thoughts on life, parenting, news, and crazy shit

Month: April, 2013

Birthday Love



I had this story all geared up for you about the Destroyer and her music concert, but it will have to wait until tomorrow.  Because today is a special day.

Today is Husband’s birthday.  I am absolutely not going to tell you all his age, because he hates to think about that.  Let’s just say it’s the perfect age to have a couple of grays in his dark hair and its fucking hot.  He doesn’t believe me, but it is.

It’s funny how different your birthday celebrations become over the years.  I remember his first birthday that we were together.  We went to some lame rave with his Bestie, and I did a few too many drugs.  Somehow, I managed to lose Husband, Bestie, my purse, my shoes and had no idea where we had parked the car.  I ended up hanging out with a glowstick and a group of Italian guys from a downtown bar who gave me cigarettes to smoke.  Finally some pretty, helpful Gay piggy backed me around the parking lot until I found Husband ( then Boyfriend) and Bestie in the car.  Not so much of a celebration, eh?  At least not until the next day when I was ready for the biggest pig out that ever was.

After those days were behind us, birthdays usually consisted of meeting up with friends for drinks and or dinner.  Making the family rounds and having presents and food done up in his honor.

Now that we have kids, it’s become even more low key.  We have dinner in a lot.  Sometimes I’ll set something up at a restaurant in the afternoon so all the kids can come.  But honestly, it’s like we’re so tired celebrating our kids all the time that we forget to celebrate ourselves once in a while.

So I am going to celebrate Husband now.  Which he might hate, because he doesn’t really like to be the center of attention.  But that’s what you get for getting older, and having sexy gray hair.

I am celebrating the fact that despite knowing he married a spitfire who can usually take care of herself, he always tries to be protective of me.  Knowing that if I have a weak moment, he will be there to take over.  I have watched this extend to our daughter, and to our unborn son.  I am celebrating knowing that my children and  I are everything to someone.

I am celebrating having a partner who believes I can do anything.  That he trusts me to know my limitations and to push them without breaking them.  I love having partner who supports my decisions and helps me deal with the consequences of them.

I am celebrating a selfless, loyal man.  Someone who puts other people’s needs ahead of his own, and never walks away from a friend.

I am celebrating having a partner that is my friend.  Someone that I can do friend things with.  Not that the sexy stuff isn’t important, but at the end of the day we can just hang out.  That’s cool, you know.  Especially as all of your bits start to droop.

I am celebrating a great father.  There is no question of equal parenting.  Watching Destroyer and Daddy together almost makes me jealous.  They are that tight.

I am celebrating having someone to make my way with.  Knowing that I have a partner who will accompany me through life, sorting out all the bullshit together.

I am celebrating the fact that despite being very different, we want the same things.   Despsite crashing into each other over those differences, we have come out the other side more resilient and more in love.

So anyway, I guess I just wanted to take some time to tell you all about him, because I spend a lot of time talking about myself, and Destroyer, and Little Buddy.  But he is paramount to all of that.  We don’t work without him.

So Happy Birthday, Husband.   We love you.

And I guess this means we have to go present shopping now.  I never said I was organized.

Liebster Award. More Things You Didn’t Need To Know About Me


So my blogging buddy Don has nominated me for this Liebster Award.  It’s awesome because I like to talk about myself, and he was a good enough friend to give me another opportunity to without me having to look like a narcissistic douche.

Did you know that the word Liebster in German means “sweetheart, darling, beloved”?  I’m not sure I actually fit those descriptions, much less deserve an award for being any of those things, but what the hell.  And my inflammatory, curse word friendly blog could be described as just about anything besides darling, but here goes:

First, I am required to tell you 11 things about myself.

1.  I am fluent in two languages, but can swear in at least 7.   Surprised?  You obviously don’t read my fucking blog enough.

2.  I have three dogs.  One of them is retarded, one is neurotic, and the other is an asshole.  Good luck to any would-be burglar.

3.  I have one toddler, a beautiful little Destroyer of All Things, and am about 80 months pregnant.  After 30 weeks, every week feels like 5.  Looking forward to the summer where I have 3 dogs on a leash, a toddler on a leash and a stroller to push.  Thank goodness I was smart enough to buy a stroller with cup holders, so I have somewhere to put my gin.

4.  I am a zoologist by formal education, a musician by training, and a teacher by God knows what laws of the universe.

5.  I’m a rocking fisherwoman.  Especially when I’m drunk.

6.  I can fit my whole fist in my mouth.

7.  I can’t make jello.  Not even a little bit.  Not even with tequila in it.

8. I have to sit on the outside chair in the movie theater or I feel trapped and dizzy.  Panic attack anyone?

9.  I love to read young adult dystopian novels.  Light enough for bedtime reads with a good enough story to hold my interest.  Also shows that I secretly hope the world will end.

10. I can’t skate.  Not even a little bit.  Not even with tequila in me.

11.  A Canadian who hates hockey.  And here you thought I was the perfect woman.

Then I have to answer 11 questions from Don:

  1. If you could introduce your husband or boyfriend to someone and had to tell his occupation during the introduction, what would you want that occupation to be  Chicago Blackhawks player?
  2. Pancakes or waffles?
    Fuck you.  I’m pregnant so I get both and don’t have to choose.
  3. Favorite professional sports team?  Indianopolis Colts.  Peyton Manning doesn’t know it, but he is my favourite person of all time, too.
  4. City in the USA not named New York, Boston, LA, Dallas, Chicago or Miami that you’d like to visit?
    Somewhere in Montana where there aren’t any people.
  5. Vacation time!  Where do you go if it can be anywhere? Probably Italy.  I love spaghetti.
  6. What’s a regret you have that sometimes eats at you? Passing up my chance at fame.
  7. You can change one thing about your husband/boyfriend.  What is that thing?
    I would totally make him rich.  That would cancel out any of his other flaws.
  8. When’s the last time you were drunk?
    31 weeks ago……
  9. What would you do for a Klondike bar?
    I’m pregnant.  I’d beat a man to death for a Klondike bar.
  10. If you could…if Jesus insisted that you murder one person, who would it be (I’m excluded please) –
    That fat little puke running North Korea.  He’s got to go.
  11. Best thing you’ve ever eaten?
    I have no idea.  But the best thing I ever ate until I knew what it was was Beef tongue.  In France, by accident.  so good, and then guess what?  It’s tongue. Can I get a “fuck me?”

And now…….

11 questions of my bloggers:

  1. How do you like your eggs?
  2. What would be your superhero power?
  3. Who kicks better ass?  Buffy or Blade?
  4. If you killed someone, how would you dispose of the body? 
  5. It’s the zombie apocalypse.  What is your weapon of choice?
  6. If you ever got plastic surgery, what would you get done?
  7. You get to bring back one dead celebrity.  Someone who died “tragically” or “way too early”.  Who would it be?
  8. Would you marry for money?
  9. What one thing do you cook really well?
  10. Favourite movie of all time?
  11. What made you start blogging?

And now, my nominees.  There are many blogs I read.  Some are hilarious.  Some make me cry.  Some are fascinating.  Some have really nice pictures.  At any rate, I like to read a lot of diverse shit, but the stuff I like the best involves real people with real stories.  I like to hear about your day, and feel like I am part of this little online community.  It’s kinda cool.  Like a support group, lol.

Anyway, Here are some of my very favourite blogs, that I read every day:

  1. Extreme mom  Her posts are short, sweet, right to the fucking point and hilarious.  Go see!
  2. Snoozing on the Sofa.   It’s nice to hear a Dad’s perspective on shit.  Funny parenting stories from a man who isn’t Don, therefore I’m sure most of them are true.
  3. My thoughts on a page.  A real Irish woman!  NO fucking way!
  4. The Best Life.  She got me started blogging.  6 feet of pure goddess.  And she has babies, too!
  5. Mom and Boys.  A single mom of two tiny ones.  I don’t know how she does it.
  6. Journey Into the Spectrum.  I know she was nominated already, but we yak almost every day between our posts.  Plus, I love a Mexican Texan.
  7. Shan’s Shenanigans.  We bonded over a child porn scandal involving Maclean’s magazine.  She stole my online heart.
  8. The Superstitious Naked Ape.  Odd, because we have extremely different views on religion and life, but his blog is thoughtful and well written, and totally fucking fascinating.
  9. The World’s Top 10 of Anything and Everything.  I love lists.  And I love lists with pictures!
  10. Between Love and Chaos. A mommy blog that is honest and real. 
  11. Sass and Balderdash.  Sassy Katie makes me laugh and strive to be better at sarcasm!

Hot On The Titties Friday: Breastfeeding Edition



I thought a little longer than usual about writing this post, because sometimes women are crazy.  When a woman firmly believes in something, you’d better get the hell out of her way or at least to pretend to agree.  We are even more insane when it comes to our beliefs and/or opinions when it comes to raising our children.

But it is Hot on the Titties Friday, and this post is about tits.  So I figured what the hell.

Ok.  So you know how it’s ok to celebrate black history month, or have rallies for Aboriginal rights, but if you turned around and declared April 26 “White People Day”  you would be strung up for being a racist?  Not because you don’t think that other ethnicities deserve the same rights and freedoms and everything that you deserve, but because you feel that being a white person is worth celebrating too?

I kinda feel that way about breastfeeding versus formula feeding.  Like if I am pro-formula, I’m a racist or something.

I know.  You’re probably wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.  But it’s like this thing, this entity.  We have all these women forming groups and clubs and lactation consultants and holy fuck.  Leave. My. Tits. Alone.

We have become a breastfeeding advocacy army in this generation.  And it’s starting to get on my tits.  Pun intended.

Now.  Before I rant, I want to say this for the record.  I am NOT against breastfeeding.  I love women who happily breastfeed and love it.  I love that the babies are healthy and chubby and content.  I love that women are given a choice to do what they feel is best for them and their child.  And a little part of me is jealous.  Because that is purely Mommy and baby time outside the womb.  It affords you the opportunity to keep your little one to yourself in a way once they are born.  It is a beautiful thing.

What I hate is all these pushy, know it all bitches who look down their nose at you when you are formula feeding your baby.  What I hate is women suddenly become experts on children’s health because they had a baby and now need to tell me all the reasons their child will thrive more than mine will.  Women who push and push and push their opinion on me.  The guilt inducing bitch conversations that make me want to make a tshirt that says “fuck you La Leche” despite all the good work they do.

So.  We all know the benefits of breastfeeding.  There are many.  But you know what?  There are many benefits to formula feeding as well.  And here are some of them, at least from MY experience:

1. I am not the only parent getting up every night all night.  Daddy is on board.  We are all a little saner.

2. I can leave my child for more than an hour or two if I need some human time.  Taking better care of me results in me taking better care of my baby.

3. I know exactly how much food my baby is getting.  I can tell right away if she is not getting enough and address my concerns with her doctor immediately.

4.  Baby slept through the night much sooner than most breastfed babies I know.  File this under sanity too.

5.  Watching the bond between my daughter and my husband be formed earlier was magic.

6.  Latching problems?  Buy a different brand of nipple.

My doctor endorsed my choice.  She said that the most important benefit from breastfeeding was the colostrum and antibodies in the first few days of birth.  Which my daughter got.  She also went on to say that formula is so close nutritionally to breastmilk that I didn’t have to worry.  She also told me not to allow anyone push their opinions on me or to feel bad about my decision.

I will try again to breastfeed with Little Buddy.  I am actually kind of excited too.  But I’m not going to make myself insane over it, and I am not going to feel like a failure if it doesn’t work again or if my milk doesn’t come in.  And I am not going to listen to some fucking cow tell me that my baby’s IQ will be less than her baby’s based on my decision whether to go to formula or not.

Cause guess what?  Fuck you, that’s what.  I’m not going to judge you for your parenting choices unless you try to impose them on me.

Wish my titties luck, but don’t panic.  I always have a back up plan.

Dear Victoria: You Ain’t So Good At Keeping Secrets

Try fitting this under yoga pants!

Try fitting this under yoga pants!  photo from

I don’t have anything much to write about today.   Well, actually I have a lot of something to write about today in response to Don’s Liebster Award nomination.  I just don’t have enough time to fill out all the requirements this morning.  So it’ll have to wait a day or two.

So I just have a short little opinion today on Victoria’s Secret and her Angels.

First of all, I just want to say that if the lingerie you’re selling doesn’t fit under my clothes, then it’s not a secret.  Who comes up with these fucking names?  Let’s be honest.  Half of the shit you see on the runway is not lingerie.  It’s fuck me gear.  I’m not saying I have anything against that, but let’s call a spade a spade.  If I dress up in white knee highs and a plaid skirt that doesn’t really cover my ass and some red matching underthingies at 35 years old, I’m probably not going to the supermarket.  And that’s not a secret either, Victoria.

Second of all, please make a reasonable effort to make sure that anything D cup and above has less padding and more room.  Does it look like my porn star DD boobs need extra padding?  What the fuck.   They just want somewhere comfortable to hang out.  And by comfortable, I mean they want to look sexy in lace and satin and all that fancy shit.  Does anyone ever notice that most bra companies start making over the shoulder boulder holders after DD?  How come the girls who actually have tits worth mentioning aren’t allowed to dress them up too?  Just take the padding out, maybe thicken the straps a bit and voila.  A sexy bra with room for actual tits in it.  Not rocket science.

Thirdly.  Is it possible to hire a model and have her look good and keep her mouth shut all at the same time?  Is there a way to put that in their contract?  Not allowed to speak during employment or bitch about stupidity after contract has ended?

The reason I’m asking is because of this blurb on msn.com this morning.  This fucking model is complaining that she got told she was fat and had to look a certain way and take some inches off your hips blah blah blah.  Ummmm?  Honey?  You’re a fucking Victoria’s Secret model.  You get paid to look the way they want in the outfit they want.  If you don’t want people to comment on your body, don’t be a fucking model.  And by the way, most of us face worse criticism on a daily basis and we don’t make a million dollars in an afternoon.  So fuck you.

And actually, I will gladly strip down to my skivvies, attach some wings, wink at the camera and let every fucking person I walk by make oinking sounds at me for a million bucks.  Everyone has their price.  So suck it up and decide what yours is and please just shut up about how hard done by you are.

And fourthly, I want to address Victoria’s Secret’s supposed “Bright Young Things” teenager line.  As the mother of a daughter, I just want to say not fucking ever will I buy this shit from you.  Teenage girls are sexualized early enough these days without me buying lingerie for them.  When she is 18 she can go out and buy whatever skanky underpants she wants.  As long as she does her own laundry and I don’t have to see them.

Now in the meantime, I’m going to go put on a nursing bra, some maternity gitch and head to my doctor’s appointment.  Where I let someone call me fat for free.

Yeah. I’m On The Phone, And My Kid Is Still Alive.

So.  I’m trying not to swear.

Fuck it.  I saw this little diddy on Facebook last night and it got my titties all hot.

You know why?  Because I am so sick of these mommies who walk around and pretend like they have all the answers to everything and meanwhile their kids are just as annoying and fucked up as the next one.

So before this brood or anyone else judges me for whipping out my phone when Destroyer is happily buzzing around a playground, or playgroup or (GASP!) watching tv, here’s a few examples from a million reasons why I might be on my phone and why you should mind your own fucking business:

1. I’m texting a picture of said twirls or “watch me” antics to Daddy.  Because I was watching, bitchface.

2. I answered the phone because my other child’s school was calling and my other child is sick.

3. I work from home to spend more time with my kids, but from time to time need to manage my email/messages/whatever in order to facilitate this.

4. I’m bored.  Because you know what?  What’s fun for kids repetitively for hours gets boring sometimes.  So there.

Here’s the thing.  Parenting is hard.  I’ve said this a thousand times.  Not so hard that it isn’t worth it, because believe me it is.   The Destroyer might be able to take out a tidy room in under 60 seconds, but that is just par for the course.  I’m willing and able.

And I am lucky that I get to be here to see it all.

But I am a human being.  An adult human being.  And that requires a certain amount of stimulation that doesn’t include pointing out pictures in the Elmo book, or deciphering the latest tantrum of a mostly non-verbal expert on animal sounds.  It’s draining some days.  On worse days it’s annoying.  On really shitty days you wonder how parents before you survived and escaped with their sanity.

Bestie was telling me the other day about a friend of hers whose child is about 5 months old.  The woman has only left the child once to go for a dentist appointment that was unavoidable.  Once.  And by once, I mean not even to the store for an hour, not to mail a letter, not to a movie, nothing.  5 months of constant company of an infant with no relief.

Goddamn, woman.  How are you still sane?  When Destroyer was twee, I used to love that hour a day I went out for a bike ride or trip to the store just to get out and have a little bit of alone time.

Now I know that when the baby is new and especially if you are breastfeeding it is hard to plan evenings out and even harder to leave your child with a babysitter.  But what about with the child’s father?  And never?

My point is balance, balance, balance.  We have to be honest with ourselves about what we need too.  And creative about how to meet everybody’s needs.  And for me, that includes whipping out my phone on occasion while my child is happily playing and safe and content.

And you know what other horrifying behavior I exhibit?

1.  When I say “no” it stays no.

2.When a meltdown is happening, I try to figure out the cause and solve it for her.  And sometimes, when it is apparent that a fit is happening for the sake of having a fit, I walk away.  And I tell her I’ll be waiting with “X” when she is done.

3. Bestie plugs in a set of earphones and an audio book when she babysits.  Destroyer is none the wiser and is free to do the same game for 5 hours, or tantrum or whatever.  Bestie is then calm and happy, and able to tolerate miserable amounts of bratty behavior without breaking a sweat.  I endorse this tactic wholeheartedly.

4.  I use the word fuck in front of my kid.  It is what it is. I’m not perfect, but at least I’m real.

5. I leash my kid.  Sometimes we go for a walk and I have the dogs in one hand and her on the other.  My kid may be on a leash, but at least she’s not on a milk carton.

Do you all feel better about yourselves now?  Good.  Parent of the Year still comes this way though.


All May Quiet On The Western Front, But It’s Loud As Fuck Over Here

It makes noise?  Sold!

It makes noise? Sold!

Being the parent of a toddler sure is interesting.  It’s also seriously fucking annoying sometimes.  There.  I said it.  And stop judging me, because you know that you think it sometimes too.

You know why it’s so frustrating some days?  Because a toddlers mind is like a gerbil on cocaine.  They are going a million miles a minute on the inside but don’t have any real objectives.  They don’t know what they are trying to accomplish.  Other than driving their 75 month pregnant mother up the goddamn wall.

Whenever you find something reasonably safe, quiet, tidy and not annoying for them to do, they get bored with it in about 45 seconds.  But drumming as loud as possible on a wooden xylophone while you’re trying to watch Game of Thrones?  We could do that all fucking day.  And when we do get bored of that, we’ll move on to hammering on the wall with drumstick.  Anything to make a bit of noise.  If any moms out there want to know why they suddenly start suffering from migraines post-partum, it’s because nothing will ever be quiet again once you have a child.

I feel that half my time during the day is spent creating diversions.  Like yesterday, trying to wrangle the Destroyer into the carseat after walking out of the store.  The outside time did not meet quota, and she was fixing for a real fit in the middle of the parking lot.  But then, thank fucking Christ in Heaven, a train started to slowly come by.  “Hey look!  A real train!  What does the train say?”

Problem solved.  Because I gave her an opportunity to make noise.  It was enough of a distraction to stop the fit and sentence myself to  a car ride full of choo choo sounds.  Remember what I said about it never being quiet?

Everything, and I mean everything, comes with a sound effect.  And I will admit that some of them are quite adorable and funny.  Destroyer identifies all things by the sound it makes.  Or at least the sound she thinks it makes.  I didn’t know this before I had kids, but a giraffe  makes a “SSSSSSS” sound similar to a snake’s hiss.  Who knew?

What’s that?  You’re happy?  Yes.  Let’s all scream that high pitched, glass breaking, sterility inducing shriek of pleasure.  And make sure you do it extra loud when Daddy is working nights and trying to sleep during the day.  That’s fucking awesome, kid.

Last night, or more correctly, this morning, Destroyer woke up and slid her little self out of bed.  We’ve made the transition to a big girl bed in the last week, and it was surprisingly easy.  When we put her to bed, we close the bedroom door.  As soon as we leave, she gets out of bed, opens her dresser drawer, and throws all of her fucking pajamas all over the floor and then climbs back into bed where she stays until about 8 the next morning.  It’s the only thing she does quietly.  Anyway, once she’s sleeping I go upstairs, put her clothes away and put a gate across her doorway so that we don’t have to keep her door closed at night. We do it because her room is close to the stairs and also because her room gets fucking cold at night unless it’s open.  She doesn’t even notice it.

Until last night when she changed it up a bit.  Oh yeah, we had the nightly pajama toss, but she woke up around 5am screaming.  And I guess she figured she’d toddle out of bed into our room and crawl into bed with me.

And was met with a gate.  Something blocking her.  You can imagine how she felt about that.  I’m actually surprised I didn’t get to her room to find the fucking thing on fire or something.  She was so pissed she wouldn’t even let me change her diaper.  Whatever.  If she wants to sit in pissy pants for a couple of hours so be it.  It’s too early too fight and I haven’t had coffee yet.

Anyway.  I figure that I can pretty much assume that everything is crisis when you’re not quite two.  There is no differentiation between “want”  and “need”.  And not getting something you need creates anxiety.  And that means you should make noise.  Or is that just for Irish people?

Workplace Bitches… I Mean Bullies

Ahhhhhh!  Friday.  Not that means much to a self-employed musician, but it means something to all of you.  So happy weekend.

I was chatting briefly with a friend of mine yesterday and she mentioned to me that she was having some problems at work with some bitch in her office.  I didn’t get a chance to hear all of the details, but as soon as my friend decided to take on some new and more appealing job responsibilities this woman started to get her back up.  Essentially, my friend is being bullied.

I fucking hate hearing about shit like that.  Tits a blazing, let me tell you.

It’s been quite some time since I dwelled in the corporate world.  But one thing I remember about women in the workplace is that we are real bitches sometimes.   I remember observing that a lot of time women have trouble encouraging and enabling the success of another woman.  For some reason us girls feel threatened by another woman’s success rather than empowered by it.  We seem to feel that the only way to gain recognition for our own achievements is to squash the achievements of another woman.

Why can’t we both be good at what we do?  Why can’t we both be successful?  Why do woman have to let their own insecurities be the fault of some other bitch?

Do men feel like this?  If so, they are way less obvious about it.

The reason it makes me so angry is that us girls fought for how many years to be recognized and compensated equally to men in the workplace, and we still have to fight for that.  So instead of empowering one another, we act like catty bitches and give sexist fucks a reason to say “I told you so”.  We make ourselves look bad.  And that’s really stupid.

Do you remember the Spice Girls?  The whole “Girl Power” thing from the ’90’s?  We need some more of that.  Despite their cheesy exterior and completely produced music with maybe average talent, I fucking loved them.  I loved their message.  Embrace your differences and band together  to be the best you can be.  Instead of fighting amongst yourselves.

Cause when we decide to stop being bitches to one another, women are formidable.  Have you ever seen a pissed off Mommy Group?  They. Are. Crazy.  And effective.

Anyway, all speeches aside, how do you deal with workplace bullying?  What is the difference between workplace bullying and harassment?   I don’t think there is much of a difference.  Both lead to low productivity.  Both lead to low self-esteem.  Both lead to a breakdown of the team.  And both are unacceptable.  I think “bullying” is just a more effective term these days because it’s hot in the media.

If it’s true that bullies on the school playground stem from low self-confidence, then it would stand to reason that either this is leftover from childhood or bred by the same problems with confidence as adults.

So here’s the message, bitches:

Grow a pair.  Rise up based on hard work and meeting goals, and being an effective member of a team.  Be in competition with yourself, and you will find motivation there.  Don’t worry about Joe beside you, because he’s got his own shit to worry about.  Be a success based on the things that you achieve, not based on the failures of someone else.  Because being the winner of something is way sweeter when you earn it fair and square.

White Trash Lobster Night



Yesterday was an average Wednesday.  Except for the morning part where I had to sit drinking sugary drinks and get bled from the same hole in my arm every hour.  And the starvation before that.

I decided to pull out a couple of lobsters out of the freezer for dinner and let them defrost while I was teaching.  Yep.  Lobster for dinner on a Wednesday night because we are that classy.

The truth is I had bought them a while back on sale for a special occasion that never seems to happen.  So I thought fuck it.  Let’s eat em.

And so began White Trash Lobster Night.

Just for a little background information, I have been bugging Husband for years about getting a lobster for a pet.  We used to have all kinds of fish tanks in the house and I thought they were just the neatest little guys.  I was also a vegetarian for many years, in another life.  So I still have some unresolved feelings about eating things while they still have a face.

Anyway, these lobsters were whole.  I’d never cooked a whole lobster before, so I wasn’t sure exactly what to do with them.  I was intending to just chuck them in a pot of boiling water for a while when Husband asked aren’t you going to clean them first?

It hadn’t actually occurred to me.  Plus I was having a little trouble with the smell as it was, and their faces still being attached.  My plan was to get them in the pot as fast as possible without having to make eye contact.  So he volunteered to do it.  Clean them, that is.

I couldn’t believe it.  But he really really really likes lobster.  And he must, because at the lake, I’m the one who cleans the fish and hands him the fillets to be bagged and frozen.  So I hand them over with a giant meat cleaver and suggest just hacking off the tails and leaving it at that.

Are you nuts?  he says.  There’s a lot of meat in those claws.

Now I know that when he makes a bold statement like that he’s gonna do what he thinks is best.  So when I look over and he has the first one taken apart and there is green shit leaking all over the place and it looks like he is doing some weird Nazi surgical experiment, it’s more than my pregnant body can handle.

I excuse myself to take a shower before I never eat food again.  I was having flashbacks to my university zoology labs and there was no way I was going to eat those fucking things if I didn’t get out.

He did a good job actually.  And an even better job at clearing up the guts by the time I got downstairs.

So I toss a salad and make some garlic toast and set the table for dinner. I pluck the little fucker’s tails and claws out of the pot and bring them over.

Where’s the nutcrackers? he asks.

I have no fucking idea.  We’re not exactly a chestnut roasting over a fire type of family.  We’re more of a paper cups and beer breed over here.

No problem.  I’ll go get some pliers from the garage.

Cause that’s how we fucking roll around here.  We are solution oriented, matter a fact type of folk.

So I sit down at the table.  With my maternity sweatpants that won’t stay up around my belly, and my too short tank top letting my gut hang out all over the place.  One bowl of garlic butter for dipping, one set of pliers for cracking and a giant roll of paper towel on the table to clean up the aftermath.

And I have one bite only to discover that my pregnant body will absolutely not eat this fancy feast of ours.  The baby wants it not.  I don’t know if it’s the taste or the smell, or the fact that I saw it’s face before we cooked it.  But I am not eating this thing.  Period.

So I trot over to the freezer pop a little treat in the microwave and return triumphantly to the dinner table 2 minutes later.

With a pizza pop.

So much for our fancy meal, I says to Husband.

It’s ok.  I think lobster used to be something poor people ate years ago anyway. 

That’s why I married him.  He always knows just what to say to make me feel better.  Whether we’re white trash once in a while or not.  For better or worse, right?




It’s Awesome To Be Me

I don’t have time for a real post today.  I have to go do a second round of testing for gestational diabetes, after failing the screening last week.  Otherwise known as going to my doom.  The thought of a restricted diet makes me want to cry and then induce labour, so wish me luck, bitches.

But I’ll take a quick second to let you know why its awesome to be me today.  Otherwise known as whinings of a pregnant whale.

1. I have 2 volunteer full time jobs:  One involves all the necessary slave labour duties of mommyhood.  The other involves acting as an incubator.  Growing humans is hard work!

2. I have 2 part time jobs.  They pay well and don’t usually involve the bodily fluids of others.

3. I hardly slept last night.  Of course because I had to get up early, am not allowed coffee or bagels or anything that takes the edge off my tired cranky self.

4.  My carpel tunnel was so bad this morning that between that and my sleep deprived state, I could not aim properly to get the toothbrush in my mouth.

5. No coffee. I know I said it already. I said it twice for effect, louder this time and more forcefully.  Not an accident.

6.  I’ve decided that any post I’ve written about peace and love and harmony is crap.  I fucking hate people, and you should too.

7.  The drink they give you to test for diabetes tastes like melted freezies.  You know you want some.

8.  Assholes People around me have gone from ” are you having twins?” to “When are you due?”

9.  There is no whiskey in my non existant coffee.  Three times.  I know.

10. My appointment is downtown.  Therefore i will probably have to give them my baby as payment for parking anyway.  So why bother with the test.  Ahh.  Coffee.


Somebody Lost Their Child Today

I’m sure there are going to be a lot of people writing and sharing their thoughts on the Boston Marathon bombing yesterday.  How could we not all be thinking about it?  The scenes shown on the news and on the internet are pretty graphic, but even so I suspect we are only seeing the tip of the gory iceberg.

I don’t have any conspiracy theories or maniacal thoughts about what I would do to the people responsible, once found.  The police and FBI will do their jobs and find out what happened, I’m sure.

I think we get desensitized to events like these when we see the daily bombings in the middle east.  The violence an ocean away makes it feel like it doesn’t really happen.  There is no connection to the people on the screen.  And to be honest, I’ve chosen to just change the channel, because I hate to watch things that I don’t have the power to impact. But when you see it here, on the very continent we live on, it makes it real.  This happened to my American brothers and sisters, and it feels like it happened to me.

So I started thinking about loss.  True loss.  The kind that you can never get back, the kind that can’t be undone.  Death.  Innocence. Sight, maybe.  Hearing, maybe.  Security.

Yesterday, we had a snowstorm here.   A pretty mild one, but annoying in the middle of April.  And while we were all busy bitching about the weather, somebody lost their child.  Somebody lost their spouse, parent, sibling, or friend.  Somebody lost their leg.

Yesterday, while we were busy having the Monday blues, somebody lost their child.

And we will get another Monday next week.  And we will likely complain about it, and wish it were Friday.  And that child will still be gone, and that parent will have a real reason to hate Mondays.  And that parent won’t notice or care to complain about Monday or anything else.  Because they lost their child, and they would rather take all of our complaints at once and deal with them than be left with this.

This loss.  This grief.  This pain.

And I keep thinking to myself, there are parents who lose their children every day in those countries an ocean apart.  Every day is a Boston Marathon bombing for them.

How can this be what humans have come to?  Or have we always been this way?  Only now we have bigger guns and more efficient ways to hurt one another.  And that’s our goal, isn’t it?  To make each other hurt and suffer unimaginable losses.

And yet in the aftermath, and during the crisis, we somehow manage to help each other no matter what the race, or religous belief, or sexual orientation.  We push aside our stupid inconsequential differences and help one another.  Because loss is universal.  We can all identify with that pain.

So let me say this to you.  When we are busy complaining about things that are inconvenient, or hating someone because they look different or act different or believe different than we do, turn on the news.

Somebody lost their child today.  And yesterday, and tomorrow.

Find your grief and your anger and use it to help and love each other as if ever day were a crisis day.

Because you know what?  This is bullshit.   Our behaviour is bullshit.  It’s time to stop, and love, and end this.

Because one day you could be the one who lost their child.

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