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!"

Random Thoughts 2014-08-26

Trying blogger on my phone for the first time. I may or may not like it. It should make it easier to blurt out my random thoughts before I forget what they were. Sometimes they're really good and they make me laugh and I think that you might laugh, too, but then after a long day at work--where I don't post because I'm paranoid that work can see what I'm typing. Actually that's not the paranoia.  I KNOW that they can see what I'm doing online.  I'm paranoid that they ARE looking at what I'm doing online--and after a long evening of trying to get some wonderful but very busy and testy kids fed, bathed, clothed, cuddled, fed again, cleaned up, clothed again and in bed, and then after a long night of more work, I get to try to blog and I sit at my computer and try to keep my head from falling off my shoulders and I can't for the life of me remember what I had for supper, let alone what it was that made me laugh in the morning.

So I'm trying this on my phone.

What kinds of random thoughts do I have and then can't remember, you ask? Well, just this morning I was putting some canned chicken on my salad for lunch, and as I was putting the leftovers in a container I had a brief thought of just throwing the chicken in with my eggs and doing scrambled instead of basted on toast, and then I thought, I wonder what chickens would think about that? Would they think, hey, isn't it bad enough that you eat us, and our babies? Do you really have to eat us wrapped up in our children? (It didn't sound that gross in my head.) But then I thought, how would the chickens know what's going on in my house? I went with basted on toast, regardless.

I wonder what pigs would think if they knew that they were wrapped up in baby chicken omelettes all the time.

OH MY GOODNESS! ! Outlander is on Showcase. I set it to record the series. It didn't. Thank goodness Showcase repeats their episodes a lot. I will get to see the first episode, I reset the series recording, and I don't have to kill my cable box in a fit of rage (no anger management issues here).

I've been trying to cut back on the caffeine. It's not like I drink a lot of coffee--I only make four cups of half regular and half decaf, which is one travel mug and one large-ish table mug of coffee. So maybe I'm not cutting back on the coffee so much as I am cutting back on the cream that goes in the coffee.

This is probably a good thing because I don't use that half-and-half stuff that just waters down the coffee; I use the 18 percent (I had to spell that out because in the last phone update the third page of symbols disappeared and apparently the percent symbol was on it. Fucking Android) cream which adds a creamy richness to the flavour and the texture of the coffee. It also adds to the richness of my hips and ass, so I'm cutting back on the coffee.

I know what you're thinking: you can just cut the cream out of the coffee. Yes. I could. But then I'd be tempted to add more sugar and that just makes my face explode. Tea is more palatable black than coffee is. In my opinion, of course.

So I've been trying out Lady Grey tea. I love Earl Grey tea, and now I'm in love with the lady. Yum.

One small problem:

Despite the caffeine, which does perk me up eventually, while I'm drinking it and for thirty minutes afterwards, I feel like napping. I don't mean I'm a little drowsy. I mean I look and feel like I'm going to pass out. Or like I'm stoned, maybe.

This tea is soothing. It would be the perfect tea to sip on when putting my feet up while I'm reading a nice relaxing book, maybe even in the tub.

Not too sure when that will happen though...

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.

Random Thoughts for January 09, 2014

I made an iced-vanilla-maple-mocha with some leftover coffee this morning, and as I sipped it at work I thought to myself, I'd love to say that this is delicious, but I can only say that it's good. Then when I was walking to the bank for work, I met up with a bunch of high school kids on the sidewalk, and I wanted to say, "Hey, share the sidewalk," because nobody went single file, but I thought that that might make me out to be one of those people, so I just forged on. At least I didn't step off the sidewalk. Or walk into the lamppost. There was enough room for everyone after all.

I'm not sure how I'm still vertical. Well. Semi-vertical. I'd love to drink a shot of Schnapps from one of my really pretty, long-stemmed shot glasses, but then I'd be horizontal for sure, and then I'd feel like crap tomorrow, and I have to work tomorrow, so I'll just continue with water since I'm probably already dehydrated from all the caffeine that was in that not quite delicious iced-vanilla-maple-mocha that I had earlier.

Getting the kids to bed has been tough the last couple days. Well, one kid in particular. How tough, you ask? Samuel L. Jackson wants to read you a little story about it.

I'm not sure if it's my husband or my dog that's snoring. It's definitely not K1. He just got up again.

Looks like I'll have to read for a while to make sure that everyone is asleep. Oh. Darn.

Random Thoughts for January 04, 2014.

It's 2014. I'm not entirely sure where 2013 went, exactly, but I may have been a bit dazed through most of it. You will have more traction driving at -20 Celsius than you will at 0 to -5. Unless the intersections are polished up by all those people in two-wheel drive pick-ups without winter tires. I don't think that that last sentence was a sentence.

I have to work tomorrow. Sometimes I think that I don't want to go. Most of the time, I don't really want to go. I do love my job, but I have more fun at home. Unless K1 is terrorizing K2. Or me. Mostly, K1 is awesome, and very helpful, like tonight when he helped me clean up the mess by washing everything with the dirty rag that was initially used to wipe up the yogurt drink that he dribbled all over the floor while running around with the container (empty, except for the dregs) upside down, right after I said something along the lines of please don't carry that upside down or you'll dribble--argh! Then I said to get a cloth, and I wet it for him (easy because I was doing dishes at the time) and he did wipe up all the dribbles and then the stove and the walls or something, and the garbage can in the kitchen. I think really he was avoiding going to bed because every time that I mentioned that it's bed time he cleaned more stuff. Where was I going with this. Right. Mostly K1 is awesome, but sometimes he's three. Well, he's three every day, because he's three. But sometimes he's three.

I'm tired of candy and chocolate. I know, I know, what the fuck is wrong with me? I mean really? I'm actually craving salads for lunches at work. Salads. And, I want to work out at lunchtime, too. Am I that sick of sugar? Or do I just really hate how fat I am? Yes to the first, and no to the second, but only because the second is the wrong question. I just hate how out of shape I am. I mean, I did 5 minutes on the rowing machine, then 5 on the bike, then ten, maybe, on the treadmill. I thought I was going to die. Or be killed by my mutinous legs. How sad is that?

I can see parts of my desk. Not all of it, and there's enough to write on, especially if I get rid of the singing snowmen, but it's not as bad or as good as it could be. Speaking of singing snowmen, it's really time to pack up the Christmas stuff. Not now though. Now, it's bed time.

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?

Lily Allen Said It, Not Me.

(Language Warning)

Lily Allen has a Baggy Pussy. Yep. That's what she says here. It's a music video, and I'm sure that she's trying to make a point, and it's a good point to make, but I'm still on the fence as to whether or not she made it.

No, the point is not that she has floppy lips. She's pointing out how hard it is for bitches to have to make music videos where they're pretty much just objectified sex symbols.

At least, I think that that's what she's trying to point out.

I watched the video, and it did make me focus a bit more on how ridiculous the pop music industry has become, but maybe that's because I don't actually give a shit about a lot of pop music. Sure, I like to listen to "dance," or "pop" music--but only the kind that you can actually dance to, and I don't watch the videos--I just want to tune out to a beat that for some reason helps me zone out. Bad thing to do while driving, by the way. Next thing you know, you're going 75 in a 50 zone (that's km/hr). Ahem.

Mostly though, I like rock and roll. I don't watch those videos, either.

Not much for flabby body parts in any music video, really.

Heels, Christmas Baking, Hallowe'en, Snot Factories, and Play-Dough.

In other words, random thoughts for this week:

I made it through my first week back at work. I thought I'd dress nicely. This included nice shoes. I like my shoes. My feet and my ankles do not. I'm still wondering how the heck Kate Beckett runs down the bad guys in them. My shoes are very pretty. And really freaking noisy. I can't sneak up on anyone at work. On Friday I wore nice slacks and a nice sweater. And running shoes.

It finally looks normal outside. It snowed enough to cover the grass. It's November. We shouldn't ever see the grass in November. That's just weird and it freaks me out. Kind of like seeing grass in March.

I was supposed to take the boys to their grandparents' Friday instead of to daycare. The boys have colds. They're snot factories. Because someone can't get sick (not too sure why not) I had to take them to daycare. I wanted to say, "See you in the Spring." Because, it's winter, and my kids go to daycare, so they're going to be snot factories for the next six months. Ish.

I don't tell anyone when I have snot all over me. I just say it must be some formula or something. I get lots of snotty hugs. My kids love me. Lots.

I did some Christmas baking today! Woot! I even managed to freeze some of it before it got eaten! Double Woot!! I'm trying to think of what kind of Christmas baking I can do with the dried cherries I found at Costco. Cherries remind me that it's Saturday, so it's Cherry Saturday, so I should head over and see what's happening there.

Seriously, how the fuck does KB run in heels? That has to be CGI or something.

I made play-dough today. That's right. The home-made kind. It's way easier than I thought it would be, and it smells way better than the store-bought stuff. And, if the kids eat it, they won't die. They'll just get wired on the food colouring. I think next time the play-dough will be Turmeric Yellow. Instead of I-Didn't-Want-Pink-So-I-Added-Lots-of-Red-Dye. The food colouring I found must be my mom's. I never buy the stuff because I never use it. Maybe next time I'll make Blueberry-Juice Blue. Which will actually be purple.

I wonder if I could get away with wearing my Crocs at work. They're pink. So probably not. I remember buying pink ones so that I would never be tempted to wear them out of my yard. I wore them as part of my Millie costume on Hallowe'en. I don't think that that counts. That's right, I put an apostrophe in Hallowe'en. I remember it being a requirement when we had to learn how to spell it in grade three. You know, when it was a hallowed evening, hence the contraction.

What do you mean you don't know who Millie is? Doesn't everyone watch Team Umizoomi? Oh. Right. Just people with little kids. Right. Well, Millie rocks. She's a super hero with pattern power, and she doesn't fall into the trap of wearing heels. To, you know, fight crime.

I'm not sure how Geo does it in his roller skates, though. Poor kid.

Random on, folks.

Random Thoughts for Sunday the 13th. Of October.

It's 8:15 and I'm wondering how I'm still vertical. Semi-vertical. I'm seated, so I guess my thighs are horizontal. I woke up at 3:30 when my husband left for work. Closed my eyes. The baby cried, so I thought I should get up and change his diaper. He stopped. I fell back to sleep for two minutes. Now he cried harder because he pooped and his bum is raw, poor thing. Changed his diaper, refreshed his bottle, roll my eyes at the folks who say "no" to bottles in bed (bad for their teeth) because otherwise buddy doesn't fall to sleep at all. As it is he cried for fifteen minutes before passing out again (I did try other things; I finally had to just go).

Fell asleep again. I think. Woke up at six to make cranberry sauce. It's fucking awesome, and I canned some for Christmas. If it lasts that long. We have a lot of turkey leftovers. The kids woke up. Fed them. Fed myself. Kind of. Helped my mom get the turkey ready for dinner (Thanksgiving). Got the rest of the food prepped. Cleaned the house. Had a bath. Finally. When was the last time I had a shower, anyway? I even shaved my legs. Hallelujah. Holy cow. Hallelujah took forever to spell. I wonder if my husband will even notice that I shaved my legs. I wonder if we'll have sex tonight.

Had a bunch of people over for Thanksgiving. Kicked my mom out of the kitchen a few times. I'm almost forty but there's no way in hell I know how to mash a pot full of freaking potatoes, I guess. She's a lot like her mom. Won't sit down unless you tie them up. But then again, my husband decided to play Warm Bodies while supper was finishing. Not her cup of tea. So I got him to change the channel so that she'd sit down for more than a minute. She sat for two. Will I be like that with my kids? I have two boys. Either I'll be cooking the big dinners, or I'll be driving their girlfriends crazy. Or maybe they'll have boyfriends. Maybe I'll just write myself a letter to read later: "Remember when your mom drove you crazy at holidays?" Yeah, I think I'll just enjoy their mashed potatoes because by then I'm going to be okay with sitting down and hanging out with whoever else is sitting down. Yeah.

Made coffee, and the coffee pot peed all over the kitchen. Hubby's excited because he hates it so now he has a reason to get a new one. Whatever. You just can't make a full pot because the basket's too small for how strong we like to make it. The grounds floated and clogged up the works. Cleaned it up and made a new pot. It leaked too. Come Christmas Daddy's getting a new coffee pot and this fucking piece of shit's going in the garbage. Like I have time to clean up coffee all night. Oh my god I had a cup. That's why I'm still awake.

Had a great dinner. Had a great day. Except for maybe listening to the baby cry all day because he's probably got five teeth coming out at once. Poor thing. Dosed him with teething tablets and Tylenol. Hopefully his bum gets better. Baboons would be jealous, I think.

I wonder why my dishwasher sucks? It was probably cheap. But hey, at least we have one. I'm not stuck washing dishes all night. And I'm totally okay with running two loads. From the look of the (neatly rinsed) piles of dishes on the counter, though, we might do three in all.

Ooh. There is more pumpkin pie in the fridge. 'Night.

Cleavage, But Not the Good Kind

We went to Strong Start the other day. It was busy. Twenty-five or thirty kids. It was crazy.

There was a lot of cleavage on display, but it wasn't the good kind. I know that we're all moms, and we might not have the bodies that we used to, that we want, or that we used to want but now we've given up on, and I know that we're really tired and some days we don't care about our appearances (or just don't have the time to care--I mean, let's face it: some days we're lucky to get a two minute shower, which doesn't allow time for extras like actually washing your hair, or shaving your legs (I'd like to take this moment to apologize to everyone who was at the pool this week)), and I really don't care if you want to be frumpy, I mean, I'm the Queen of Frumpy, but could you maybe please wear longer shirts?

Or at least some underwear? I'm not talking thongs, either. That just makes me think of a girl I went to university with; she quite often had awesome underwear on; we're talking leopard prints and shiny colours, but it was always full coverage; no whale-tails on that girl. I know this because you could almost always see it. I pointed it out to her one day, and her reply was, "Better they see that [my underwear] than the crack of my ass." Excellent point.

The "cleavage" display reminded me of the time my boss and I were talking about how she felt like a babysitter to the front-end staff; she even had to tell the girls constantly that they had to dress appropriately; it's not the kind of business where cleavage needs to be on display. "You need a no-cleavage clause on the application," I said. "Front or back."

When I worked up north in the oil patch, some first aid companies had this in their hiring contracts. It's sad that they actually had to write in that we needed to wear appropriate clothing, and what said clothing was or wasn't. A lot of girls from other cities, though, thought that it was completely appropriate to head in to a remote camp, filled with a bunch of guys who spend their days off drunk at a strip joint, dressed like they worked at a strip joint. Forget being unprofessional; it's just plain distracting!

Don't get me wrong, I think that you should be able to work in a remote camp, naked, and not be assaulted or harassed, but the reality is different. You can be dressed in coveralls over so many layers that you look like the Michelin man, and still be harassed and assaulted up there.We're talking about an industry that used to use first aid companies as escort services (rumour has it that that's how a lot of FA companies got their contracts when they first started in the 80's); when I first started in the mid-nineties, FA Attendants were just starting to change their reputation from slut to professional person.

That was hard to do. You walked in to a rig having first to dispel the assumption that you'd like to make money on the side, and then you'd have to prove that you were there to do first aid in a professional manner, only. You had to do this for every rig that you went to.

So maybe seeing younger girls showing off the cleavage in the 2000's was a bit of a kick in the gut. It felt a bit like they (unknowingly) were undoing a lot of the hard work done in the nineties.

I digress. And the baby just woke up. So I'll sum it up.

Cleavage, especially back, isn't something I want to see. But, if I really don't want to see something on someone else, I don't have to look. That's my philosophy about myself--don't like my hairy legs, don't look at them!

#13 Allow Sufficient Time for your Child to Dress Himself/Herself

Number thirteen of 101 Things Parents Can Do to Help Children is "Allow sufficient time for your child to dress himself/herself."

Some days that amount of time is a cool ten minutes. Awesome.

Other days I realize I should have woken K1 up an hour earlier.

However, since that hour IS FOR ME--that's when I can shower, for crying out loud!--(and who the heck wants to wake up a three-year-old that early, anyway?), those other days end up being the kind where I say,

Sweetie, let me help you get your shirt on, k? We have to get going.
No. No. No, please let me help you. Put your arms in--arms in the sleeves. No, not through the neck, through the sleeves--seriously? You know how to do this. You did it yesterday.
What do you mean, 'ow'? What? Why isn't your head coming through? How big is your head? Who the f*%k did the zipper up on this?
No, don't say that word; it's a bad word and Mommy shouldn't have said it. Say "Heck" instead. Who the heck did the zipper up. Say that.
Okay, go put your shoes on please while I get your brother. Any shoes, just put them on. Other foot. No, other foot.
I'm putting your brother in the car and when I come back you better be wearing shoes. Yes, you can wear your red boots. They're on the wrong feet. Doesn't matter, we're just going to take them off in ten minutes...
Okay, out the door, let's go.
Wait, where are your pants? How did I not notice that you aren't wearing pants?

I never know the night before how it's going to go. It's awesome when it's ten minutes. It's interesting when it's not.

What Are You Thinking About?

Quite often when Hubby and I are driving along, he'll ask me, "What are you thinking about?"

Tonight, while driving back from the lake, I replied, "Not much at all. Just really micro random thoughts."

"Like what?" he said.

"Well," I replied, "I was thinking that I've been wearing yoga pants a lot lately, and that maybe I should start wearing other pants, like jeans, but jeans are cold in the rain at the lake, and I only have one pair anyway. Well, I have two pairs, but the other ones are a bit tight; I can do them up and everything but I feel like I'd look a little stuffed in them, and I can't really wear slacks for camping/hiking, but I do have slacks, so I need other types of pants, like cargo pants, but I'm not really a cargo pants kind of person, and what kind of pants were our friends wearing tonight? It was hard to tell because it was dark, but they weren't jeans or yoga pants and they looked more like cargo pants but more stylish but they weren't slacks; they looked like the kind of pants that I look at at the store and think, meh, not my style, but probably if I put them on they'd look really good, or if Hubby bought them I'd think, good call because when he buys me shirts, they're shirts that I've looked at and thought, meh, not my style, but I put them on and I really like them. Then I was thinking about the pants a character in one of my stories that I'm plotting out would wear. She's a pacifist, maybe a hippie, but she's hiding out in some army guy's cabin (he doesn't know) (yet), and she's (maybe) eight months pregnant, and she's doing something outside in order to get ready for winter, like smoking a moose or something, and she's about to get shot at, but if she's hiding out because she's supposed to be dead, wtf is she wearing?

And that's about where Hubby asked, "What are you thinking about?"

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.