I Could Carry All My Clothes and Make-up in the Bags Under My Eyes

July 27, 2006 family

I’ve been up since 9 this morning. As in Wednesday morning. I FINALLY get picked up in an hour to be shuttled to the airport - a two hour ride that doesn’t actually leave the bus terminal until 4:15 a.m.

The a/c went for a shit this morning and I’ve sweat the equivalent of the Pacific Ocean today. Dehydrated, headache coming on, coffee-high, breathless from too many cigarettes. Shut up. I did quit. And I’ll have to do it again. So sue me.

I’m finally packed. I had shower #3 about an hour ago and actually put on make-up. I can feel it sliding down my face already. The fan is on, all the windows are open and I’m still sweating like Mimi on The Drew Carey Show after a pound of hot and spicy buffalo wings. Not pretty. Put the toilet paper in the freezer for Mimi - she’ll need it after tonight. (I used to have a guy roommate who would stick the toilet paper in the freezer so he could better face the “ring of fire” after a night of draft beer and wings. Gross huh?)

My only hope now is that I don’t fall asleep before the cab driver arrives to take me to the terminal. Course Ruffy would bark like a mad woman and I would stumble out of my house with my very large suitcase with too many clothes, shoes and product, looking like Joan Rivers. Or Tara Reid. Same difference I suppose. They both have faces like a can of smashed assholes. That what partying will do to you. Take heed BlogHers.

I just hope my flat iron makes it through the luggage blender at the airports. I cannot have frizzy hair in front of BlogHer’s most intelligent women.

So I received Super Mom a few days ago, and I had it all planned that I would read it on the plane. Yeah, I’m halfway through it because I can’t put the bloody thing down. It’s light reading, hysterically funny and you’ll like it. I think the paperback comes out on August 1st.

Well folks, this is as live blogging as you’re going to get from me. I don’t own a laptop and all the smarter women will be more fun to read anyway. Plus? No sleep from Wednesday 9 a.m. to Sunday at 11:30 p.m. for me. Nothing I write would make any sense. Copius amounts of alcohol, and overloading of my brain at the conference, makes for BAD blog fodder. I may just implode. Take cover Roomie!

See ya Mondayish. Maybe sooner, maybe not. Depends if I make friends with someone who is laptoppy. It’s like making friends with people who have a pool. Only cooler.

I Didn’t Know Thatchu Could Dance Like That

July 25, 2006 family

I don’t know what is funnier to me: the needlessness of stuffing Shakira’s bra, or the duct tape holding up her skirt. Honestly, people.

You wanted to kiiiisss me, you wanted to huuuuuggg me, you wanted to loooove me.

family

Dear Daren,

As we celebrate our 8th anniversary today, there are some things you ought to know. It’s time.

As a little girl, I always believed that I would marry a wonderful man. I believed in true love, though I hadn’t seen it in my own mother’s 6000 relationships. I saw it in others though. My Granny and Papa have a love for each other that I knew, KNEW that one day I would have with someone else. I knew you would come along, and I knew that I would know who you were when you finally arrived in my life.

When I was working at The Big Un-named Store, I was proud of my status there. I had started as a cashier, and worked my way through the different departments of the store, proud of the retail knowledge I was gaining, as well as my skills in customer service and the recognition I was getting from my peers and my managers. They called me the Poster Girl of our location. I was proud, and happy at work.

Then you were transferred to my store. I was jealous that I wasn’t the one promoted to your position. I was mad at you for already having the experience from the store you were transferred from and I was bound and determined to support you, even though YOU TOOK MY JOB BUSTER. Okay, the job was never mine, but I wanted it and you took it, you job-taker you.

Since you were the newest member of the management team (of which I was not yet a member), I tried to help you when you needed to find things, to figure out our processes, and navigate you through our store since our store was much much bigger than your old store. I didn’t even try to make you look bad, though it was tempting.

In my effort to show off for you, my new Boss-Man-Bing, I made mistakes for the first time in my retail career. I counted the floats wrong at the end of the night, only to have you re-count them and tell me I couldn’t count worth a shit, all the while a smirk on your face. I dropped things in your presence. It was like my brain and hands wouldn’t work while you were near. You were my Kyptonite. Perhaps I was crushing on you then. I’ll never tell. I could tell what you were thinking though.

You wanted to kiiiisss me, you wanted to huuuuuggg me, you wanted to loooove me.

A few months after your arrival at MY store (and it will always be my store, even though I was transferred after you and I started our sordid Big Un-named Store affair that everyone talked about), you and I went to a party. A house party. Where the majority of the guests were co-workers. My friends. I don’t know how you got invited.

My friends. My store. Hmmmm.

Needless to say, we drank way too much. And when I decided to play footsies with you on the carpet of the livingroom of the house of the party we were at, I sure didn’t expect you to play footsies right back.

You wanted to kiiiisss me, you wanted to huuuuuggg me, you wanted to loooove me.

And you did. My face was raw from kissing you that night. I heard people whispering about us. I didn’t care. You were so incredibly kissable. And still are.

We were hot. We still are, baby.

Without giving it all up to the blog-world, I sure didn’t expect to marry you in your parents backyard. I didn’t expect the lovely family that is yours to become ours. I sure didn’t expect a best friend in your mother. I sure didn’t expect your father to treat me as his own daughter. I sure didn’t expect your sister to embrace me as she has, from the very first day I met her. She planned that beautiful backyard wedding, when I gingerly walked down the aisle in too-tall shoes, with my father on one side and my best-friend’s father on the other.

But I got it all.

When I married you, I got it all, baby. I got a man who works hard to put food on the table for our family, a man who supports me in everything I do, from silly sales jobs, to high-powered workaholic positions, to being the mother of our children and running my own business from home.

I got a man who loves me at 120 pounds and 220 pounds. I got a man who sees beauty in me when I feel down, from when I went through infertility drugs that made me crazy, to post-partum depression when I was a faucet not to be reckoned with. Between the tears and the breastmilk, I’m surprised you didn’t drown.

You’ve been there through the birth of both of our children, watching their tiny bodies be born. You’ve been there through Dylan’s bout with Kawasaki’s Disease and through my insanity that is Troll Baby.

You got us to where we are today. We’ve lived in tiny basement apartments, three story walk-ups, a moldy townhouse that made us sick as hell, and here we are today in our own beautiful home, years later. You built our family room this year, and I watched with pride as you painted Dylan’s and Thomas’ rooms in anticipation of our sons.

I never expected to be this happy. Though I always knew I would meet the right man, I never ever in a million years expected to be this happy.

I thank you for all the things you are. All the things we are together, and all the things you have helped me to be. You are the best father in the world, the best husband in the world and I fall in love with you over and over each day. Just when I think I couldn’t possibly love you more, you say or do something that blows my heart and mind away. You are a special, amazing person Daren, and I want to kiiiissss you, I want to huuuug you, I want to looooovee you, and I want to be married to you forever and ever and ever….

Love,

Me

xo

The Post In Which I am Stark-Raving Pissed Right Off

July 24, 2006 family

Recently I stumbled across a site that is the epitomy of jeaously, insecurity, and outright malice. Someone has created a site on blogspot that talks about Dooce.

Our Dooce.

The mommyblogger I started reading over two years ago when I was pregnant with Thomas. The Dooce that blogged about her post-partum depression, enabling me to realize, months later, that I was suffering from the very same affliction. I thought of her as I was driving with a hysterical Thomas on a highway, and thought, “If I just turn the wheel, I can make this all go away.” I got help because of Dooce.

And just so you know, I’m not writing this to get attention from Heather. She knows how I feel about her. She knows she helped me save my life. She knows she has been quite a delivery of humour, snark, sarcasm and understanding to young mothers everywhere in blogland.

I’m PISSED OFF. I’ve seen people express their dislike for Dooce before, and they have a right to say that they don’t like the site, or they don’t understand the attraction. Everyone is entitled to their own opinions. But in this case, it’s hateful, toxic words, and this person has a knowledge of mommybloggers to the point that I almost think she is pretty close to us. She (I’m assuming) talks about how the mommybloggers are getting paid now by ClubMom and others and how their paid gigs aren’t nearly as good as their regular blogs. I don’t have any idea who this person is, but obviously she (or he) is watching the mommyblogging world.

If she is one of the mommybloggers, I’m really sad that she decided not to support one of our own. And by sad, I mean pitifully sad.

Makes me wonder.

How could someone be so hateful to twist Heather’s words into attempts to increase blog traffic? How could anyone say that Heather sharing her recent cancer story is something she did for attention? Since as far back as I can remember, Heather has been candid, and openly shared alot about herself, her thoughts, her feelings and her family. That’s her gig. She enjoys writing about her life and obviously alot of people enjoy reading about it.

I know that the little bit of negative email I have gotten over the past couple of years has stung, and I can’t imagine the shit that gets thrown at the Armstrongs. I hope that these kinds of things will never stop them from writing whatever they want to write. I sure as hell will never let it stop me. I don’t normally give any attention to people like this, but this one really got me steaming.

So to whatever coward is writing that shit on blogspot, fuck you. Obviously you are a) jealous; b) insecure; c) not afraid of Karma; and/or d) a childish mess of a waste of life. Grow up and get a life.

BlogHer Anxiety

July 23, 2006 Me, Unplugged

Jenn Satterwhite just wrote a post over at BlogHer about the anxiety some of us are facing over the upcoming BlogHer conference.

I started to comment over there and it got too long, but here’s the dealio:

I won’t sleep the night before. Partly because I get picked up by the shuttle at 3:30 a.m. to ride 2 hours to the Detroit airport, only to wait and hope that I don’t a) get mugged; or b) fall asleep and miss my flight. I’m neurotic like that. And partly because dude, it’s BlogHer! There are bloggers I truly admire, like Mir, Kristin, Erin, Sarah, and about a million more women that I will completely be over the moon to meet in person.

I’ve had my eyebrows done, and my hair cut and coloured. yes, that’s coloured with an O and a U, eh? It’s a chestnut brown now, with blond highlights.

I.

Look.

Hawt.

I have fear though. I get butterflies every time I think about going through customs. The fear of walking around the hotel with a sore ass from a strip search freaks me out more than a strip search - seriously, who wants to make friends with a Mommyblogger who walks like a penguin and looks like she has a pickle up her ass?

“Oh there’s Karen from Troll Baby. She looks so stuck up.”

“Well I heard she had the strip search. You know, the CAVITY search.”

“Oh, poor thing.”

“Yeah,” giggling, “Poor thing. Waddle waddle waddle.” Chinking glasses. Snickers.

Maybe I should pack Vasoline? And a sewing kit?

Um. Ew. Even I grossed myself out there.

Then there’s the whole flight thing. I don’t mind flying. As far as fear goes, I have none. I do, however, get bored easily and require something to pass the time. A book? No, I can’t concentrate on a book on a plane. I read the same paragraph over and over again and stress about if I will have to ask my seatmate to move even once. I actually stress about the 20 second inconvenience I will inflict on another person, in order to urinate.

I could pack my son’s Game Boy, but I get really pissed off when Mario isn’t going my way, and I don’t know how to play any of those other games. My seatmate might not like the fact that I move my arms and elbows in order to jump and smash those turtle things, like moving the GameBoy helps matters. Elbowing your seatmate could be considered rude, I suppose.

If I bring my iPod, I’ll want to dance. There is nothing worse than hearing good music and not being able to sing along or dance. Or both. It’s like trying to stop myself from breathing. Also? I’m fairly certain there are no poles for me to dance with on the plane.

And oh my god, what if my seatmate is CUTE? Then what? I’ll sit there wondering if he thinks I’m a complete troll. Eating will be out of the question. Plane food is nasty anyway.Once I get there, I’ll be able to relax. I have a kick-ass roommate (actually two for the first night since Mary is SO sleeping with me - Slutty Mc Slutslut.)

Course then there’s the whole pooping thing. What if I have to poop and my roommates are there? Oh my God, I know most women have poop that is white and smells like roses, but I do not. I mean, I don’t STINK really bad or anything, I’m sure as hell not my husband, and I don’t take 30 hours to take a dump, all the while reading the New York Times or whatever you Americans read. But there will be the urge, especially the morning after drinking and once I’ve had a milli-sip of coffee. Don’t laugh. It’s human. We all poop. You poop.

I don’t have any reservations about meeting all these awesome women. Especially Lisa. Brainchild of the blogging world. LOVE HER. I’ll be all sociable and friendly and hopefully not walking with a gaping butthole.

I’ll be loud, won’t be on my best behavior, and hopefully make you laugh a bit. I’m not Sally Field, but you’ll like me, you’ll REALLY like me! I swear on my New York Times.? If you even want it.

Dare Me?

July 22, 2006 Me, Unplugged

I just read about this Striptease Workout at Girl’s Gone Child and I’m wondering…do I DARE after what happened before?

Vote for Me!

Awards

I’ve been nominated in two catagories for the Really Fucking Stupid Blog Awards. Click the button to vote. Go now.

Tubthumping

July 21, 2006 family

Lately, Troll Baby is terrifed of the tub. I don’t know what brought on this sudden fear of the bath, but whenever we put him in it, he soaks Daren or I as he grasps at our shoulders, thrashing about, hollering to get out. The poor little man screams that the tub is hungry, and I’m afraid when one of us said that to him as the water noisely drained one evening, that he thought the tub was going to swallow him whole.

His facination with the movie Finding Nemo is waning, because now he will scream “Tunnus scarwed of da dolphin,” when the scene with the sharks comes on. I’m debating on the planned trip to Marineland at the end of the summer now, because walking around that place with a sweaty toddler stole wrapped around my neck does not seem the least bit appealing.

With BlogHer and Dylan’s and my Calgary trip fast approaching, I’m concerned the little guy will either a) forget who I am; or b) instill the fear of babysitting into each of the 3 caregivers I have scheduled for him, one of which is my mother-in-law.

During our recent trip to the family farm (pictures here!), Thomas figured out how to get out of the travel crib. He stood beside the bed one morning as I slowly opened my eyes to see his little face exclaim, “Good morning Mommy! Time ah wakeup! Tunnus is wake up, now Mommy do it! Where’s Dinnon? Dinnon ah goah upstaiwrs. Tunnus goah upstaiwrs too. Tunnus want cereal and toast wif peanut butter and jawwy.” I was still wondering what my name was, what time it was and how the hell this kid went AWOL.

When I tucked him in that same night, I said the usual, “Drink your water, have a good sleep, I love you,” shpiel, then added, “You won’t get out of your crib, will you?” It was more of a threatening/begging demand sort of thing and he replied with a michievous grin, “Prowwy not.”

“Prowwy not” are the words of the week. “Are you hot?” “Prowwy not.” “Are you hungry?” “Prowwy not.” “Do you want a new car?” “Prowwy not.” Whew. Got outta that one. Score one for Mommy.

So after lunch today, as Thomas was covered in blueberries, peanut butter, and bologna (yuck), I asked him, “Do you want a bath?”

“Prowwy not.”

Knowing I had laundry to tackle, I condered throwing it in the tub with him for agitation action. I tried to trick him with, “Are you sure?”

“No sanks,” he said, matter of factly.

Let’s just admit it. This kid is smarter than the average washing machine.

Still In Love

July 20, 2006 family

The Letter

family

Rather than buy gifts for our Granny and Papa (dancing in the post above this one) this year, Joel (my brother) and I decided to write them a letter.

Dear Granny and Papa,

Raising kids isn t easy. Raising someone else s kids must be even harder. But the two of you took us on without a second thought. Well if you had any second thoughts, we sure sure didn t know about it. That old expression about the apple not falling far from the tree must have scared you, as you made that decision to take us both in.

Thankfully, for all of us, the apple fell from the tree, clearly knocking something loose on the first hit, and Joel and I reaped all the apple-y goodness that you both possess.

You ve taught us a lot about life. Like how to burp a frog until it s guts squish out, so he sinks. And how to put that gross little bugger on the hook to catch, uh, seaweed. Just kidding Papa! How to fillet a fish and hang the fish in a tree so the animals can be teased all day.

You taught us how to iron a shirt so stiff that it could jack up that old car Uncle Timmy had in the driveway for 400 years. How Papa put his arms through those cardboard creations is still a mystery. It must be a secret for the family vault.

You taught us how to make pancakes so light, they float away. How to treat animals kindly with maple cookies on a tree stump, or toast and jelly, every morning. Rest in peace, Patches, you old fleabag.

You taught us how to stop and watch nature, or how it watches you, like the raccoons in the tree watching Papa move endless piles of dirt. Or the one he thought was Patches, while sitting at the bonfire one night. He reached down and pet  Patches for a few minutes before looking down at a little bandit, 3 years after Patches had died. We watched a snake eat a frog, and a parade of turtles be born and mosey on down to the water in a line, as they followed their mother.

You taught us how to start a motorboat. How to throw a motorboat into reverse at just the right moment to dock it. You might have wanted to spend a little more time with Joel on the brake lessons in the winter though& .remember the snowmobile? That poor lady didn t know what hit her.

Joel, write a Papa a cheque.

You taught us the love for music, while banging away on Tupperware as toddlers, or having a Hee Haw in the basement with the washboard and bagpipe music blaring in the background.

You taught us a love for our country, as we watched 4531 Proud Canadian stickers (off the whisky bottles) go up and come down, over the years. Well, the only ones that came down were the ones that Granny couldn’t reach.

You taught us to be kind to children. When Katie was throwing her 4th tantrum of the morning, or when Shannon was getting mouthy, or if Jessie was playing sandbox in the kitty litter, or if Jo was eating fish bait, you coaxed those little girls away with promises of ju jubes and cookies. The memories of these little ones are vivid in our minds and it s hard to believe they are all grown up now, though we can see your amazing influence on them all as well.

You taught us to appreciate what we have. Whether it be the people around us, or our possessions. To take care of things and people, so they would last a long time.

You are amazing parents. Not just to your own children, but to all your grandchildren. And we hope that you stick around for a very long time, so our children and our children s children can get to know all the apple-y goodness that is Granny and Papa.

Happy Birthday to you both. And thank you for being the people you are. We love you.

Love, Karen and Joel

If you’re here from the BlogHer Ad Network, watch Granny and Papa dance an Irish Jig here.