I am blowing this joint for the weekend in order to do some quality drinking scrapbooking and I couldn’t think of a better way to say, “see you in three days, sucker!” than posting a little something-something about my your favourite book and movie franchise, The Twilight Saga, and the bloodsuckers chronicled within it.

(See what I just did there? See you later suckers? And a movie about bloodsuckers? That’s called segueing.)

So, New Moon is coming out on video on March 20th. (Yes, I just said video. I’m old skool like that, yo.) It’s chock-full of angst, mythical creatures and more angst. What it’s not chock-full of is a plot. Yeah, I said it.

The movie poster. Ooh. Angsty.

What the movie poster looked like before the art department got to it. Bahaha.

Overall, I think that Stephenie Meyer did a good job of explaining how vampires are able to live in and amongst humans but she missed one very important point. Approximately half the population is female. With female issues. If the blood from a paper cut is enough to drive a vampire insane with bloodlust, how on earth would he make it through a day out in a world filled with chicks? Well, I think my boyfriend Brandon Routh has figured out how they’re able to do it:

Oh, Brandon. You’re so funny. Can I have your babies?

*cough*

Did I say that out loud?

Speaking of my boyfriend Brandon Routh and his hotness, I ask you this: Why was he not cast as Edward in the real Twilight movies?

Hot…

Hot…

Hey, baby. How YOU doin’?

Instead, they cast this guy:

O-kay.

*crickets*

I think about how Twilight would have gone with my boyfriend Brandon Routh in it and all I can say is, “Bite me, Edward! I’ll have your creepy vampire spawn any day!”

For all you RPattz lovers out there, I’ll go ahead and throw you a bone. I admit that the guy can clean up when he wants to:

Yum.

Too bad you probably smell like moldy cheese.

You’re welcome.

Just don’t expect me to get to the point where I’d buy a pair of these:

Um, ew?

Filed under: Random | 6 Comments →

So, apparently there’s some hullabaloo in the media over Shiloh Jolie-Pitt and her apparent gender identity issues. Why do they think she has gender identity issues? Because she has a short haircut.

Now just wait a minute. Hold the presses. A three year old girl with short hair? I’ve never heard of such a thing. What kind of parent would do that to her little princess girl-child?

Huh. Short hair = I think I’m a boy. Yep. There’s some sound logic. *cough*

(Yes, that’s me with a bowl cut and red track suit at the age of not-quite-three. Yes, I’m a girl. You wanna make something of it?)
________

Head on over to The Bad Mom’s Club to see lots of perfectly gender non-confused moms and their short childhood haircuts. You know you want to.

Filed under: Keepin' it Real, Me | 1 Comment →

(Um, yeah. Oops. I accidentally hit “publish” without finishing. Oh well. I guess it speaks for itself. 15 glowsticks for $1.50 = cheap fun for the kids. Woo!)

Fun With Glowsticks from Walking With Scissors on Vimeo.

Fun With Glowsticks 2 from Walking With Scissors on Vimeo.

Fun With Glowsticks 3 from Walking With Scissors on Vimeo.

Filed under: Happy Happy, Offspring, Random | Add Comment →

Two weeks ago, I bought a vinyl wall decal off Etsy.

(When Lucky noticed the receipt in our inbox, he exclaimed, “Quit buying crap off Etsy!” Apparently, he’s not as into crafting as I am. Wonder what he’ll say when he finds out that I have big plans to hock sell crap beautifully handcrafted items of my own on Etsy one of these days? But I digress…)

Until it arrived yesterday, I’d been not-so-patiently waiting for my new purchase. (I love new stuff! I love mail! WOooO!!) I had it out of the box and up on the wall less than ten minutes after I noticed it on my front porch.

Cute, right? An “enjoy your meal” sign, complete with cutlery, right above the pantry. Hey? Right?

When my husband saw it, he wasn’t exactly on the same page as me.

Bon Appetit? Really?

Yeah, isn’t it cute? I really love the cutlery.

Well, yeah. I guess. Without the cutlery, it would look really stupid.

According to Lucky, my wall art only looks a little stupid. For him, that’s almost a compliment. And after he determined that yes, it does come off if we ever tire of it, he dismissed the whole thing from his mind and will probably never notice it again.

___________________

We’ve been in this house for about 3.5 years now and slowly but surely, I’m starting to fill the walls with art. I’ve noticed a bit of an unintentional trend with the things I’ve been choosing:

French…

French…

French…

Two of the pieces are for bathrooms and one is for the pantry. Apparently, all of these locations need a bit of classing up and what better way to do it than being all so-fist-ee-kated with my fancy French artwork? (By sophisticated, I mean that one was purchased off Etsy for $14, one was purchased at Zellers for $9.95 and one was purchased at Walmart for $4.95. I’m a big spender, folks.)

_________________________

Yesterday, using a combination of stickers, a pen and her own imagination, Lily came up with this:

That would be her, marrying her brother. At age five, she thinks it’s the most normal thing ever. When she hits about twelve, I think I’ll show it to her again, just to watch her dissolve into fits of, “EwwwwwwUH. Gross!“, because that’s just the kind of loving mother I am.

_______________________

Speaking of Lily, the little princess had her ears pierced last month. She was bound and determined that she wanted beautiful earrings and promised that she would sit still and be brave, even if it hurt. She pinky swore that she would take good care of her earrings. Pinky swearing is a big deal. How could I refuse?

This ear is so teeny tiny! It’s a sweet little squishy ball of cuteness. I can’t believe I’m about to pay someone to disfigure it…

The ear piercer is marking off the spot with a pen and Lily is getting mighty nervous. Luckily for her (and me!) they had two ear piercers on staff that day and she had them both done at once.

Victory! There were a few tears, but they were nothing a glance in the mirror, a sucker and a chance to sit on a tiny too-small-for-her carousel couldn’t fix.

Aww. Tiny little pink flowers!

Even with holes poked in them, Lily’s ears are still teeny, tiny, squishy, adorable little balls of cuteness…
________________________

Just after Christmas, we purchased two budgies to replace the ones that suddenly, and mysteriously passed away a few weeks earlier. (It sucks, we don’t know what happened. I’m not going to dwell on it here, though.) The new budgies are jittery and somewhat bitey sweet, but, if I may say so, dumb as a box of rocks.

The budgies have a habit of sitting in their food and water dishes. They back their little bums right up in there. And, as budgies are wont to do, they poop. A lot. In their food and water dishes. Now, I know that budgie enthusiasts claim that they are roughly as intelligent as a three year old child, but to that, I say this: My children knew (long before the age of three, might I add) that food is for eating, not pooping on. Even further, I’d wager that most three year olds know that food is for eating, not pooping on. In my opinion, any creature that thinks pooping on its food is an acceptable thing to do is less intelligent than the average human toddler. Seriously. Gross little creatures…

__________________

And last, but not least, allow me to draw your attention over to my review blog. I have three fantastic giveaways up there right now. If you’re a parent of boys or a parent of girls, or a parent of both, you’ll want to go there and comment for a chance to win. No strings attached. Just good old-fashioned giveaway goodness! (Just do it. You know you want to.) Clicky clicky!

Filed under: Happy Happy, Keepin' it Real, Me, Offspring, Out of the Mouths of Babes, Random | 1 Comment →

Occasionally, I will catch myself doing or saying something very grown-up (“it’s time to study your spelling words”, “that music is so loud; I can’t hear myself think”) and I’ll wonder how it is that I look and act exactly like a 33 year old woman when I still feel like a very un grown-up kid a lot of the time.

I am an adult and have been for quite some time.  The birthdate on my driver’s license says so. The fact that the checkout girl at the liquor store asks for my ID not because she believes I’m under 18 but to verify that I haven’t stolen someone else’s credit card in order to purchase my grandmotherly bottle of Bailey’s Irish Creme. The way my bones snap, crackle and pop like a bowl of Rice Krispies when I get up off the couch and the way that I can throw my back out with an out-of-nowhere sneeze evidences that I’m not in my teens (heck, twenties) anymore.

I spend my days meal planning and grocery shopping. I vacuum, clean the toilets and do an obscene amount of laundry. I chauffeur the kids back and forth to school and extra-curricular activities. I confer with their teachers about how they’re doing. I make and enforce the household rules. I help the kids with homework and manage to answer all of their questions like I actually know what I’m talking about. I am a wife, mother and homemaker. I’m even relatively successful at it.

I got a steam mop for Christmas and I was happy about it. Why? Because, when asked what I wanted for a gift, it was the only thing I could think of that I really, really wanted. Because getting down on my hands and knees to scrub the floor sure does a number on the old joints, don’t ya know.

I rarely drink alcohol and when I do, I limit myself to one or two because life doesn’t just stop when you’d like to let loose. Sometimes, I just want silence. My idea of finding something fun to spend extra cash on is buying a cute outfit for the kids at Gymboree. Or purchasing that terry towel shower curtain that I’ve been looking all over the place for. I wear flats because they’re practical. I put a toque on when it’s cold because you lose most of your body heat through the top of your head and vanity has no place in the middle of winter.

Despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary, I still feel like a kid. I do a double-take every time someone calls me “ma’am.” I sometimes find it odd that my kids look up to me as though I’m a grown up, especially when they assume that I have the answers to everything. Clearly I’m flying by the seat of my pants here. For some reason, though, they don’t see that. Bless their little hearts, my kids really do believe that I’m a mature, responsible parental figure. What they don’t know is that I am a fraud. Here is how I know: 

When I was growing up, my parents were grown-ups. They did have the answers to everything. They did have everything figured out because even though they claimed to have been children once upon a time, they weren’t really. Or if they had been, it had passed really quickly. They did all sorts of parent-y things like chauffeur my brother and me to school and extra-curricular activities, do obscene amounts of laundry and cleaning, and make and enforce household rules. Obviously, they had this whole adult thing in the bag.  Because, naturally, you must pass some sort of wiseness and general maturity test in order to become parents. Duh.

It didn’t even dawn on me until I became hopelessly entrenched in this whole parenting thing myself that maybe my mom once felt the same way I do now. Like she was really just a kid masquerading as an adult who had everything figured out. That thought made me feel a little bit better about myself because if my mom ever felt like she was flying by the seat of her pants sometimes, it’s okay that I do, too. She’s making her way through parenthood and adulthood in general like she actually knows what she’s doing and, if I’m completely honest, I think I’m doing a pretty good job of it myself. It doesn’t really matter that I feel like an imposter sometimes as long as the rest of the world doesn’t manage to figure it out.

Maybe being stunted is a good thing after all. I don’t have to have everything figured out all the time to be successful in my life. I mean, I’ve come across lots of people who think they know it all and really, those people are kind of assholes. Sucks to be them. Heh.

Filed under: Confessions, Keepin' it Real, Me, Ponderings, Random | 4 Comments →

Guess what? It’s delurker day. And yes, I realize that I have been sorely neglecting this blog as of late. I blame FarmVille my hectic schedule combined with a healthy dose of lethargy. Forgive me? Say so in the comments. In return, I’ll make an attempt to get my head back on straight and start posting again. Because I miss it. Truly.

Filed under: Confessions, Keepin' it Real, Me, Phoning it in | 6 Comments →

A special New Year’s joke, courtesy of my delicate little flower, Lily:

Knock knock!
Who’s there?
Butt.
Butt who?
Butt poo pee fart!

Hope 2010 is the best year ever!

Filed under: Keepin' it Real, Offspring, Out of the Mouths of Babes | 3 Comments →

Ernie tries to prove, once and for all, that his relationship with Bert isn’t like that.

Ernie! I’m shocked!

You’re a dirty, dirty old man…
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Okay, so it’s Christmas. It’s the time for sharing. In the spirit of giving, I would like to direct you to my review blog where I’m giving away a Wii game as well as a discount on an adorable UV toothbrush sanitizer and a heads-up on a great new photo service! Check it out and don’t forget to enter to win the game! Merry Christmas.

Filed under: Keepin' it Real, Random | 1 Comment →

It seems as though lately, a lot of websites are stepping away from quality writing in favour of posting the “quick fix” of a joke, a picture or a tweet. I know I’m guilty of clicking through to the joke sites when I only have a few minutes to read and end up missing out on a lot of quality writing. Mrs Flinger has come up with a challenge for those of us who want to get back into the basics of writing just for the love of it. She has challenged us to ignore our stats, put aside thoughts of writing for other people and just write, not worrying about whether or not our initial draft is perfect. This is something I can really sink my teeth into.

Believe it or not, this one really was a challenge for me. I spend a lot of my time focusing on how not to embarrass myself, so while I can find lots of little things to fixate on, nothing really huge comes to mind. And so, I have plagiarized myself and re-posted a story I wrote about an embarrassing incident in a bar a few years ago:

Dear Run-Down, Piece of Crap Sports Bar:

Hi. Remember me? The chick who fell down on your run-down, piece of crap mini-golf course? Yeah. I’m pissed. And horribly embarassed. And a little bit injured, as a matter of fact. Do yourselves a favour and renovate before someone less nice than me gets hurt. I’ll say it slowly, just in case you didn’t get it the first time. Ren-0-vate. That means fix your damn carpet. Oh, and you guys can all suck it.

Sincerely,

Stone cold sober and still unable to stay on her feet.

That’s right, everyone. I fell down in a public place. Don’t everyone point and laugh at once. I’ll have to lay the smack down on each and every one of you. Here’s the story:

Last weekend, we got a sitter for the kids and headed off to a sports bar for my brother-in-law’s birthday. Said sports bar has a mini-golf course running through it for the drunken sports idiots to play in between periods (rounds, whatever!). This golf course looks to have been there since the dawn of time. The felt is wrinkled and ripped. A few of us decided to play anyway, for something to do. Well, on about the fifth or sixth hole, I tripped over a rip in the felt and began falling forward. I tried to step forward with the other foot to stop my fall but was rudely stopped by one of those obnoxious little mini-golf course speed bumps. I fell down like somebody had just cut me off at the ankles. Question: if a woman falls in the middle of a bar, does she get embarrassed?

I fell. On my face. Right in the middle of a sports bar on a Saturday night. Honestly, if something like that were to have to happen to anyone, of course it would be me. And I will maintain until my dying breath that I was not hammered. I blame the management for not maintaining their stupid little golf course. Because it feels better that way. I’d rather not take any responsibility for falling down in a public place, thank you.

I don’t think that a lot of people I know saw it. I do know that my brother-in-law did because his laughter echoed throughout the bar. Boys are mean like that. At least most girls will ask if you’re ok, help you up, etc.

I jumped back up as quickly as I could and awkwardly pretended like nothing had happened, ignoring everyone around me. It must have looked like a Saturday Night Live pratfall. I should have told everyone that I was rehearsing for a play. Or, worse yet, “I meant to do that.” I’m sure everyone in the place forgot about the whole thing within minutes, but I am the type of person who internalizes everything and I will most certainly play this over in my mind a million times between now and then time when I am eventually struck with some sort of old-age dementia. Can a person sue for emotional distress a week after the event?

Here is how I felt immediately following what will now be referred to as “the incident.”

And here is how I currently feel toward the run-down piece of crap bar and all patrons within who find humour in other people’s pain:

The by-product of “the incident” (aside from profound mental anguish) is this (among other bruises):

Who but me could fall down and end up with a wicked wrist burn? Loser.

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Want to read about more embarrassing moments? Check out the links below! And, if you’ve got an embarrassing moment of your own to share, go ahead and link to your specific post below. I’d love to read it and laugh at with you. (Misery loves company).

Filed under: Confessions, Just My Luck, Keepin' it Real, Me | 3 Comments →

This weekend has been one of those revelatory weekends wherein I realize that pathetic isn’t even close to describing just how far I’ve let all things relating to myself go. I’m in a deep pit and it’s going to take a long time to claw myself up out of it.

I was watching a Tim Gunn makeover show recently and the recipient of the makeover was a 5′10″ woman. Ordinarily I don’t pay close attention to these shows but because the woman was exactly my height (and thus had the same problems as me in finding clothing to fit her elongated limbs), I settled in to see what types of things she purchased.

My conclusion? Don’t be tall unless you have boatloads of cash and can shop in uber-expensive and exclusive American stores carrying such high-end brand names that most people have never even heard of them before. Because, apparently, stores with non-exorbitant price points have never heard of the term “tall” before. In other words? I be screwed.

Anyway, back to the show. The first thing that Tim Gunn did was to ask the woman being made-over to go to her closet and pick out her top ten “can’t live without” items. And it hit me like a ton of bricks that I don’t have a top ten list of  ”can’t live without”  items. Because I don’t own ten items.

Well, unless you count the clothes that don’t currently fit me due to a combination of my hormones and my tendency toward slothfulness. (And even with those items you can still see the odd tumbleweed roll through my echoey closet)

Here is a list of the clothes that fit me right now:

1. One pair of Gap Long and Lean jeans (the “lean” part is a subjective term)
2. One bra
3. A set of five long-sleeved Old Navy layering tees (in white, black, grey, dark grey and green)
4. A set of four short-sleeved Old Navy layering tees (in white, grey, navy and brown.)
5. Several Old Navy layering tank tops
6. A grey, cable knit sweater
7. A brown, short-sleeved sweater
8. A pair of black dress pants that I haven’t worn since last Christmas and probably don’t even fit me anymore.
9. A bunch of not-pretty underwear
10. Several pairs of socks

So, yeah. I guess if Tim Gunn asked me what my top ten wardrobe essentials are, I’d have to say my whole closet.

I think the universe is trying to tell me something. That something being, “Damn, woman, you need to buy some damn clothes!”

I have decided to make some small changes in my life in order to slowly drag myself out of the hole I’ve created. I started by purchasing another pair of Gap jeans (same style and fit, different wash) off of eBay for a cheap price. (Firstly, because the Gap here doesn’t sell the jeans I’m looking for, and secondly because I can get them online for less than half price and I don’t plan on being big enough to fill out these jeans for long.) They’re marked as “shipped” so hopefully they get here soon. I’m excited, because the wash them, wear them, wash them, wear them cycle I’ve been on with my current jeans is exhausting.

The second thing I did was approach my husband about the prospect of bra shopping on a weekend. I planned ahead and came up with an argument that he just couldn’t refuse. Firstly, I suggested a trip to see Santa at the mall I wanted to go to, which Lucky agreed was a great idea. *

Secondly, I came up with an analogy of sorts to explain my dire need for another bra before he could launch into a tirade about hating shopping on the weekends/shopping before Christmas/shopping for clothes/shopping in general:

Me: Lucky, I need a new bra and before you say anything, let me tell you why.

Lucky: *eye roll* Okay, shoot.

Me:  Right now, at this very moment, my one well-fitting bra is in the wash and I have been forced to wear one that’s too small. Let me tell you how that feels.

Lucky: O-kay…

Me: Imagine for a moment that you are wearing a jock strap. And it’s too small. And, instead of the elastic serving to hold the jock strap in place, it’s instead pinning your tender bits to the inside of your thigh. And, every time you take a step, that elastic shifts around and squishes…

Lucky: *cringe*  *white face*  *full body “protect the junk” pose*  AAAHHH! Okay! Enough! Get a bra. Get a hundred bras! Let’s go right now!

Apparently, judging by the reaction my analogy received, I seriously underestimated the sensitivity of certain parts of the male anatomy. But it served its purpose and I have my new bra so, IGNORANCE WIN!

I still have a long way to go. The clothes I own are baggy and shapeless. I have an immensely hard time finding long enough pants. Not to mention long enough sleeves.  I may, in the future, need to look at what the lone “tall” store in town has to offer. For now, though, I am going to take baby steps.

I am slowly learning that even though I have plans to lose this extra weight, I have to dress the body I have right now in clothes that fit properly. I can’t continue to fall deeper into the pit as I let my life pass me by. I want to get to the point where, if I’m asked for my top ten wardrobe “must-haves”, my first thought isn’t, “I’ll get back to you after I’ve gone shopping.”

Don’t get me wrong: my smaller clothes are looking forward to their chance at a triumphant return. In the meantime, though, they’ll have to share their waiting room with some clothes that fit the body I’m in right now. I think I owe myself that much.

* After seeing Santa, Lily informed us that Santa said, “roight” instead of “right”, which prompted a conversation about how apparently, Santa lived in Jolly Old England before emmigrating to the North Pole.

* Logan seemed pleased that “This Santa was the same one as last year!” which leads me to believe that he’s trying to pull one over on us in terms of his Santa beliefs. Either that, or we were smart enough to have the “Santa can’t be in all the malls at the same time so he sends his helpers along” conversation with him at some point. Fingers crossed!

Filed under: Confessions, Keepin' it Real, Me, Out of the Mouths of Babes, PCOS, Random | 2 Comments →