thoughts on life, parenting, news, and crazy shit

Month: March, 2013


I know its Friday today, but my tits aren’t hot.  You can thank Wednesday’s post for that.  Today is Good Friday, so whether you are a Christian or not, I would like to plant  a seed in you today instead.

I want to keep this short, and let you figure out your own reasons.  I want to talk about forgiveness today.

All Eater Bunnies and turkey dinners aside, Easter is the most important holiday in the Christian faith.  WHAT?  What about Christmas?

Well, without Easter, Jesus would have just been another prophet.  I think most of us know the story.  He was crucified, died a horrible death on the cross, and rose again.

But why?  So we can all have eternal life?  Super.  You’re all wondering why that’s important to today.  Especially if you don’t believe in the same things as I do.

Here is the relevance, whether you believe or don’t.  It introduced the concept of forgiveness into the world.  I am not a history expert, and many of you will need to correct me on my facts, but I get the impression that before the event of Jesus dying on the cross we didn’t think that forgiveness was an option.   We figured vengeance and honor were more important.

Why is that significant?  Because it tipped the scales of humanity.  Because forgiveness is a loved based action, where vengeance is hate and anger based.  We forgive out of love.  Love for our perpetrators, love for ourselves, love for our families.  We seek vengeance because we are angry and want to even the score.  It begins a vicious circle that sees no end.

Sometimes, forgiveness is easy.  The Destroyer slapped me in the face yesterday on purpose about a thousand times.  She thinks it’s hilarious.  I think it hurts.  Easy to forgive though?  You betcha.  Because I love her, because I know she doesn’t mean it, because nothing in this world is strong enough to make me resent her.

There are harder ones of course.  People will inherently hurt you deeply. Emotionally. Physically.  Why should we forgive them?  Because Jesus forgives us.

Well that’s a great answer if you’re a Christian, somewhere in line with “Because I said so”.

I think it was Oprah who once said that forgiveness is the only thing that releases us from our pain and disappointment caused by others. (or something like that)

And you know, she’s right.  Not be able to forgive someone keeps you connected to whatever hurt you.  It prevents you from letting go and moving on.  It keeps you angry and distracts you from the things in life that bring you joy.  Forgiveness is an act of strength.  It takes more guts to be able to say “I forgive you” than to hold a grudge.  Because you have to overcome anger, and resentment, and pride.  Oh pride.

There are countries and societies that seem to be in permanent conflict over what wrongs were done to them, and how they must get even etc etc.  If one side would just say “enough.  All is forgiven, let’s start over”  the world would be a less violent place.

So whether you believe the story of the crucifixion or not, think about forgiving someone today.  Let it go. Your heart will be less heavy, and your vision more clear.

Growing Up Is Hard To Do

Yesterday took a lot out of me.  It got me all hot and feisty, and so today I think I need to calm things down a little bit.  I’m feeling kinda empty, so today I think I’ll tell you a story.

This is the story about how I became a grown up.  Or at least I tried. It is also about the one and only time I have ever successfully lied to my parents about anything.  I am a horrible fibber, you know.  My eyes give me away every time.

So a few years back, before we had human children, We packed everyone up in our Subaru and headed out to the cottage.  Sounds like a normal time right?  Of course not.  This time was exciting .  Special even.  Husband and I were to be in charge of some shit out there.

You see, my parents lived at the lake in the summers back then.  (Since then my mom’s health has been too poor to even go out).  Even before Dad retired, he had so much holiday time that he could be out there for almost 3 months straight.  So whenever we went up, we would do some grocery shopping, but everything else was already set up.  It was so easy.

Anyway, this time they weren’t there.  It was early June, and I had already finished up with my studio for the summer and Husband had some days off to use up.  So we went during the week, before school was out, no parents, no neighbors, just us in the bush.

It was the height of the mosquito season.  The day had absolutely no fucking wind, and was muggy as hell.  I couldn’t wait to get the truck unloaded and get my ass in the water.  But first we had to unpack.

I unloaded all the animals first.  Kinda like a travelling zoo.  Three dogs and a carrier full of ferrets.  I put them in the cabin so they would be out of the way, and not fucking off into the bush.  I threw my purse and shit in there too, needing all my hands to unload all the supplies.

The bugs were horrendous.  The muggy weather was irritating.  We both started to slowly slip into foul moods.

We have a screened in porch where I started leaving all our shit in between trips up the hill to the car.  And then I grabbed the box with shit going into the boathouse.  The one with the paint in it.

The one I fucking dropped.  The one where the lid popped off and spilled paint everywhere. All over the bumper of Husband’s new truck. All over me.  Oh.My.God.  I thought for sure he may beat me to death and hide my body somewhere in the bush.  So I went the one place I knew he wouldn’t follow.

The water.

He went into the boathouse to get some turpentine and rags to clean up after me as usual, because sometimes, I am a useless human being.  And found that it had been broken into.

This is getting better by the second.  I contemplated going home.  For reals.

Now keep in mind that during all of this, the animals are all inside the cabin, wondering when the fuck we were going to let them out.  This is where our day got fun.  I climbed out of the water and went to go inside.

And the goddamn door was locked.

And I looked inside to see my purse with our keys, phones, wallets, everything on the kitchen table.  And the fucking door is locked.  And I’m dripping wet.  And Husband already wants to strangle me.  And I think to myself “Please say the box with the gin is outside still.”

What the fuck are we gonna do?   Remember no neighbors?  Fack!

Luckily, someone had broken into the boathouse to steal gas, which gave me access to every tool ever invented by man.  So I ran and got a crowbar.  And took a swig out of the gin bottle. And started to beat the shit out of the door handle. It made me feel a lot better.

Then I realized there was a better way.  There was no way the dogs locked the deadbolt, so it was only the push lock that got locked.  I could break into that in a heartbeat!  I used to do it all the time as a kid whenever my brother was in the john. I knew being an asshole in my youth would come in handy someday.

I went and got a screwdriver, removed the handle and unlocked the door.  Perfect, no one needs to know about this except me and Husband and the animals.

Except I had beaten the shit out of the doorhandle, remember?  Fuck.

So this is where the lie comes in.

I was too embarrassed to tell my Dad what really happened.  I figured they would never, ever, let us go up by ourselves again until we were like 50.  So when I called to tell him the boathouse had been broken into, I told him it looked like they tried to get into the cabin too.

And then I told the RCMP the same thing.

I am going to Hell, right after I’m done serving my jail sentence.

And that, kids, is how we realized that owning a cottage was a lot of work.  Up until then it had sorta been like a hotel, you know?

Growing up is hard to do, and sometimes, it really sucks.


An Open Letter to Perpetrators Of Sexual Violence



I know its not Friday, but my tits are burning today.  I thought about not even linking to this fucking article, because I don’t want to the author to get any more attention and readership.

But you should read it.  You should read it and get angry about it so that we as a society declare that despite her bullshit analysis of sexual violence,  acts of disgust and abuse towards women and children are not tolerated.

If you don’t have time to read it, get angry about this:  She suggests that what happened in Steubenville should have been dealt with by the parents.  The girl should have been grounded for getting drunk and raped and the boys should have been suspended from football for a while.  Charging them with a crime for violating a woman was overboard.

She doesn’t see anything wrong with unwanted sexual advances in the workplace.  She thinks it’s ok for a politician to sexualize a woman publicly.  I guess us women deserve to have no professional credibility unless it has to do with the perkiness of our tits or the firmness of our ass.

She also thinks that a person watching child pornography in the privacy of their own home isn’t hurting anyone.  She compares the war on drugs and abortion to child exploitation.

Ok.  I will warn you advance that I have been stewing on this all night.  I actually don’t think I need to comment on the disgrace this woman has brought to women everywhere by voicing these opinions.  I don’t think I need to make anyone understand that  some pervert jacking off to porn in his home is certainly not hurting anyone unless the images include children.  Because children are not sexual beings.  An adult film star of legal age is capable of making the decision to participate.  A child is not.  A child is innocent.

That child belongs to someone.  That child may have been taken from a loving family and forced to perform horrible acts in front of a camera.  That child could be mine. Or yours.

And now you will hear a mama’s rage.

Do you know what I would like to do for Barbara Amiel?

I would like to help her understand things from the victim’s point of view.  So, my inner psycho and I got together and started to think about how we can make this fucking retarded bitch see how very wrong she is.

1.  I would like to give her something to help her sleep.  A general anesthetic or a little bit of wine.  The we’ll strip her naked and start inserting things into her vagina.  Because it’s not really a big deal.  Not even if you take pictures.  And then, after WE the ABUSERS have done suffering in the media because of this, we’ll send her to some counselling for forgetting to say no.

2. As far as I know, this woman does not have children.  And THANK GOD for that.  Perhaps we can create some pornographic images of her, and allow her to see or hear about some disgusting piece of shit using the images for self-pleasure. Or maybe that would boost her ego a bit.  After all, it will be done in the privacy of his or hers own home.  Would you change your opinion if the castration candidates were viewing the images  of you publicly?  Would it then qualify as a “major”vice,  bitch?

How this woman has gotten through her life without one piece of empathy for others is beyond me.  I think the definition of that is sociopath, is it not?

I think we as a society go overboard on a lot of things.  I think that we have become oversensitive on many issues and have become very good at finding things to complain about.  This is NOT one of those things.

God help the person who EVER tries to take advantage of my daughter.  God help ME for what I would do to them.

Shame on you Macleans magazine for allowing this sort of bullshit to have a voice.  You have given a forum to the perpetrators, and allowed them to feel validated in their horrendous behavior.   Fuck Free Speech.  Seriously.  And Fuck Barbara Amiel.

And fuck rapists and child abusers everywhere.  And fuck this world we live in.

Say it with me. ” We will not tolerate this for one more second of one more day.”

And here endeth Losing My Shit Wednesday.


The Greatest Love Story Ever Told



In October of 2000, I met the man I knew I would marry.  I was 23.  (23!)  We dated pretty casually for almost a year before deciding to make a commitment to one another.  That whole thing was kind of farcical, because neither one of us was really dating anyone else.  It was just us from the very beginning.  But for some reason, things just evolved slowly into the relationship that we have today.  It took some time.

I hate it when people say “I want to marry my best friend”.  It sounds like they are on an episode of the Bachelor and about to be  dumped.  But in my case, he really was my best friend before anything else.  We just got on so so well.  We never ran out of things to talk about, or stupid shit to do.  Sometimes he would come over at like 10 o’clock at night after all his homework was done just to go for a drive and a visit.

My Mom use to ask me all the time if he was my boyfriend, and I would say “we’re best friends”. Because we were.

So we graduated from University and started our life together.  In a one bedroom 500 square foot apartment.  We got a couple of ferrets and liked to get drunk on the weekends regardless of how broke we were.  We graduated to a 2 bedroom in a couple of years, and then finally to our house a couple of years after that.

And through all this time, through all of the fights that couples endure, and family drama that is impossible to avoid, we still laughed.  We did the things that you do with your buddies, and made it through every bump along the road.  Some bumps were bigger than others, and a lot of them weren’t handled with very much grace, but we have clawed our way through every shitty situation over the years together.  And come out the other side together.

We swore we would never have kids.  We didn’t feel like anything was missing from our lives.  We had each other.  And three dogs.  And a room full of ferrets.  And a couple of lizards. And some fish.  Where the fuck would we even put a child?  There was no room.  Literally.

Until one day that all changed.   We decided to have a baby.

So out of our love for one another, we created this life.  And that first year was really hard. We didn’t know anything about babies.  We winged it.  Because we loved her.

And this is where the story becomes great for me.  When I first got pregnant, I didn’t feel that overwhelming sense of love for my unborn child.  I felt panic.  Because our life was about to change, and everything was so unknown.  As the pregnancy continued, that changed.  I relaxed.

Then she was here.  And although the love was immediate, it was overshadowed by panic again.  I was terrified I would screw it up.  Terrified I would get it wrong.   But I guess I didn’t.

And as I see her now, so bright and happy.  No, full of joy (usually) at all the little things in life, I can push away the fear of something happening to her and enjoy the greatest part of having children.

Knowing what true love really is.  Because this is it.

And her and I spend the days doing everyday things.  And we have fun, whether it’s a trip to the store ( unless it’s Ikea) or just hanging out at home.  Like best friends.  Like me and Daddy used to do.

And now, we are 3 months away from Little Buddy.  And I don’t know how I will ever share my love between the two of them.  How does that work?  Do you grow more with the new baby?  Does it split in half?  Because I don’t want to share my love for Destroyer.

Is there enough?  There seemed to be enough to split between Daddy and Destroyer, but can it go three ways?

It will.  It has to.  Because ours is the greatest love story ever told.

Because it’s real.

When They Grow Up…..

I’ve been waking up really early lately.  It’s like my brain won’t shut off.  And you know me, it gets me thinking about a lot of shit.  Thank God I’ve started blogging, so all that shit has somewhere to go.

The other day I was farting around on the internet and came across some article about what one characteristic you wish your child would grow up to have.  The article itself was more about what was going on in Steubenville, and a commentary about instilling good values and moral compasses in our sons, but I’m not sure I need to blog about that.  What happened there was wrong.  The continued victimization of the victim is wrong.  It is not okay to rape someone no matter how drunk they are.

What I was thinking more about was how I would answer the question.  If I could pick a defining characteristic for my child, what would it be?

Of course, we all want our kids to be smart.  Most parents, in my experience as a teacher, find some way to demonstrate to me how their child is the brightest there is.  ” Little Johnny could spell his name backwards and forwards in seven languages by the time he was two.”  Super, that’s really not useful.  “Little Mary could count to 1 million at age 3.”  Ok.  Get that Harvard application ready.

There are a lot of different kinds of smart, you know.  My Dad, for example, is one of those people that can figure pretty much anything out.  He knows almost everything, and what he doesn’t know he’ll reason out before you can look it up.

Myself, I’m book smart.  As in I remember almost everything I read.  It was a lucky trait to have in university when I took a couple of hours before each exam to sober up and read through my notes.  I look back and wonder how I passed.

Husband is art smart.  He is creatively and conceptually aware of things that are really cool, and able to do amazing things on a canvas.  He’s also people smart.  I can’t tell you how many times he’s said “I’ve told you so”  about someone who turns out to be an asshole.

Anyway, my point is that smart is broad.  We all have something we’re good at.  So I don’t think I need to wish that for the Destroyer or Little Buddy.

Brave?  Honest?  I personally think these are the same thing.  A coward is never honest, and a liar is never brave.  We lie to hide from the truth, because it’s easier.  Because we are afraid to face what really is.  When you are truly brave, you are honest with yourself and others, and willing to face the consequences of the situation.  To lie is to avoid.  So do I want my kids to be honest/brave?  Yeah I do.  But I also think that life forces you to face the music at some point on its own, because dishonesty will always catch up with you.  The truth is inevitable.

I think the author of the article above has this one right.  I want my kids to be kind.

Kind doesn’t mean doormat.  It doesn’t mean let others take advantage of you.  Trust me on this.  You can be confident and know how to stand your ground without being cruel.  You can be honest without being devastating.  You can be firm in your convictions without being unfair.

Kind means having compassion and empathy for others.  It means taking a little less for yourself and giving a little more to your neighbor.  It means you consider the feelings of others before you act.  It means bringing joy to the life of someone that is not you.

If you can learn to be kind, you won’t turn out to be an asshole.

So how do I teach my daughter and son to be kind?

It’s simple.  I have to be kind, and they will see it, and watch it, and repeat it.  Kids don’t give a shit what you tell them.  They remember what you show them.

So, as usual, the onus is on me to be a better person.  The only genie in the room who is going to grant my wish is me.

So parents, on this very early Monday morning, make a deal with yourself.  Emulate the person you want your kids to be, and create goodness in this next generation.

‘Cause I was born with an asshole, I don’t need to create two more.



Hot On The Titties Friday: To Spank Or Not To Spank


Good Morning , kids!  How are your titties feeling this morning?  Nice and hot?  Good, because it’s Friday!  Hot on the Titties Friday that is, and today’s topic will not disappoint.

Now that I have begun this adventure called parenthood, and my firstborn is less of a baby and more of a little girl, she sometimes acts like a bit of an asshole.  For reals.  She puts her “ignoring hat”  or “I can’t hear you cap” on, and happily continues whatever behavior she was engaging in before I told her to stop.

So as she’s punching the flatscreen no matter how many times I say “don’t touch”, she has from time to time received a little tap on her well padded bottom to direct her another way.  She can’t actually feel the tap, but it gets her attention and she is then able to redirect herself.

That’s right, kids.  Today’s HOTTF is about spanking.  Have you ever, would you ever, have you considered it, and did your parents use spanking as a means of redirection or punishment?

Now again, for all you new to my blog, I am speaking about and from my experience, and you are welcome to believe whatever you will and raise your kids the way you feel is best.  I encourage you to disagree, and present your points in a grown up fashion.  Acting like an asshole or a troll will not be tolerated, kapeesh?

Here is my opinion:  I believe that spanking has it’s place.  And there is a huge difference between a beating and a spanking.  There is a huge difference between appropriate parental discipline and abuse.  NO question about that.

When I was a kid, my parents used to spank me.  And looking back, it was pretty effective.  The spanking itself was no big deal, but they were smart about how it played out.  It’s all in the anticipation.  I used to know I was going to get it if my dad would roll up the sleeves on his dress shirt when he would get home from work.  I would get sent to my room to wait it out.  That was the worst.  Having to sit there and think about being an asshole and then knowing I was going to answer for it.  I learned a lot of lessons pretty quickly.

My grandparents never laid a hand on me.  All they did was take the wooden spoon out of the drawer and silently lay it on the counter if I acted like a jerk.  That’s all it took, the mere suggestion of it.  They were in charge, and I believed them.

Now I know all the experts say that it teaches violence and all that, but I’m not a violent person at all.  I’ve only been in one fight ever.  And he broke into my car and then punched me in the face.  So I let him have it.  Spanking didn’t teach me how how to give a few right hooks to the jaw and drop a guy.  I mean, it’s not like I took the guy and put him over my knee for a few good swats.  Although that might have been even funnier than getting beat up by a girl.

Anyway, here is my theory:  Small children live in the now.  They literally do not have the ability to predict the outcome of their actions.  A tap on the hand before they touch the hot stove saves them from harm, and gives them something they can react to.  A tap on the bum when they are being naughty gives an immediate consequence to a current action.  There is not intent or infliction of pain, it is a way to react to an undesirable behavior in the child.  You can’t have a conversation with them at this point, the verbal skills do not exist.

Hey, it works with the dogs, right?  (For all you crazy people out there, that is a joke)  Everything I learned about parenting, I learned from Cesar Milan. (not a joke)

I also think that children need to have a healthy fear of their parents.  Not in a “threat of harm” way, but the way you have a healthy fear of your boss, let’s say.  They need to realize who’s driving.  There needs to be an uncrossable line between you and them that clearly makes you the boss of them.  They need to know this. Period.  You can all argue to the ends of the Earth about this with me, but I won’t budge.  I love my daughter more than my own life, and I will sacrifice moments of her being pissed as hell at me to keep her safe.  I love her enough to be tough when I need to be. To establish these boundaries now.  When kids know who is in charge, they feel safe.

Remember, the effectiveness of spanking in my opinion, lies in the anticipation of it.  If you are doing it right, the looming “threat’ of it should be enough to correct the behavior before it happens.

Before I turn the floor over to you, let me just say this:  If anyone besides me ever laid a hand on my kid, they would unleashing the crazy in me.  My sauce would seriously fucking boil over.  Because a parent is able to discipline out of love, while anyone else would be doing it solely out of anger and frustration.

And be careful as your tits burn up over this.  A “spanking” means a smack on the clothed bum, not a punch in the face.  Try to be nice in your debates.  Try not be extremists in your opinions.

Let’s hear it.

Happy Friday, bitches.

The Attempted Blackmail of Cookie



Yesterday we went to the mall.  We met an old friend and her little poppets for an Easter Bunny date and then some lunch.

But it can’t ever be that simple.  It’s always an adventure with the Destroyer and a vat full of hormones ready to overflow at any second.

The Easter Bunny is a great idea, but let’s put this into the Destroyer’s perspective.  It’s a 6 foot fucking rabbit that sits there and points at you.  In a “I’m going to eat you” kind of way.  We ate his chocolate, but she was having nothing to do with that thing.  Not this side of ever.  Sigh.

We had actually arrived a little early, so we did a little shopping in the meantime.  What I want to know after my time at the mall yesterday, is are there any stores there that actually want me to spend my money there?  Does anybody actually understand how to keep the consumer happy?  Or how to target their audience appropriately?

And fucking rights I’m going to name names.  If you want to stand by your bullshit policies, then I’m going to stand by my fucking opinion.   Check the title of this blog, bitches.

So I go into this store called Please Mum.  As usual, there is not one other person in this store.  I don’t know how they stay in business, actually.  There is nothing spectacular about their limited inventory, but when they have sales, they are usually quite good.  So I go in there from time to time looking for deals on things like outerwear.  Sure enough, they have giant signs everywhere saying 50% off.   The clerk/manager tells me everything is 40-50% in the whole store.

Sweet.  The Destroyer needs some rubber boots.  Assuming the snow fucking melts, that is.  Anyway, we try some on, and they are 40% off the lowest price.  She rings me up and they come to about 15$.  Excellent.

So I whip out my card and as she takes it to swipe the “old fashioned” way on the till, she proceeds to ask for my name.  Sigh.  I seriously hate this game.  I just want to buy my shit and be left alone.  I don’t want your e-flyers, or coupons.  Please just fucking leave me alone.  She assures me it’s not for that, she just wants to check the database for me.  Whatever.  I give her my first name.

Then she continues to ask for my phone number etc. I remind her again that I don’t want to share my personal information, especially considering she has my bank card in her hand still.

“Then I can’t give you the sale price”.  Pardon the fuck out of me?

“Let me get this straight”  I said.  “You want me to sell you my personal information for a 40% discount? I don’t fucking think so.”  And she argued with me about it.  Until I told her my phone number was 123-456-7890.  And my address is 1 Go Fuck Yourself Avenue.

This fucking store is actually trying to blackmail its’ patrons into giving out their info.  What ever happened to “thank you, come again”? I asked for her district manager’s email address.  I may just send them a link to my post today.  Then I won’t have to explain my discontent for a third time.

The funny thing is, not 10 minutes later I was at The Childrens’s Place, and when I went to pay, they asked for my phone number there.  And I said ” I prefer not to give out my personal information”.  And the clerk said “no problem”.  Because it should be my choice, and they understand that.

So which store will see repeat business from me?  I’ll give you one guess, and if you get it wrong I’m going to beat you over the head with the Destroyer’s rubber boots.

This whole thing just has me shaking my head.

I don’t give a shit what a store’s policies are.  If you are going to advertise 50% off, then everybody gets 50% off.  “It says right on the sign for members only”  Oh.  Super.  OK then.  Maybe next week’s signs will say 50% off and in tiny print for white people with no children.  Or for people who own lizards.  Or for Children of the Corn only.

In this day of identity theft, I take very good care of when and where I give my personal information to, and regardless of what the store is trying to do for itself, this disclosure should always be at the discretion of the consumer.

And besides that, I don’t know what fucking moron is running that store,  but the worst thing to do for business is to piss of your customers.  Guess how many people I’ve told about this?

And guess how often I’ll be going back.  Idiots.

Someone please help me take over the world.  Before it really goes to shit.


Wanna Come Over For a Glass Of Wine? My Kid is Having a Tantrum.



Anyone who currently has, or has raised a toddler is all too familiar with one thing:  The tantrum.  Anyone who claims to not have a toddler who freaks out spontaneously and makes you want to guzzle tequila on a daily basis is either  total fucking liar, or has like 17 nannies who deal with this shit for them.

If you fall into the latter category, please stop reading.  Actually just go away.  I want my misery to have some company, and I don’t need any  bitch from Superior Land to tell me all the reasons why I am facilitating this and blah blah blah.  There are enough things that are my fault, and plenty of opportunities for me to fuck up my kid coming in the next few years.

So yeah.  The tantrum.  I’m going on the assumption that the mechanics of a tantrum are all pretty similar.  Toddler wants.  Toddler doesn’t get.  Toddler freaks out.

Sound about right?

If your kid is anything like mine, there are degrees of tantrum too.

Let’s start with a first degree tantrum.  These are usually short lived.  Notice I didn’t say mild.  There is no such thing as a toddler doing this shit half assed.  Tantrums are always intense, but it’s the duration and side antics that define the level. No?  For example, yesterday our internet was being retarded.  As in the actual meaning of the word retarded.  Delayed. Slow.  Not loading Baby Einstein in a millisecond.  That’s all it took for the Destroyer’s yogurt to go flying across the room during breakfast.  All over the floor, the wall, the chairs, everything.  Not to worry, my furry clean up crew was on it.  Then I noticed one of the dogs was covered too.  Who the fuck is going to clean that?  Oh and yes, my kid watches tv during breakfast.  Blow me, super mommies across the world.  However, once I got the damn thing loaded, the Exorcist left, and my angel was back.  First degree tantrum.

Second degree tantrums.  This usually happens when something that needs to occur interferes with her agenda, or interrupts whatever little magic she is creating at the moment.  At our house, these often include trying to dress It.  My offensive behaviour usually starts by requiring It to not be naked.  This is a major issue.  I don’t care much about the nudity, but I care about piss on the furniture.  At least put a diaper on.

Anyway, a second degree tantrum will often result in a “limp baby”.  “Wanna interrupt my nakedness, motherfucker?  Wanna interrupt me playing with the thermometer?  My teddy bear has a temperature and you are wrecking my fun!”  So at this point, her body will go limp, making it impossible to carry her, let alone get her feet into those fucking onesie pajamas.  And if you do happen to get a foot in, it will promptly be removed by the time you attempt the other side.

Third degree tantrums.  These suck.  They last forever.  They make you consider having your tubes tied, or becoming celibate forever.  The child is completely inconsolable.  You are inconsolable.  And this is what you do to solve it: Not a goddamn thing.  The third degree tantrum is nothing but a power struggle.  Who will give in first?  Not me.  NO fucking way.

This usually happens when It wants something, and I say no.  It involves her throwing herself on the floor.  It involves a whole lot of noise and a whole lot of time.  My suggestion?  Get some earplugs, and open a bottle of wine.  If you give in, It will subconsciously remember  that it works, and will use this tactic later in life.  You will pay for it.  Stand firm, the third degree tantrum is annoying but it is a metaphor for the teenage years.  Prepare yourself.

Oh and then there is the little gem, the Public Tantrum.  This is the one that really makes you think about selling your kids.  At what point do you just say “fuck it” and leave your full cart of groceries in the aisle?  At what point do you box your food to go and hightail it out of the restaurant.  First degree? Second?  I think that you can manage until third degree, because that is the one you can’t fix.

Anyway, it is a joyful time in our household.  Blizzards.  Tantrums. Another baby.

I better make certain the bar is stocked for summer.  Oy!

Winter: Fuck You Edition



I am seriously in need of a change in weather.  I don’t want to be one of those losers that has nothing to say and so they talk about the weather and nothing interesting ever.   But seriously, people it is March the fucking 19th and we just had a blizzard here yesterday.  I can’t fucking take anymore. Let me give some very good reasons I need spring, and I need it now. 

1. I am too fat to chase my toddler around the house every time we have to get dressed to go outside.  She wants to go out, but as soon as we actually have to get ready it turns into this annoying game which is fun for no one except for her.  Put the hat on, the hat comes off.  Try to put the mittens on, she shakes them off.  She is the devil.

2.  I am also too fat to keep having to wear boots to go outside.  I need to be wearing flip flops, people.  I can’t bend over far enough to get the fucking boots on anymore.

3.  AND I am also too fat to do up any of my winter coats.  I wasn’t about to go spend a couple hundred bucks last month on a maternity winter coat for like 2 weeks of winter.  If I would have known this was going to be a fucking ice age, I may have reconsidered this.

4. Dairy Queen has Blizzard treats on sale this month for buy one, get one for .99$.  I know I talk about this a lot, but the month is going by so fast!  Who wants to eat a goddamn Blizzard treat in a blizzard?

5. The snow in the backyard is so deep I can’t even take the dogs back there to play.  The pug can’t even take a shit because her ass in under the snow.  And when the dogs aren’t getting out enough, they get super annoying.  They pace.  They follow you around incessantly.  And they do what any true member of our family does when they’re bored.  They eat.  And by eat, I mean they eat the child’s crayons.  Do you know what it looks like outside in the potty zone?  It looks like Rainbow Brite  has been taking a shit in my backyard.  Please.  Spring. Please.

6. I think we have this thing called cabin fever.  Have you ever tried to entertain a toddler in the house all day while Daddy tries to sleep during the weeks he’s on night shift?  It’s super fun except all of those moments when the child is using screaming for a sound effect.  It doesn’t matter if she is displaying happiness, or discontent, or excitement.  The appropriate reaction is to scream.  So she pretty much screams all the time.

7.  I need to Bbq.  I mean we still can, but seeing as I’m challenged in the winter gear department, and part of the fun of Bbq-ing is sitting outside together while dinner cooks and the Destroyer sleeps peacefully, this shit needs to melt ASAP.  I need a flame broiled steak.  I need fire on my meat.  And I need to stop making such a mess of the kitchen, because then I have to clean it afterwards.  Bbq means defrost meat, place potatoes, toss salad.  No mess, lots of eating, and a trip to DQ after.

One more dump of snow could break me.  I’m crumbling as it its.  Yesterday I watched Breaking Dawn Part 2 and cried like a baby.  I need to get outside for some fresh, unfrozen air, and empty some of the crazy out of my sauce.


Performance Jitters

So you all know about my “super important” music festival final I had to sing in this past weekend.  Winning sure isn’t everything,  but what was important to me was to put on the best performance that I was capable of at this moment.

Challenging, considering I had a few obstacles to get around.  At six months pregnant, I really had nothing to wear.  And the few maternity stores in Winnipeg don’t really carry any floor length, fabulous opera singer gowns.  But check out what I found!  This new little boutique in Winnipeg literally saved my life.  She does online orders too.  Thank you to J.Mackenzie fashions for helping me waddle my way on stage in class.  First obstacle cleared.

Then there was the question of what to sing.  Von ewiger Liebe, in my opinion one of the most beautiful German Lieders of all time happens to be in my repertoire.  So this is what I chose.  Have you ever tried to remember someone’s name that you haven’t seen in a year or so when 6 months pregnant?  Yeah.  Try remembering the lyrics to a 5 minute song in a language you don’t speak in 3 days.  I’m pretty sure by the end of the week Husband was convinced I was making the whole fucking thing up to torture him for some sort of bad behaviour.  A recording of it played constantly.  For three very long days.

Oh.  And the ensemble with the piano.  Lets just say that my two crazy pieces worked my accompanist to the bone.  And she had three days to learn the second one.  Every other pianist in the building came over to congratulate her afterwards.  They were that awful.  I think she charged me extra, or at least she should have.

So let’s get to the day of.  I woke up feeling surprisingly calm.  I even saw a few students in the morning, which was a nice distraction.  Then around lunchtime my anxiety started to mount.  I started to build up this concert/performance to a new level of terror that had me convinced I would get this over with and never sing publicly again.  I contemplated risking FAS to calm my nerves, but thought it wouldn’t help my memory.  Super.  Nothing could help me now.  We were in the car, on our way, and I was too proud to back out now.

So I headed backstage, and many of the other singers were already there. And of course they all knew each other.  Let me explain to you about who ends up at this thing every year.  We have an excellent program at the university here.  The teachers are amazing and the student are reflective of that.  They do this all day, every day, on Daddy’s tab.  They perform weekly.  They were talking about Met Opera competitions.    And here I am am, this knocked up nobody just trying to finish her Conservatory diploma and trying to be the very best teacher she can.  Talk about a dark horse.

So one of the girls I do actually know, and she comes over to say hello, and I tell her I feel sick.  Not baby sick, but I might forget everything I know sick.  And she says “Fuck it if you do.  Just keep going.”  Perfect!  I think up plan B in my head.

My first piece is called “Mother, I Cannot Mind My Wheel”.  If I forget any words, I’ll just pretend I’m drunk at karaoke and turn it into ” Motherfucker, I Cannot Remember My Words.”  Right?

Then this over-confident girl with her tits hanging out of her dress comes over to me.  I almost drop dead of shock.  She is probably the favourite to win.  She seems to be quite curious about singing while pregnant.  I answer her questions as honestly as possible, and then I realized something.

All of these kids know nothing else except for this.  They are probably worried about the same things as I am.  The biggest difference is that I already piss my pants on a regular basis due to the baby, so I got more experience there than they do at something.

And you know what else?  I pushed a fucking human being out of my vagina a couple of years ago.  And I’m about to do the same thing again in a few months.  And they’re all probably still discovering their bits. They’re probably all virgins.   So guess what bitch is now gonna push all her bullshit aside and go out there and enjoy herself.  This is nothing. 

And I soon as I get settled up there, I did something I haven’t done on stage in a really long time.

I enjoyed every second of it.

I didn’t win the Rose Bowl that night.  Neither did Tits, by the way, to my surprise ( she really was incredible).  But I won back something else.

I won back my confidence. I wonder if I could put that on a plaque?

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