Psst. Go here. If you’re Canadian, I’m going to go out on a limb and say your chances of winning something look VERY good. Trust me.

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Yeah, too lazy to come up with a proper post, but in lieu of that, allow me to direct you over to my giveaway site where I’ve got a couple of awesome things up for grabs.

You need a new, high-quality leather wallet. Trust me. You can even choose the style and colour. Click here to enter. Just do it.

You also need a cute, funny and beautifully graphic book. Yes, you really do. Click here to enter! It’ll take a few seconds to enter and who knows? Maybe you’ll win!

Have a great weekend, everyone!

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I’m in the kitchen of the church where I attend a weekly Ladies Morning Out program. I’m no stranger to this room and I quickly locate the cutlery drawer, reach inside and grab a handful of spoons to bring out to the snack table.

“Wow, it’s a good thing you have such man-sized hands”, says one of the women from my group as she looks over my shoulder.

I smile tightly and give a short laugh, the universal language of, “oh, yeah, that’s right,” but in reality, I’m angry. Man hands? MAN HANDS? I know this woman doesn’t have a filter, but, really? Did it not occur to her at all that informing a woman you barely know that you think she could play baseball without a mitt on account of the fact that she has such GIANT hands might possibly be construed as an insult?

Man, I hate passive-aggressiveness.

Except when it’s coming from me.

You know what, filterless church lady? One day, I may be willing to turn the other cheek, but right now, all I want to do is slap you with my BIG, FAT hand and give you one of these:

______________________

One of my best friends is currently studying to become a Nurse Anesthetist. During one phone conversation, she was describing the job to me and mentioned, in passing, that it is crucial to check the patient’s teeth before inserting the tube down their throat.

“Why do you need to check their teeth before you put them to sleep?” I asked, curious.

“In order to figure out what size and shape of tube to use,” she replied. “For instance, you have tiny little Chiclet teeth, so I could use a regular tube. For people like me, with glorious, big, white, amazing, straight teeth (*cough* that last part may have been dramatized just a touch…), I would need to use a smaller, more curved tube so that I don’t accidently chip one.”

“Ah,” I replied, at a loss of what else to say. It’s not like I can argue, after all. My teeth are square little Chiclets.

At least I’ve learned something new, though: when having surgery requiring general anaesthesia, I have a much higher chance than, say, Gary Busey, of coming out of it with an unscathed smile.

________________________

Lucky, the kids and I have just finished a meal of cooked chicken at my parents house. I have just finished removing the last scraps of meat from the chicken to put in a leftovers container. I’m about to throw the remains away when my mom’s hand darts out and grabs something off the cutting board.

“Just need some skin!” she exclaims, popping it into her mouth.

“Oh, gross, Mom!” I cry with a shudder. “That’s a scene straight out of Silence of the Lambs!”

“Thiff, thiff, thiff,” she replies, not missing a beat, and continues chewing happily on the chicken skin.

“Oh!” exclaims my dad with a chuckle. “THAT’s going on the blog for sure!”

Good call, Dad. As it is spoken, so it shall be done.

_____________________

Okay, you guys. I have some really great giveaways on my site right now. $100 worth of gift cards, a children’s book on allowances and money management and a nifty storage solution for your medicine cabinet!

Also, I’ve managed to fix my subscription feed issues, so head on over there, check out my fancy new look and don’t forget to subscribe so you don’t miss any giveaways!

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So my kids are playing happily in the basement right now, all by themselves, and I keep thinking, “wow, now would be a good time to write a blog post,” except that I’m just so happy to have the little angels occupy themselves that I can’t help but soak in the awesomeness of it all. This is the life…

Actually, an amazing life with amazing kids in a roomy abode is getting me thinking…

My house is a good sized house. It’s got a bonus room upstairs and a fully finished basement with a rumpus room and extra bedroom, on top of the three bedrooms we have upstairs. It’s big enough that I’m fairly sure we could fit a child army, à la Jon and Kate (except without the messy divorce and douchebag behaviour). We could throw two sets of bunk beds into my son’s room. We could also put up a wall in the bonus room, making another bedroom and a computer nook. That bedroom could hold three sets of bunk beds. Then, in the basement, we could set up another two sets of bunk beds in the spare bedroom. And, because I love my husband, the rumpus room can hold the flat screen. Unless we need it for more babehs! My daughter’s room is smaller than my son’s, so we could really only fit one bunk bed. Or. Or! We could use it as the nursery. Put all the new babies in there and then when the next one comes, rotate the older kid out into one of the other rooms. Then, when the child army is complete, I can turn the nursery into my scrapbooking room. Genius! So, that would equal, including a baby in the nursery, 15 child-storage spots. Fifteen! If I could convince my uterus not to claw its way out of my body and run screaming into the night, I could totally have thirteen more babies. Although, at 33, I’m not getting any younger. I’ll need a couple of sets of twins or triplets thrown into the mix.

With my child army, I could finally live my dream of having my own handbell choir. I could buy my own bus! Just think of the group rates and discounts we would get everywhere we went. And the slave labour! I’d never have to wash another dish or clean another toilet as long as I lived! Plus, at a certain point, the children would just start raising themselves. I mean, check out the Duggars. People think Michelle and her iron uterus are insane, but she probably spends her days camped out on the couch, eating bon bons and watching Days of Our Lives while one of her kids fans her with a palm frond and another rubs her feet. Bliss!

What’s the matter, Lucky? Dear husband of mine, you’re looking a touch ashen. You don’t like the idea of having fifteen kids? The amount we could quite feasibly fit in our house? (Don’t think about the bathroom issue. I’m sure we could put several outhouses in the backyard.)

After thinking about one possible future, dearest Lucky, another possible future doesn’t sound nearly as scary, does it?

Three is the new two, you know.

Look at the adorable baby! So sweet and nommable. You know you want one.

Just one. One isn’t scary at all! Mmmm…. babies….

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I’m heading out of town for the weekend (sans kiddos and hubby) to go to a memorial for my Grandma. In the meantime, I thought I’d leave you with a couple of videos of our dog bird, Snowy. Playing fetch. Enjoy!

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Alternate title: Why doesn’t Jancee Dunn live in my town so I can crazily stalk her become her new best friend?

Those who know me know that I love to laugh (often loudly and at inappropriate times.) So when I received this book in the mail a couple of weeks ago, I hoped it would deliver, at the very least, a smile or two. I needn’t have worried. It did. I was hooked from the first page. It has definitely earned a spot on my “read again” shelf.

Tip: If you’re, say, in the waiting room at your gyno’s office or on a crowded bus all alone, you might not want to read this book. You are pretty much guaranteed to make weird laughter-squelching noises and goofy trying-not-to-smile-but-failing constipation faces. Just trust me on this one.

This book is a collection of absorbing (in a “this could so totally be my crazy family!” kind of a way), laugh-out-loud funny essays about the author and her tight-knit family. Oh, I kid you not. I laughed. Several times. Real, “oh, crap, I’d better not wake the kids!” laughter. This book is chock-full of witty banter and sarcasm. It’s my kind of book.

Actually, if I wasn’t already married, I’d probably try to work my way into Jancee Dunn’s family somehow. (In a totally not-creepy, please-don’t-arrest-me-for-stalking way.) Because if her family and my family got together, we would all have the flattest, most defined abs ever. You know. From all the laughing.

So, in summary, read this book. Who doesn’t need a little jocularity injected into their reading material every now and then? Happy giggling reading!

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Recently, I received a copy of this book in the mail:

Frankly, I was a little worried that it would read as that same, tired old “working mother juggles her career and home life” type self-help book that we’ve all read and promptly forgotten. Luckily for me (and for you, should you choose to pick up a copy), it doesn’t.

This book centres primarily around author Claudia Trupp‘s career as an appellate attorney. The stories she tells of the clients whose cases she has appealed (convicted rapists, murderers and drug dealers) are both riveting and unsettling. Just when I think that the author’s work life and her home life couldn’t be any different, she pulls a rabbit out of her hat and manages to link the two together through broad issues such as faith, as well as smaller issues, such as a name shared by her child and the child of one of her clients.

Being a mother of the stay-at-home variety, my experience couldn’t differ any further from the author’s, but I thoroughly enjoyed the glimpse into her world. The fact that it reads more like a novel than a “parenting book” was a big help, too!

Along with the book, I also received a copy of the 10 lessons Ms Trupp would like to teach her children. Considering that I haven’t managed to master them all yet myself, I thought I would share them here as well, if for no other reason than so I can read them over again myself from time to time.

TEN LESSONS I HOPE TO TEACH MY THREE DAUGHTERS BEFORE THEY STOP LISTENING TO ME ALTOGETHER
By Claudia Trupp

1.) FIND IT!
Do whatever it takes to find what will fill your life with meaning and joy. There is nothing more important, and no one else, not even I, can do this for you. I can tell you that without meaningful commitments to others you will spend way too much time focusing on yourself. Even with a life packed full of commitments you will still find time to contemplate the irrelevant such as how you could have passed up desserts for an entire week and still managed to gain 1.4 pounds.

2.) DO IT!
Once you have committed to something, do it. Arrive on time, every time, with your pencils sharpened, ready to rock. Don’t shirk, don’t make excuses, and don’t miss deadlines. You’ll be surprised how much this impresses people.

3.) LEARN IT!
Don’t let your day-to-day responsibilities squelch your natural curiosity. Never stop asking questions and seeking answers. Read the footnotes, deepen your knowledge, and develop your own intuition.

4.) OWN IT!
Don’t be afraid to step up and take a leadership role. You don’t have to be the CEO of the company, but if you frequently find yourself standing in center field praying that the ball doesn’t come your way, it’s probably time to find a different sport.

5.) CHANGE IT!
Just because something has always been done in one particular way doesn’t mean that’s the only or best way to do it. If it did, we’d still be sleeping in caves and watching Betamax. Experiment with the recipe, innovate, you can always revert to the old way if the new one proves disastrous. I know a lot of family dinners have been ruined by this approach, but every once in a while it results in something spectacular.

6.) SAVOR IT!
It is all too easy to wish your life away in three-day blocks, to promise yourself that you will be the happiest, most relaxed person after you hand in that term paper, land that big client, finish the kitchen renovation or earn the next promotion. But it is more important to enjoy the gift of today – don’t squander it worrying about next week’s math quiz.

7.) APPRECIATE IT!
In our house, you don’t get a glass of water without a “please” and a “thank you.” I hope that you each carry this habit with you because good manners never go out of fashion. Be generous when expressing your gratitude and appreciation of others’ efforts: when your child helps to clear the table, your spouse makes the coffee, or a colleague kills at a presentation don’t stand mutely by—praise, praise, praise!

8.) TEMPER IT!
The quality of everything from steel to chocolate changes based on the heat applied. You have to figure out at what temperature you thrive, whether pressure sharpens your mind or zaps your strength, how to balance your own internal elements. Set the thermostat of your life at the temperature that suits you best and let those around you dress in layers.

9.) HATE IT!
As the song goes, mama told you there’d be days like these. You have seen mama have enough of them to know it’s true. Part of being passionately engaged in your life is experiencing really bad days, the ones where you feel like punching the walls, weeping with despair, cursing the heavens. I promise that although it hurts, you will learn more from your bad days and your mistakes than from all your successes. Go to sleep, it will be better in the morning.

10.) LEAVE IT!
No matter how bad my day, I take solace in knowing that by dinner time I will be surrounded by the people I love. A decent meal, some laughter, the sound of a new piano piece being mastered – all help to erase the troubles of even the worst day. And remember to call your mother. I’ll be standing by with sage advice that you should feel entirely free to ignore.

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Last week, I broke down and bought the Hannah Montana movie soundtrack for Lily. We listen to it pretty much every time we get in the car and, as a result, The Hoedown Throwdown has been on a permanent loop in my head. It’s almost like Miley herself has taken residence in my brain. It’s like we’re jamming together or something. Sometimes I swear I can hear her talking to me.

Miley: Pop it, lock it, polka dot it, countryfy it, hip hop it

Me: Put your honk in the sky, move side to si…

Miley: Wait. What did you just say?

Me: Move side to side?

Miley: No. Before that.

Me: Put your honk in the air?

Miley: Right. That. What the hell is a honk?

Me: Pffft. I don’t know. It’s your song!

Miley: It’s not HONK. It’s hawk. H-A-W-K. Hawk.

Me: Honk. Hawk. Does it really matter? Neither one makes any sense at all.

Miley: …

Me: I mean, honestly. Why would you sing about putting your hawk in the sky when the song is supposed to be about a hoedown? Is there some kind of crazy Tennessean hawk dance that I don’t know about?

Miley: Are you being serious right now?

Me: No, really. Is doing “the hawk” some new dance move like “the twist”?

Miley: The twist? What are you, my grandma?

Me: I’m just sayin’. I don’t get it. The hawk isn’t even your state bird. It’s the mockingbird.

Miley: Really? That’s kind of cool, actually…

Me: So, we can agree that “hawk” makes no more sense than “honk”, right?

Miley: Uh, no. Sorry.

Me: I’d bet you dollars to doughnuts that half the kids dancing around to that song are singing “honk.”

Miley: Dollars to doughnuts? Who even says that?

Me: Wow. Apparently I do now. Hmmm.

Miley: It makes sense, I guess. I mean, you’re old enough to be my mother.

Me: I am not! I’m only 32!

Miley: …

Me: Oh. Okay, I guess technically I’m old enough to be your mother. But I’m not. So it’s moot.

Miley: But you could be. Not my mother, of course, since any child given birth to by you would have to be completely tone deaf. And lyrically challenged. That kind of thing has to be passed along in the genes. But some other sixteen year old’s mother. Definitely.

Me: Lyrically challenged? I am not lyrically challenged! You just happen to be enuncially challenged.

Miley: That’s not even a word!

Me: Unless you can explain to me right now why your hoedown song has hawk-throwing in it, this conversation is over.

Miley: All right. You caught me. I don’t know. Okay? I don’t know why. Quit harping on it, Grandma.

Me: Well, it was nice talking to you, Miley. Oh, and if I were you? I’d quit throwing my honk in the sky. You could get pregnant. It can happen at your age, you know.

_____________________

I’ll update everyone on my specialist’s appointment soon, I promise. First I have to wash out my brain and rid it of all things Hannah Montana…

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Lily had her first real, unparented swimming lesson on Sunday morning. If you’ve never had a four year old in swimming lessons, I’ll just say that the term “swimming” is used very loosely. I’d call them “let’s play games to try and get you to stick your face in the water” lessons or “let’s see if we can learn how not to sink like stones in the water” lessons, but I have a bad memory and let’s face it. That’s just too many words to remember. So, “swimming” lessons it is!

Lily was all smiles throughout the half hour lesson, actively participating in each activity, chatting to her classmates and generally bobbing around in the water like a happy little apple. Her instructor, a university-aged boy who squinted and looked as though his face wouldn’t be complete without a pair of glasses, was friendly and engaging. The kids took to him like flies to honey and Lily gave him a big hug around the neck when the class was over.

When she came out of the water, I wrapped her in a towel and asked her about her class.

Me: So, how was swimming?
Lily: Great! I’m going to come back again.
Me: You are?
Lily: Yes. Definitely.
Me: Lily, do you like your swimming teacher?
Lily: *sigh* Yes. I like him. Even though he’s a BOY.

Of the five kids in the class, Lily was the only kid with pool shoes on. Maybe it’s my germ issues, but going barefoot in and around a swimming pool just skeeves me right out. I mean, honestly. It’s a giant fungal infection just waiting to happen.

Needless to say, Lily and Logan both will wear pool shoes to class until I’m told otherwise. If and when the time comes that pool shoes just slow them down, I may have to resort to taping saran wrap around their feet…

For those of you who are of the opinion that I should just get over it and let my kids go swimming in their bare feet, I have taken the liberty of putting together some motivational posters to help prove my point. (The words are tougher to read than I’d hoped, so I’ll transcribe them below as well).

Pool Shoes: Because plantar warts are a bitch to get rid of

Pool Shoes: Because she’s too big to fit in a hamster ball

Pool Shoes: Because hazmat suits aren’t waterproof

Pool Shoes: Because I love my kid more than other parents love theirs

Pool Shoes: Because nothing says “I love you” like warding off foot fungus

Pool Shoes: Have you SEEN the floors in those changerooms?

Do you have any good ideas for motivational poster slogans on pool shoes? Fire your best shots into the comments section. I’ll pick my favourites and make up some posters, along with a link to your website (or other site of your choosing, if you don’t blog) and include them a future post.

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A couple of months ago, one of my best girlfriends (you know her best as Chesty LaRue) wrote this note as part of some Facebook meme thingy. I liked it so much that I stole it copied and pasted it to keep for the time when I actually decided to follow her advice:

I really, really, really hate it when people constantly bitch and complain. If you hate your job, get a new one. If you don’t like your body, change it or get a makeover. If you’re miserable, there are drugs for that! I think we’re in charge of our own happiness and once you realize that and take ownership of it, you’ll be happier. If that makes sense. And there’s a difference between having a bad day or week and constantly bitching about everything.

That girl has brains and a great rack. And she’s right – we are in charge of our own happiness. There are some big changes on the horizon for me and I can’t wait!

My appointment with the endocrinologist is coming up on Thursday, and I have a list of questions/concerns to bring along. I’m going to take control of my health and make sure that the things I want to see happen actually happen. (I’m talking to you, ovaries. Your days of making my pelvis ache are numbered.)

My walking buddy and I are committed to walking again for an hour a day starting in May. Along with that, I’m going to consistently make good food choices. (Exercise and eating right + endocrine system overhaul = goodbye apple shape, hello hourglass.)

AND, in an effort to save my mental health, I quit my job. I’ve got two weeks left and then I’m done like dinner. Walking in the evenings will be so much easier when I don’t have to wear a flashlight hat to see where I’m walking when I’m not calling cranky redneck truck drivers until 9:30 every night before I go.

If everything goes according to plan, I will soon go from this:

To this:

Let the transformation begin.

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