Last night, Lucky and I left the kids with their grandparents and went to a country bar.  A country bar. Holy cowboy hats and twaaang, y’all.

Lucky’s cousin was having an early birthday party, which is about the only reason I can think of to purposely step foot into the land of ten gallon hats and plaid shirts. I’ve never seen so many pairs of Wranglers crammed into one place before. And the country dancing? That’s a lot of twirling. I don’t know how those girls can chug back a beer and then go out there to spin like tops without getting all vomity all over the place. Plus, with the way the men jerk those poor women’s arms back and forth, I’m surprised there haven’t been more two-step-related shoulder dislocations.

Here is how I know that I’m old: We were asked for our ID when we first entered the bar. The bouncer scanned my drivers license and then I saw a flash of light before he thanked me and gave the ID back. I didn’t realize until someone told me a couple of hours later that they had actually taken my picture. You know, just in case the thirty-something woman in the brown knit short-sleeved sweater decided to get all rowdy in their establishment…

As I sat at our table, trying to find a way to rest my elbows while allowing as little skin as possible to actually touch the sticky wooden surface, I realized that I was sorely out of place for a plethora of reasons.

1. I don’t listen to country music
2. I don’t dance (two-step or otherwise)
3. I don’t own Wranglers or a cowboy hat of any type
4. I’ve become that person who calls loud music “noise”
5. I have absolutely no desire to ever ride a pretend bull
6. I’d much rather be reading a book about angsty teenage vampires than drinking watered down alcohol out of a pony jug (although that certainly helped me to tolerate all the other people enjoying items 1-5).

While we were there, we had a couple of drunken women from a stagette drape themselves across us while asking Lucky to share his best sex tip for the blushing bride. I won’t tell you exactly what he said, but I will say this: If the poor woman thinks Lucky was serious and actually tries this move out on her new husband, she will either be scraping him off the ceiling and calling the sexual assault line to secure counselling for him, or she will find herself in the midst of a Pandora’s box full of bizarre requests that will have her questioning why she married the crazy perv in the first place.

We also saw a woman so desperate for the attention of a man that she forgot to put a shirt on put on her skankiest outfit to flounce through the bar in.

(If I’d brought my camera into the bar, I absolutely would have taken a real picture, but these computer-generated women have managed to illustrate the style quite nicely.)

Now, I don’t know if this puts me in league with all the pervy old guys in the bar but, much like the rubbernecking that goes on at the scene of a car crash, I could not stop looking at her boobs. They were just right there.  Lucky saw me gawking and told me, “I think she’s crossed the line from sexy to just plain desperate with that look.” I’m not sure if he said it because he’s been married to me for nearly a decade and has managed to read a page or two from the “Appropriate Things to Say to Your Wife” book, or if he actually meant it. In any case, he seemed to have an easier time than I did in averting his gaze. (I don’t even want to know what that says about us…)

And, while I am not in the habit of making remarks like this one, I’ll say this: that poor girl’s rack was her best feature. As long as she can keep potential dates from looking up toward her face, she’ll do just fine. And, as one of the other girls in our group said to me, “If I had boobs like that, I’d wear that top too.” Amen, sister. ‘Cause believe you me, they won’t look that smokin’ hot when she’s done breastfeeding a kid or two.

So, after imbibing a couple of beverages, watching a bride-to-be carry around a blow up doll with a *cough* rather impressive third leg, fidgeting on the dance floor for a few minutes in a pathetic attempt to pass myself off as dancing, and shouting the odd comment to the people across the table, Lucky and I decided that we were just too old and tired for this to head home.

As we were attempting to maneuvre our way through the crowd that was gathered to watch some poor sucker attempt to ride the bull, I felt a shove from behind. And then another. I turned around to see a girl with a drink in one hand hop up and down behind me while trying to barge her way through the crowd.

“Excuuuse me, I’m trying to get through. Move, please,” she snarked as she continued to shove me out of the way.

(Aside from the whole married mother of two young children thing, why is it again that I don’t generally enjoy the crowded bar scene? Oh, right. That.)

Generally speaking, I am the type of person who won’t say “boo” to her own shadow, but it was the crack of 11pm late and I was tired. (Hoo boy, I bet those bouncers didn’t think they’d actually need to use the picture they took of me!)

“We’re all trying to get through, so just calm down,” I snarked back as she shoved past.

(I’m a badass, yo.)

(And yes, that’s me letting my inner rage out. I need to work on the delivery a bit more, I think.)

With ringing ears, Lucky and I breathed in the fresh evening air and made our way down the street to where we had parked, remembering a time when we went out partying every weekend and wondering why in the world we thought it was so great in the first place.

And then we got in the car, drove home, changed into our pajamas and went to bed.

The End.

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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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Bored from Walking With Scissors on Vimeo.

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Today is my husband’s birthday (Happy Birthday, honey!) and, in my tradition of writing about things long after they’ve actually happened, I may or may not write about it at some point this fall. (Love you!)

Today, what I’m going to talk about is a trip I took with my parents and brother at the beginning of the month. It was a whirlwind trip – we flew there on Saturday and flew back home on Sunday – for my Grandma‘s memorial service.

One of the things I love about my family is that, even though the purpose of our trip was a sad one, we were also able to enjoy the positive side of things – meeting up with other relatives to share time and memories together. And, even though we were pretty much grating on each other’s last exhausted, frayed nerve by the time our plane landed back home on Sunday night, we spent some really great time together, renewing our relationships. (it’s been more years than I’d care to count since we’ve all lived under the same roof together.) Plus, this time it was without all the angsty, rebellious teenage crap, so that was a bonus as well!

This is my brother:

Right around now is the time where I would say something nice about him – like he’s a successful computer programmer with a heart of gold. Blah, blah. However, given that his nickname of choice for me over the course of the weekend was “jackass“, allow me to say this:

He’d like all the single ladies out there to know that his name is Fabio and he sleeps with a tinfoil hat on. (You’re welcome, Fabio. No really, don’t mention it. It was the least I could do.)

The first thing we did when our plane landed on Saturday afternoon was check into our hotel.

This was my bed:

(More on that later.)

Once we had dropped our things off at our hotel, we went to my aunt’s house for a bit of a family reunion. There were tons of old family pictures, separated into piles based on branches of the family tree. The pictures, of course, sparked many memories and stories of my Grandma, her siblings and all of the many children who came later. We stayed until the sun went down and then headed back to our hotel for the night.

Now. I’ve been married for nine long years. I’ve been a mother for seven. Any opportunities that I may have to be completely alone, in my own bed, with no one to answer to, are few and far between. That’s why, when I saw the gorgeous king bed which was to be mine (and only mine!) for the night, I did what any normal, rational woman would do. I set the timer on my camera and proceeded to act like a complete and total fruitcake, just because I could.

Ahh! I could get used to this!

I also managed to join the International Society of Hotel Bed Jumpers:

Now, it should be noted that I am 5’10″. The ceilings were about 8′ and the bed was a good 2′ off the ground. That leaves, by my calculations, roughly not very much headroom. So, since I wanted to preserve what’s left of my brain, I had to jump and crouch at the same time, resulting in a really rather pathetic looking jump.

And, yes. Before you even ask. I am wearing cat pajamas. (They were a gift from my mother-in-law and they’re really comfortable even though they probably came from Northern Reflections or something equally embarrassing and isn’t it enough that I totally admitted to loving them in front of God and everyone on this blog? Quit judging me, okay?)

(Plus, I had to do my part in keeping the whole “crazy cat lady” stereotype alive and well, you know. Just keepin’ it real.)

(For the record, I don’t like cats of any type. They make my eyes itch. But that doesn’t stop me from selling out to the cat jammies. They’re that comfortable.)

On Sunday morning, my family and I went out for breakfast and then headed back to my aunt’s house for awhile before heading out, caravan-style, to the town where my Grandma lived so we could have a private family memorial service.

My mom and her siblings commissioned a memorial bench for their parents and the town placed the bench close to my Grandma and Grandpa’s headstone.

We all think it was a wonderful way to pay tribute to them.

When the service was finished, we all went to a small cafe-style shop in town so that we could decompress. And eat some pie. Or, in my case, ice cream. Financed by the above-mentioned tinfoil-hat-wearing dude named Fabio. (My ass hates you, buddy.)

We also noticed that, even though my mom and her sister don’t see each other very often, they very clearly share the same fashion sense. Coincidence? I think not.

And then we began our trek back to the airport for the trip back home.

Along the way, we stopped to have a look at a historical site which was, in a former life, an outpost for the Hudson’s Bay Company.

It was in such a remote location that we figured it wouldn’t be staffed. There was only one other car there when we first arrived and almost instantly, Fabio began making cracks about “vagrants” taking over the place.

I was the first to walk up to the first open doorway, camera in hand. I had just opened my mouth to exclaim, “Oh no! Vagrants!!” when a disembodied voice exclaimed, “Hi there!”

(Did I mention that I hadn’t actually stopped to look inside the building yet?)

After I peeled myself off the ceiling and gathered enough wits to realize that, yes, the place was staffed and the “vagrant” in question was a teenage girl sitting behind a laptop, I looked at my camera.

Apparently, I have an itchy trigger finger. My moment of shock and surprise will forever be documented on film.

The trip back home took about 1.6 kajillion years and we were all bone-weary and ready for bed. (I fell right asleep, despite the inconvenience of actually having to share the bed with my husband.)

Despite my exhaustion, I wouldn’t have changed a thing. Being able to pay tribute to my Grandma and spend time with my family made every second worth it.

(Except for maybe the jackass comments…)

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That’s all it takes. Just one word or thought, blurted without thinking, to kill the buzz and wound someone’s feelings. It’s happened to me more times than I can count. I am sensitive and it doesn’t take much for words to cut me like a knife. It sucks. Insults, intentional or not, suck. That’s why I pride myself on being sensitive to other people. Being polite. Kind. Going out of my way to make sure the things I say are positive.

That’s why, when the careless words that have hurt someone come from my own mouth, I feel the guilt in relentless waves. And, as some sort of cosmic joke, it always seems that the ones we care about the most are the ones who are most often wounded.

“Good night.”

“Wow. Do you think you could sound any less enthusiastic?”

“Actually, I’m still thinking about what you said earlier. I’m a little upset about it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That comment you made about me not being very witty. That was just mean.”

“I was just kidding!”

“No, you weren’t. You smirked when you said it. You were serious. No one else was laughing, you know.”

Huh. Huh. I heard those words: That was mean. No one else was laughing. And, instead of doing the right thing and apologizing, I instantly became defensive.

“Why are you making such a big deal out of this? I didn’t mean it that way!”

“What way did you mean it, then? Just admit that you did something mean and apologize.”

Humble pie. No one likes to taste it. And yet, here I am, with a heaping serving of it right in front of me.

I can repeat until I’m blue in the face that I didn’t mean it the way he took it – that I was somehow insulting his intelligence. I wasn’t. I’ve never doubted the fact that he is a smarty McSmart Smart. I was joking. Yet anyone who’s ever been hurt or insulted by something another person has said will tell you that, whether or not it was meant as a joke, it didn’t come across that way.

And so, to my husband, who I am very proud of for his smarts, wit and general awesomeness: I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I made a crack about your ability to be funny. I never meant to hurt your feelings and I will do my best from now on to think about what I am going to say before I say it. Sometimes it’s easy to forget just how quickly an errant word can cut someone down.

And, for the record? I thought the “special brownies” comment was pretty darn funny. So there.

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I have decided that having reviews and giveaways on my blog just isn’t jiving with the vision I have for this space. I started this blog as a way to express myself and I’d like to take it back to that place again. To that end, I have started up a seperate blog expressly for reviews and giveaways. I can still review the books and products I like and also still host giveaways, but in a space designed just for that purpose.

If you would still like to read my reviews or put your name in for any giveaways I might be hosting, please go check out my review site, Walking With Scissors Reviews. Bookmark it or add it to your RSS reader to receive updates. I don’t plan on posting reminders or “heads up” about reviews and giveaways on this blog, so if you’re not interested in reading a review ever, ever again, fear not! This is a safe place for you to be.

Thanks everyone for supporting me as I bumble around and try to make sense of this whole blogging thing and just what it means to me.

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*** I lost my entire blog sometime between when I went to bed last night and when I woke up this morning. This post (and the comments made on it) were lost. I thought I’d re-post it. My apologies for upgrading my WordPress incorrectly! ***

Last week, my mother-in-law managed to suck me over to the dark side. As I was leaving her house one day, she slipped me a Martha Stewart magazine because she “thought I might like to read it.” I flipped through the whole thing in under five minutes (Martha Stewart-in-training, I am not) but the last page caught my eye.

Hmmmmm…. Cookies. Maybe this magazine has some potential after all…

Without taking an overly close look at the baking instructions, I gathered the ingredients together and declared Friday a Mommy and Me baking day. It wasn’t until Lily and I actually started making the recipe that I discovered obnoxious little words like “parchment paper“, “electric mixer“, and “refrigerate“. Because apparently, it’s not a proper Martha recipe without adding in a bunch of extra steps.

Despite the extra effort it was clearly going to take in order to bake these cookies, Lily and I bravely soldiered on. When we were finished, we even rated them in order to help you decide whether or not the effort is worth it for your own family.

(Don’t mention it. It was my pleasure.)

Oatmeal Cookies with Dried Apricots and White Chocolate

1 1/2 cups all-purpose flour
1 1/2 cups old-fashioned oatmeal
1/2 tsp baking soda
8 oz (2 sticks) unsalted butter, softened
1/4 cup granulated sugar
1 cup packed light-brown sugar
1 tsp salt
1 tsp pure vanilla extract
2 lge eggs
8 oz white chocolate, chopped
7 oz dried apricots, preferrably California, chopped

Now, being Canadian, I live in a strange, metric/imperial hybrid world of hodgepodge measurement. It is not unusual to have recipes passed on from friends and family including both types of measurement. But, around here, ounces just are not part of the vernacular (except in the measurement of human weight). So, before I could even start mixing ingredients together, I had to figure out exactly how much 8 oz of butter was. I looked in vain for an old baby bottle but in the end, looked it up on my old pal, the internet. Holy crap, you guys. Did you know that 8 oz of butter is 240 mls? That’s almost a cup! I think my butt expanded a dress size in preparation for eating these cookies.

Once the conversions were properly made, the recipe preparation finally began!

Step One: Mix flour, oatmeal and baking soda in a medium bowl:

Check out the little tummy! It’s only cute on 4 year olds. Trust me on this one.

Step Two: Combine butter and sugars; cream with a mixer until light and fluffy.

This recipe required me to head down to the basement to unearth my fancy Sunbeam mixer. (We can’t all have KitchenAids, yo.) Because good, old-fashioned elbow grease isn’t hoity-toity enough for some people, right Martha?

Step Three: Reduce speed to low. Add salt, vanilla and eggs, and beat until well combined (about one minute).

Lily loves this type of baking because she doesn’t have to struggle to keep the ingredients in the bowl while stirring. (Touche, mixer.)

Step Four: Add flour mixture gradually, beating until just combined.

A little help from me in steadying the bowl, and the dry mixture is successfully added to the wet mixture! (I would mention here that I normally don’t bother even keeping the wet and dry ingredients seperate and usually just dump everything together in one big bowl right from the get-go except that I don’t want anyone to know just how lazy I really am. So I won’t.)

Step Five: Stir in chocolate and apricots.

Martha is quite specific here that the apricots should be from California. I don’t see what makes them any better than, say, B.C. apricots, but whatevs. I picked up a bag of SunRipe because they were on sale. They’re also from California but I didn’t do it because Martha said so! I do what I want. I’m a badass that way.

Just check out how skillful I am in the art of chopping white chocolate. They look almost like chocolate chips. Except they’re not. Because that would be an extremely un-Martha-like cop out. And I am nothing if not utterly devoted to following recipes to the letter. *cough*

What?

Step Six: Cover and refrigerate until cold, about 30 minutes.

No, despite a fridge full of the wonderful and amazing fridge-mates fruit and veggie storage systems, I am not a Tupperware consultant… Even so, you should totally buy some. Your strawberries will thank you by not going bad in 30 seconds.

Step Seven: Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

Step Eight: Drop heaping tablespoons of dough onto parchment-lined baking sheets, spacing 2 inches apart.

Perfect! What a nice, professional job you’re doing, Lily. You’re doing such a great job that I’m sure no one will notice that the cookie sheets are not parchment-lined at all, but merely greased with butter because mommy was too cheap to buy the above-mentioned parchment paper. Keep up the good work!

Hey! Just what do you think you’re doing there, little missy? Martha would NOT approve.

Step Nine: Bake until cookies are golden brown around the edges but still soft in the centre, 14-16 minutes.

I set my timer for 12 minutes and my cookies started to burn. For my oven, 10-11 minutes is ideal. Just keep an eye on them because those cookies are mean-spirited little buggers and will go from uncooked to blackened hockey pucks in 3.5 seconds.

Step Ten: Let cookies cool on baking sheets for 2 minutes. Transfer cookies to a wire rack; let cool. Cookies will keep, covered, for up to 1 week.

Step Eleven: Taste test!

Taking a bite out of a cookie is hard work when you have no teeth…

Step Twelve: Rate the Cookie on a scale of Thumbs Up to Thumbs down.

Logan figured that the cookies were worth a thumbs up, but later admitted that he’d “had better.”

Lily was feeling lukewarm about these cookies. She gave them a sideways thumb, which I take to mean that she’ll eat them because they are cookies, after all. But she won’t like it.

Both Lucky and I gave the cookies a “meh” rating as well. So Lucky brought them to the lake and fed them to his parents.

Heh.

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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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