hey, it's supposed to hurt the first time? Um, that's a fucking lie if you know what you're doing. Trust me. And I'm sorry, Mr. Rich Stud, if you're such a stud, you should know what you're doing.

Ladies: if your first knows what he's doing, and you're ready (emotionally, not just physically), it shouldn't hurt more than some discomfort. You shouldn't be fucking crying your eyes out afterward because it hurt so badly. Yeesh.

Anyway, deflowering rape scene aside, the rest of the story (up to 75%, anyway) reads like a sad justification for allowing yourself to be part of an abusive relationship by saying, "oh no, Spinny, really, it's okay. BDSM is hot. I enjoy it, really."

Um, yeah, it's hot, but no, this crappy ownership shit isn't. Seriously, I've read some hot BDSM etc stories, and they were great foreplay. And some of them were pretty damn uncomfortable and some of them were boundary-pushing, and some of them weren't that well written, but they were sane, and they were hot. This shit just makes me ill. As in, I can't finish it because I don't like feeling this nauseated.

I may be a little irritated.

Ahem.

You know what 50 had that Jack doesn't? A safe word. A contract that lays it all out for the virgin--you know, the one that fucking discloses all the shit you want to do to her? Respect for hard limits (finger-rape up the ass is just as uncool as pushing a virgin, Jack). A reasonable timeline between meeting the heroine, deflowering her, and introducing her to your favourite lifestyle. A safe, sane and consensual relationship that ends up with the heroine willingly and enthusiastically submitting to you, and who loves your playroom. A heroine that doesn't put up with your shit and actually stands up to you.

That's right, a submissive who stands up to you when you're being a total fucking douche bag instead of a heroine who cries until you can make her demand that she trust you and she thinks "OMG I want him so bad" so she slumps her shoulders in submission defeat as she makes her way to your bed.

BMBR bottom line: waste of a fucking 1.07. Sorry Michelle.

Has it Really Been that Long??? Random Thoughts for June 4th 2014. BMBR: Smut

Really? May 8th was my last post? Seriously? WTF happened?

I knew I've been busy, but I didn't think I've been that busy.

(Looks down at her legs.)

Actually, that's a lot of hair... Maybe I have been that busy, because judging from the amount of hair that's on my legs, I have been super busy. To busy to shave, anyway. I have an amount of leg hair that's acceptable on tree planters, hippies from the Kootenays, and European Women. I was never a tree planter, I was too yuppy to be a hippy when I lived in the Kootenays (but I was too hippy for the yuppies, so guess how well I fit in there), and I was born in Canada to Canadian-born parents, so I can't really ride the European-Excuse wave.

And, it's been hot out lately, and I want to start wearing skirts to work, but let's face it, even Sasquatches would hand me a razor.

Okay, really, I don't care about hairy legs, and I think all women should feel comfortable enough with having hairy legs. Hair-free legs take less sunscreen, though.

I have been reading a lot. Of smut. Don't tell anyone. About the smut part.

Sure, you say. Too busy to shave your legs, but you can read smut. Uh huh. 

Okay, I have two kids who love to watch TreehouseTV, a husband who loves to watch hockey (It's fucking June. Playoffs should be over in March. I mean, it's hockey. If the ice has melted off of the ponds in the middle of Canada, hockey should be over. Or over by the end of March. I can give you til the end of March. But June? Come on), and two broken feet. Or something. I find out about the feet tomorrow.

So yay, I get to sit down on the couch for large portions of the day (or dose myself on great quantities of ibuprofen) so that I don't end up in excruciating pain, which means that the kids or the hubby hang with me, which means that they've picked the TV shows (otherwise it's Mommy do this and Mommy do that and all of that this-ing and that-ing equals Mommy being on her feet which doesn't really help the broken feet issue), which means that I surreptitiously hold my phone off to the side and read my Kindle.

And lately, I've been reading a lot of smut. My husband's not complaining.

BMBR: I've been reading Shana Galen and Mimi Jean Pamfiloff. Worth the ebook prices.

Read a Joanna Wylde novella called Be Careful What You Wish For, thank god, because it was okay, but I'm really glad I read that before committing myself to the expensive Reaper books that are waiting in Sample Land for me. I was excited for these books, but now, not so much. Maybe the writing got better by the time she wrote them. Sigh. Maybe I'll take one out of Sample Land. In the meantime, check out the cover of BCWYWF. You can judge this book by it's cover. I will allow it. I wish I had.

Did you know that Twizzlers come in rainbows? They make wonderful little caterpillar legs.

I made a caterpillar out of cupcakes for a birthday cake. So cute.

Huh. I've been sitting here for five minutes trying to think of another random thought, but I've actually been zoned out, so I guess my next random thought should be about bed. Or maybe checking out FB and seeing what the 18 messages/notifications are all about.

I bet at least ten of them are invitations to play FB games.

I'd rather shave my legs, thanks.

Crutches Days 1-3

I have a fractured bone in the bottom of my foot that requires that I be on crutches for six weeks. I have kids, and I therefore occasionally walk on said foot, so I'm looking at longer than six weeks. Fuck.

I felt for kids on crutches in school, but I did not feel enough. Here's why:

Day One: (Monday) It's not so bad. I'm getting a good upper-body workout! And, crutching around is great cardio! Awesome! Not so awesome? Other people have to carry my soup/hot beverages for me. I wonder if my boss would hire me a personal assistant just for that? Probably not.

Day One: (Monday Night) I went to class. After sitting, not crutching, for a couple hours, my hands doth protest the pressure of the hand-hold on the crutches. And by doth protest I mean Holy Fuck Lady Don't Touch!

Day Two: I can't brush my teeth, not unless I lay my head down to bring it level with the supportive counter. Shooting pain up my arms for the first few strides this morning. It felt like my hands were on fire. And, apparently, I too have muscles on the fronts of my shoulders and arms. You know the ones: usually you only see them on the fronts of romance novels--the ones with pictures of really buff guys with well-defined muscles, including the small ones on the fronts of your shoulders and arms. I'm not buff, but I have the same muscles. And they really really hurt.

Day Three: I can't reach the ignition in my car. It's too far away. And the key is too heavy to lift. I also have muscles on the tops of my shoulders, but I think that they quit working at about 3pm.

More tomorrow. Can't type anymore.

Are You a True Friend/Decent Person?

Are you ever on social media sites, and do you ever get those "pictures" that "ask" you to forward them on by shaming you if you don't? A friend of mine answered the challenge:


LOTS of thingies on here demanding, I mean asking, me to say in one word how we met. (And challenging me to scroll down to read the entire post.) Then I'm supposed to copy said thingy onto my wall. This, apparently, proves that I read your wall.

Ok--firstly, you know how we met. If you don't know how we met, you should probably stop drinking. Because chances are pretty good that if you are one of my FB friends, we have actually met. And I'm pretty sure I remember how we met.

Secondly, I'm not reading anyone's wall. It's called a news feed, or something. You know, that long page that you can scroll down to see what all your FB friends are doing/posting. (I barely have time for that--I'd never have time to open everyone's wall individually).

Thirdly, I don't do those "you must copy/share/repost this picture to prove that you are a decent person/true friend" thingies. (I never did chain letters when they were done by email/snail mail, either.)

Fourthly, as my friend, you know that I write all of this with humour in my heart, and a wink in my eye 

Lastly, and most importantly, I love you all 

Random Thoughts March 20, 2014

Did you really think that I was filling the water reservoir in the lunchroom Keurig so that you could make a cup of coffee? Really? Wait your turn.

Vincent does not get enough exercise time on Beauty and the Beast. And if someone could hide his exercise shirts, that would be great.

Does the "Terrible Twos" ever end? Because I think that there's some kind of Richter scale thing going on with the age, here. Maybe it's easier to be sassy when your vocabulary is bigger. . .

Wake up early for exercise, or for sexercise? Yeah, I picked that one, too.

Only three hundred more pages to go, and I can read other books!

Make "special surprise inside" cupcakes with your three-year-old, don't get upset about any mess that ensues, enjoy your time together, and then watch said child pick apart the cupcake to get at the chocolate egg inside. Throw out the actual cupcake.

If You Pack Your Child A Healthy Lunch, We Will Supplement it with Crap, AND We Will Fine You

I had a MUCH longer blog post planned for today, but then I did some online crap. Slight error in judgement, and now I just want to go to bed.

However, I did see this on Facebook, and I have to ask:

How the fuck is a cracker made from refined flour considered to be better than real food?

Whose Bullshit Are You Believing about your Body Self-Image?

I was at the pool today (the boys have lessons). I take the baby into the women's change room while my husband takes our toddler into the men's. We don't use the family rooms because there are only two at this particular pool, and the wait time is annoying.

I cannot change in the privacy cubicles--there is no safe place to put the baby; the "play-pen" (it looks more like a baby-jail, complete with bars!) is out in the open area, and sometimes I need to use it to keep Mr. Squirmy Pants from smashing his head on the (disgusting) hard tile floor by falling (crawling) off the benches.

So I just disrobe and let it all hang out while I'm changing. (I'm no good at "draping" with the towel.)

Do I have a perfect body? Fuck no. I'm 5'6" ish, 200+/- pounds, I had two kids (in my mid-to-late thirties), I haven't exercised regularly for a few years now (but I do try), I like chocolate a little too much, and I don't always have time to shave my legs. I'm lumpy, I'm bumpy, and one side of my cleavage is three times the size of the other side (they just grew that way).

Do I like my body? Honestly? Usually I don't. But, my husband still thinks I'm hot, and his penis concurs, so I've been trying really hard to if not love my body, to at least like and accept it without judgement. I know what I have to do to get it to where I'll love it; I'm not looking for perfection, but I'd love to be more fit.

Anyway, back to the pool. Yes, I'm sure that some ladies are looking at me and they're thinking, "Wow, she's really comfortable with her body!" Um, no. I'm not. Or at least, I wasn't. It's more a matter of "I'm naked out of necessity." The first few times I had to tell myself that "If anyone doesn't like how I look naked, they don't have to look."

You know what happens? If you keep telling yourself that, or something like that, enough, and if you get publicly naked often enough (appropriately--like in the pool's change room--not in the pool itself), pretty soon you are comfortable with your own body. Or at least resigned enough to it that you don't really care, and are, therefore, for lack of a better word, comfortable.

I wish everyone at the pool felt that way about their bodies. I see super-fit and hot mamas struggling with their crawling babies because they're trying to change in a tiny box so that you can't see them. I see beautiful women struggling with draping while they change; you can tell by their posture that they're trying so hard to be comfortable with themselves, but that inside they're failing miserably. I see gorgeous little girls, young girls, who are already so obsessed and uncomfortable and ashamed of their bodies because that is all they see from their adults, that they have to use the cubicles, and that makes me sad.

Seeing all of this tonight reminded me of this post about not believing your own bullshit. (You may also wish to check this one out.)

And then I was reminded of these comics. They're awesome. And so relevant. And they're a perfect example of how easy it is to let other people's bullshit become your own bullshit.

After looking at the comics, be sure to scroll down to the end and view the slide show titled "Meet our Body Image Heroes". These people rock. They've said a big "NO" to believing their own bullshit and/or everyone else's bullshit.

I have two three questions for you:

How do these comics make you feel? How do you feel about your own nakedness in public (change room situation), and/or in private? How do you feel about other people's nakedness in public?

Okay, four questions:

Whose bullshit are you believing about your body self-image?

#6: Make Bedtime and Morning-Time a Calm and Pleasant Ritual

Number six of the 101 Things to Do for Children is "Make both going to bed and getting up a calm and pleasant ritual."

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

Sorry, I had to get that out of my system first.

Ideal:

Your entire day is filled with calm routine that allows your children the security of knowing exactly what to expect at any given moment, and by after dinner they know that story time and brush-your-teeth time and snack time and potty-break time all lead up to bedtime, and they willingly and lovingly accept it all with great serenity.

In the morning, you cheerily open the door and call out, "Good Morning, Sweetie!" Your child then calmly rolls out of bed and goes to the bathroom on their own and gets dressed without complaint, and they are so cooperative in getting out the door that you actually have time to smile at your coworkers over a fresh cup of coffee (you even had time to make the pot).

Reality:

You're on maternity leave. Your baby woke up every two hours last night, so you're really tired, and you're hoping like crazy that everyone will sleep in until seven so that you can sneak in a shower, but your baby wakes up at five and will only sleep if he's in bed with you; this means no to the shower, but hey, you get to be horizontal for another couple of hours. Make that one. Hour. You want to cry when you think of what it's going to be like when you go back to work in a month.

You have a poopy diaper to change and a toddler to get on the toilet before he pees his pants, and for some reason, everyone except for you is crying (you're by yourself because your husband works at four in the morning. Lucky bastard) and you don't know why. You want to cry when you think of what it's going to be like when you go back to work in a month.

The rest of your day is not securely filled with routine. You try, but depending on how much sleep you got, and on everyone's mood, you might go for a walk, or colour, or go to Strong Start, or just hang out on the couch and watch TV for a bit before you remember that you're going out for the evening (everyone!) and you're hoping that the diapers are dry by then. Oh, darnit. Apparently you need to do some laundry. . . . You want to cry when you think of what it's going to be like when you go back to work in a month.

Now you're back home and it's an hour before bedtime, but the toddler fell asleep in the car, so you know that when he wakes up it's going to be a disaster. He finally wakes up and he's crying but he can't tell you why, so he goes to bed, and when he wakes up he's so sad and sore, so he gets some ibuprophen, and you offer him a cookie but he doesn't want it, and he's beside himself with--I don't know what this is, actually--and when he finally does come out he's more than happy to play or watch TV for the "Fifteen minutes until bedtime, Buddy." When you say "Five more minutes until bedtime," he says "Okay." Liar.

It's now way past bedtime and the baby's finally done his last pee and poop so you know that he's ready (he's chewing on you; that's a good sign that he wants a bottle). Toddler, though, he doesn't want to brush his teeth (but he does) or go pee (but he does) or go to bed (but he does). As soon as you close his door and get settled with the baby, Toddler has to poop (but he doesn't), and he didn't get a snack and now he wants his cookie; uh, no, you can have some crackers (and he does); afterwards he still wants his cookie. Too late, Bud. You close the door and he has to poop (but he doesn't). Then Daddy has to sleep with him. His crying is keeping up baby, who is screaming in his crib. You want to cry when you think of what it's going to be like when you go back to work in a month.

Finally upon the threat of pain of a sound spanking (empty threat, but don't tell him that), Toddler goes to bed. And, he's sort of quiet. Quiet enough that attempt number two with the baby actually works. But now it's past your husband's bedtime (he gets up at three. Yes, that's A.M.).  You don't even get to watch "adult" TV together. You know, like the Simpsons. So now you're thinking that you're probably not going to get lucky tonight, either. So you sit at your computer and write a blog post, instead. You want to cry when you think of what it's going to be like when you go back to work in a month.


Reality is Improving:

Okay, really, it's not always this bad. When we do have our shit together and we have a nice dinner at home with bath time and story time etc right after, and especially if no one naps past four or five (and especially if the toddler doesn't nap at all), bedtime is easy. Well, easier. It's at least a lot more fun for everyone involved.

I do want to cry sometimes when I think of how it's all going to go down when I'm back at work in a month, but then I think, after a few days of getting up at six so that they can eat breakfast before heading off to daycare at 7:10, they're going to be so freaking tired by the time supper rolls around that they'll be happy to go to bed!

Or, what's going to happen is that because I'm going to have to get up at five, I'm going to have to go to bed at nine in order to be sane and functional. If they're still farting around after 8:30, they're going to have to fend for themselves. Or just stay the hell in bed! Ha. Ha. Ha.

Stop Believing Your Bullshit (Step #1)

Step #1 of
How to Get Flat Abs, Have Amazing Sex and Rule the World in 8 Easy Steps
is Stop Believing Your Bullshit.

Kate Bartolotta put it this way:

All that stuff you tell yourself about how you are a commitment-phobe or a coward or lazy or not creative or unlucky? Stop it. It’s bullshit, and deep down you know it. We are all insecure 14-year-olds at heart. We’re all scared. We all have dreams inside of us that we’ve tucked away because somewhere along the line we tacked on those ideas about who we are that buried that essential brilliant, child-like sense of wonder. The more we stick to these scripts about who we are, the longer we live a fraction of the life we could be living. Let it go. Be who you are beneath the bullshit.

Stop listening to that Scared Little Bitch inside of you and start listening to the Confident Believer. They're like the devil and angel riding on your shoulders, but instead of pressuring you to do good things or wicked things, one is bullying you to feel horrible about yourself, making you doubt yourself, and the other one is cheering you on, making you believe in yourself.

Or as these Fabulous Ladies say, you have your Bad Wolf and you have your Good Wolf (scroll down or search the categories; you'll find it).

So what is my Bullshit that I have to stop believing?

On the days that I really hate myself, the SLB changes the lyrics so that all I hear is Bif Naked's voice screaming "I hate myself today," and then she tells me that I'm fat, lazy, stupid, a horrible mother, ugly, socially inept, a terrible wife, a neglectful friend, incapable of dealing with life's little bumps, and that I don't deserve to be happy, I don't deserve to have time for myself, and that my life is just too hard and I'm too tired, so I should just cry all the time.

Fuck her.

First of all, my life isn't that hard, so get over it.

As Kate B says:

If you can read this, your life is pretty awesome.

Setting aside our first world problems and pettiness, if you are online reading this, you have both electricity and wifi or access to them. Odds are you are in a shelter of some sort, or on a smart phone (and then kudos to you for reading this on the go). Life might bump and bruise us, it may not always go the way we plan and I know I get frustrated with mine, but here’s the thing

You are alive.

Exactly.

I need to stop listening to my SLB and I need to stop believing everything she says. I have to let my CB be stronger, and let her speak in a louder voice; I need to stop muzzling her, no matter how insistent the SLB is about it.

I'm not fat. Okay, I'll be realistic and I'll admit that I need to get more exercise, but it's not because I want to look like a porn star; rather, I'd like to be fit and healthy--I'm in my late thirties and my kids are three and under; being around for them and being able to do things with them is pretty important. And since I'm physically able to exercise, I don't really have a good enough excuse not too. I mean, if Arthur Boorman can change his life, after being told by almost everybody that there wasn't any hope for him, WTF is my excuse, SLB? I have to start believing that no matter how tired I am, exercise will make me feel better (and it does--I know it does--so again, WTF?).

I'm not lazy. I'm not super-type-A-with-lots-of-energy, at least not every day, but I accept who I am in regards to how much I get done. This is where my Bad Wolf needs to shut up about how much housework I'm not getting done, and the Good Wolf needs to say, "Meh, that laundry will still be there tomorrow; go play with your kids."

I'm not stupid. Sometimes I have moments that speak otherwise, but I'm really smart. Sometimes I'm really tired, so I'll do stupid things, but at least I learn from my mistakes. Or try to get some sleep.

I'm not a horrible mother, a terrible wife, or a neglectful friend. My kids are happy and they love me, my husband is happy and he loves me, and my friends love me--and sometimes we aren't too busy to do more than just talk on the phone.

I'm not ugly. So shut the fuck up, Bitch. You are no longer allowed to be around when I'm looking in a mirror. Believer, start talking louder!

I'm not socially inept. I'm shy. And, sometimes, the Brain-to-Mouth Filter is missing, or completely clogged, or part of the thought gets side-tracked on the way down, and what comes out doesn't sound at all like what I wanted it to. I need to believe in myself more when I'm in a group situation.

I am capable of handling life's little bumps. Sure, it's easier to do when I'm rested and well fed, but I can do it. My phone got shattered this week. Shattered. By a dog and a chicken pot pie. Not my dog. The pie was for my friend. Yep, it was her dog. I did not once get upset. Until I learned that when they fix it, they're going to wipe everything. I'll lose all of my pictures and contacts. I hated myself for sending the phone out for repair instead of getting a new screen myself (I didn't know you could). "I'm going to lose all of those pictures of the kids, waa." Then I said, "I still have my kids," and I felt better. It's just one of those things, and so long as I learn what I need to (back up your smartphone regularly, don't carry your phone on top of a pie when a dog is really happy to see you), it's all good.

I do deserve to have time for myself. It refreshes me, and I'm a lot more patient with my kids. I do deserve, therefore, to take some time to write everyday; I shouldn't have to feel guilty about this pleasure. So if I feel like I'm getting snippy and overwhelmed, it's okay for me to do something for myself (even if it's just reading a nice fluffy book while my kids watch BabyTv or TreeHouse).

Most importantly, I do deserve to be happy. Not happy because my life is perfect, but happy because I just am (I think this is step #2, so more on it later).

I'm sure that some days I'll need to have a good little cry, but I find that that gets rid of a lot of negative shit, and it makes room for all the good stuff. It's like taking all of the boxes of Negative Reinforcements that the Scared Little Bitch has filed away over the years, and shredding them, and making room for the great artwork that my Confident Believer is creating in my life.

Now if you all will excuse me, I'm going to go dig up some Bif Naked and I'm going to rock it.

Because "I Love Myself Today."

Spinny

How Clean Is Your House?

Some days I think that the state of my house drives my mother nuts. Crazy. Not quite to the point of disgusted, but definitely to the point of highly annoyed.

There are just more days where I decide that being relaxed and that choosing to ignore the Cheerio-Dropping-Monsters' mess as they make trains out of the dining room chairs, and rearrange the rest of the furniture into "Their House" is more important than getting uptight and OCD about how clean my floors are.

I don't ignore it forever; the state of my house has NEVER reached the point to where those foxy ladies from "How Clean Is Your House?" have felt the need to swoop in and set me straight (there are lots of examples like this one on YouTube). Never. My bathroom and kitchen are always clean. As for the rest of the house, eventually, like at least once a week, I look around and think to myself, self, put the book down. Just put it down. The bottoms of your socks are getting a little dusty with Cheerio crumbs (in my defense this can take as little as an hour after vacuuming/washing the floors to accomplish), and maybe you should fold some laundry. You know, the basket that's been sitting there all invisible-like for the last three days; yeah, it's not folding itself. Nope. No laundry fairies around here.

I also make an extra effort to tidy when I know that company's coming over, but if I've had a busy day, getting the main furniture and the floors tidied (and double-checking the bathroom) might be as good as it gets. I'll save Spring Cleaning for the Spring. And the Fall. I guess that's Fall Cleaning. Whatever.

Anyway, my mom used to stress a bit when company was coming and the desks (which are in the living room) were cluttered, but I was happy with the clean floors and with the fact that yes, you could sit unhindered upon the couch. I always had to tell her that "I think that my friends and family are coming to visit us, not to see how clean my house is. If this isn't the case, they don't have to come over." I also think that if they care that much, they can help me clean. ;) But that never happens.

Recently, though, she went to my brother's for supper. He met her at the door and told her not to come in because it was a freak show upstairs; his wife was freaking out because she hadn't finished cleaning the house yet. I've been to her house. It's always immaculate to the point that she would put Kim and Aggie to shame, even if you drop by unexpectedly.

They had to go next door to her parents' place for dinner. When my sister-in-law's mom said that it's okay to take a weekend off once in awhile, she looked at her mom like she should be committed for uttering such nonsense. Or so I was told. I think my mom will appreciate my laid-back attitude a little more from now on. At least, I hope so.

Now, I do understand the need to start your work-week with a clean house; I'm going to be going back to work in November myself. I'm hoping by then to be organized enough that we're not searching for shoes when we should already be half-way to daycare, ut I highly doubt that I'd choose housework over going to the park with my husband and kids. I know I wouldn't. I might ask my husband and kids to help out first/later if it was that big a deal, but it probably wouldn't be.

Because I would rather my kids remember all the fun we had going to parks, and baking cookies, and making forts out of all the furniture, and playing games and doing puzzles, and not remember only hanging out with Dad while Mom went crazy with the mop.

Verbal Diarrhea

I have a problem with this blog. I have a sneaking suspicion that it might be a little boring. At the very least, it's not interesting enough that anyone wants to comment on it. But then, I'm a little bored with it, and I probably wouldn't comment on it either.

Whenever I feel like that, I remind myself that having a kazillion people follow my my blog isn't my goal. Just writing, and getting better at writing, is.

One of the many goals I have with writing is to have it get easier to do. In other words, I'd like my first drafts to just flow from my brain to the keyboard. Usually I pause a lot as I think of how to perfectly word what I'm thinking so that other people think it's awesome (I'm doing it right now, dammit). It's become an annoyance. Sure, it makes rewrites easier (or non-existent), but I don't think it makes all the pieces better as a whole because sometimes the awesome creative bits get stuck behind the filter.

I've been reading "The Frog Principle" series on Jennifer Crusie's blog and it's pretty much telling me to be more creative and less OCD now; I can worry about perfection later (like when the "toddler-crab" isn't trying to pull Mommy off the chair with its distracting pincers).

Another purpose (I just changed that--purpose used to read "point"--I'm doing it again!) of my blog is to serve as a venting ground. It's a place where I can be happily snarky and bitchy, if I so choose to be. Sometime when I was setting up labels I thought to make one titled "Verbal Diarrhea." I thought, Do you really want to think of your writing as crap? Because, isn't that what diarrhea is? Violently ejected crap? So I changed it to "Verbal Streams." Because Streams are so much prettier than Projectile Poop.

What.The.Fuck? I know I wasn't stoned on anything because I was breastfeeding at the time. Was I sleep deprived? How did I go from Snarky and Witty to freaking Vanilla and Purty? Seriously. (Head shake.)

Okay, no, I don't want my writing to be associated with crap (except for when it obviously is shit), but if diarrhea is "flowing through" to the Greeks, then surely it can apply to words that flow through from my brain to the computer without any interruption at all.

This post has mostly been that. I've stopped a couple times: mostly to fix typos, a couple times deal with whatever disasters my kids were about to get into, and once to get ice cream--at my toddler's suggestion (he's awesome, and it was Hagan Daas' Mayan Chocolate, so it was awesome), but other than that--oh, hang on a sec--disaster four averted--I've just let it go.

Anyway, things are getting rambunctious and I have to see if this sick and coughing mommy can convince a sick but restless toddler to be quiet enough that I can get the sick and coughing baby to go to sleep for a bit. But, before I go, I'll be labeling this post as Verbal Diarrhea.

Inconsiderate, Much?

I was at the park today with my friend who is fighting cancer. Let's call her Sue. This week was a Chemo week, which means that she's super tired (she's also fighting a cold and her husband has been doing extra work, so she's been feeling like a single mom lately, so she's super tired), but she wanted to go to the water park before it's too cold to go again, so we went.

While we were there she received a text from another friend--let's call her Tina--asking if Sue would look after her kids tonight. Sue explained that Tina asks this a lot. She always says no, but Tina keeps asking. It's not like Tina doesn't know what's going on with Sue. There's a whole FB group dedicated to providing Sue with dinners for her family on Chemo Weeks. And, since I know that Tina is a FB friend of Sue's, I know that she knows about this.

Sue ignored the text for a while, and I suggested she just type in "No" and hit send, but Sue eventually responded with a long negative, complete with the entire explanation of why not (there are about five different reasons why not, but hello, she had Chemo this week?).

It was all I could do to not rip her phone out of her hand and type in:

    "WTF? Are you fucking stupid? Sue had Chemo this week. CHEMO. All of your friends are cooking dinner for her this week because she's too tired from her CHEMO to cook a nice dinner for her family, and you want her to expend more energy than she probably has by looking after your kids all night? Even if her husband was going to be home tonight, WTF are you thinking? He's probably tired from working all day, too, and he probably just wants to hang out with his beautiful wife and kids, not help chase after your kids all night. Seriously, you should be offering to look after her kids. Inconsiderate, much?"

Grrrrr!