It’s been almost a year since I got out.
Interestingly enough, I haven’t thought much of that job in the last eleven months. In passing, here and there maybe. Usually accompanied by cold shutter and a scorching pain while my mind works overtime to push out the memories. I haven’t even been able to write about it until now.
It was this time last year that I accepted my current job and knew that I would eventually be free. Free!
I totally relate to those two journalists that were held captive in a North Korean work camp until Bill Clinton saved them. I was probably happier to escape than they were. I should email them to see if they would be into starting a support group or something.
I only have six more months to figure out how to get on Oprah after all.
Looking back now I realize my behavior during that last month when I had given my notice, but still technically worked there, was maybe a wee bit inappropriate.
I regularly left at 3:00 in the afternoon to go drinking. And told them I was leaving to go drinking.
For the obligatory $10 staff mystery gift exchange I wrapped up a photo of myself in a $10 picture frame and signed it “Merry Fucking Christmas”
Seriously – I’m not even making that up.
My coworkers were cool though. I consider them more ‘war buddies’ than ex-coworkers. No one who hasn’t experienced what we went through it could ever really get it.
The admin assistant was a scrappy chain smoker who is a dead ringer for Flo from the old TV show Alice. I totally regret not getting her to say, “Kiss my grits!” even once while I was there.
The Director was probably the most abused, and I’m pretty sure she has PTSD now. She stopped working there about six months ago and now just stays home, bakes bread and drinks.
The Community Investment Coordinator swore more than anyone I have ever met in my entire life. She could work the word ‘fuck’ into every sentence she uttered. Hearing her speak was a masterful arrangement of vulgarity at its finest.
I’ve been thinking about that brief period in my life a lot lately. I believe it is because I am far enough away from it now to appreciate the lessons I learned from my nine months at the worst job ever.
Only really glamorous skinny people can pull off dressing like they are in an episode of Sex and the City. When I do it, I look like an asshole. And I have to change into regular shoes after about an hour. Tops.
When one person is the world’s most colossal bitch complete with a massive inferiority complex, a drinking problem and a grudge to settle…. it makes it impossible to foster positive working relationships.
Yoga pants are not a good wardrobe choice for a professional meeting. Nobody with camel toe is ever taken seriously.
And I will never, ever, ever, EVER work there again.
EVER.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
I hear it's big in the UK
Don't you just hate it when you log-on all excited to read your favorite bloggers most recent post but then it turns out to be some bullshit 'guest' blogger? Yeah, me too.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Maybe I could just wall paper it with giant Post-its?
Post-it notes are pretty much the best invention ever. Romy and Michelle were totally right to try and rip those off, because they rule. Do you know they have super big flip chart size ones now? That you can write on and they just stick to the wall? So you don’t have to fuck around with all that tape or sticky blue shit that ruins the wall you are trying to stick it on? They are awesome. And really helpful because I’m getting too old to throw down with hotel managers when my tape damages the ugly wallpaper in rented boardrooms.
Politica and her little ones come for a visit on Thursday and will be here for the whole weekend! Her hubby is taking a pass though. Something about me having an uncomfortable pull-out and him not wanting to be drunk all weekend. I blame the poor PR he has obviously experienced about my fair province's hospitality on the Saskatchewan pavilion at the Olympics. The entire pavilion consisted of a mural of a wheat field you could pose in front of for a picture……. and a huge bar. You’d think “have some toast and get your drink on” was our provincial slogan.
I am really concerned about how invested I am in Lindsay Lohan. I really want her to go to jail and stay there. It ruins my whole day when they let her out, and I honestly can’t figure out why I give a shit.
I think I have finally made the decision to redo my bedroom. The current décor is so heinous the word heinous doesn’t even come close to describing it. It's a cross between a six year-old girl's playroom and the tent that whack job kept Jaycee Dugard in for 18 years. The bed frame was so old and broken I finally just threw it out and now my bed just sits directly on the floor. We are still using the same dressers goodwill donated to us when we first got married and were so broke we made our kids take turns eating cereal using the same milk.
And the walls….oh god. I am having a hard time admitting this to the internet.
Okay…the walls are sponge painted baby blue and baby pink. As in, take a sponge, dunk it in pink paint and blop blop blop over EVERY wall. Take blue paint, repeat.
This room is SO bad that most people when they first see it offer to come over to help me paint it. Like, that weekend. And no, I have no idea why I haven’t addressed this earlier. It was like this when we bought the house FIVE years ago. But, a new day is dawning and I am going to redecorate the SHIT out of that room. Please forward any design inspirations. I need them. I’m actually not that creative.
But I can link up to a website like nobody’s business, so go on and visit Keely.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Put THAT in your pipe and smoke it, Blossom.
I have stumbled across quite a few birth stories around these parts of late. Not to mention hearing about totally and completely insane things like this:
"There are those among us who believe that if the baby can't survive a home labor, it is OK for it to pass peacefully," she writes. "I do not subscribe to this, but I know that some feel that … if a baby cannot make it through birth, it is not favored evolutionarily."
That quote is from the woman who played Blossom on that sitcom......Blossom. Myiam Blachic. Okay, I'm pretty sure that is not how you say or spell her name, but I already looked up the quote and I'm too lazy to go back and look up her name. You know who I'm talking about - that chick who wore all the hats and had that brother who would randomly appear in scenes to say, "Whoa!"
She fancies herself a 'holistic mom' now. And clearly needs a new group of friends.
Are you shitting me with that quote? Those people shouldn’t be allowed to be parents. Period.
“Hi baby! I’m your mom. Nice to finally meet you. I hope you’re feeling okay, because if it looks like you might need some medical intervention I’m not going to give you any. I’m just going to stand by and watch you die.
Yeah, I know it’s a drag, but my massive inferiority complex has made me wrap my entire identity up in this insane doctrine that states in order to be a real woman I need to have a successful home birth. And unfortunately for you, logic and reason haven’t knocked on my door in an extremely long time.”
I think those people are from the radical fundamentalist sect that sprung from all the moms who gave me those looks of utter contempt when they would see me bottle feeding one of my babies.
But here is the thing. I desperately wanted to have a midwife instead of a doctor, but that option wasn’t available to me. I live in a province that only has one option for birthing children, and that’s the hospital and a doctor.
I desperately wanted to breastfeed, but try as I might, no matter how many tips I tried, classes I went to, lactation consultants I hired or herbs I took, I just simply did not produce enough breast milk to feed my babies. Even though I had three healthy pregnancies that produced three healthy children, I felt like a complete failure as a mother because I was physiologically unable to feed them.
My feeling of utter failure was fueled by people who would say ridiculous things to me like, “All women produce enough milk to breastfeed twins or triplets” (read: you are not trying very hard) or “You aren’t eating enough healthy food or drinking enough water and milk” (read: you don’t care about yourself or your baby).
My feeling of utter failure got so bad that each time I had to reach for that bottle I launched into why I am bottle-feeding, including my entire family history (I later discovered that my grandmother couldn’t breastfeed either), all the different diets I have tried, the herbs I’ve taken, the lactation consultants I have hired…..the whole nine yards.
In reality, I was just SO worried about people judging me for not breastfeeding because I didn’t want them to think I was uneducated or unconcerned about the health of my baby.
I have been accused of being….uh…outspoken from time to time, so I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who think I’m a crazy bitch. And mostly, I’m okay with that. In fact, I don’t really mind having a crazy bitch alter ego I can trot out whenever I cross paths with someone who is just begging for a verbal smack-down.
But when a certain tribe of people, the ones who believe in home births, and midwives and breastfeeding and parenting their kids without all the trappings of technology and intervention, look at me with scorn when they see me walking by with that bottle sticking out of my diaper bag, it really hurts my feelings. And it hurts my feelings because in reality, I just wanted to be one of them.
Which brings me back to my original point. Those dipshits who sit back and watch their babies die because they couldn’t bring themselves to cross the imaginary picket line full of women who don’t want to have a doctor intervene when it’s NOT necessary, are really just scared of feeling like they won’t belong to the real-moms club so they refuse their babies medical intervention when it IS necessary.
Which is really just making it harder on the rest of us women. THOSE are the people doctors point to and say,
See? Women can’t possibly be trusted to have their babies without us! They are deluded, irrational creatures that serve no purpose during the birth process other than to shut-up and spread ‘em. WE know better. Not women, and certainly not midwives.
And now we don’t have the best of any world. Women have been told repeatedly that home births are dangerous, midwives are unqualified, and trust me, Dear, you really want a doctor and access to emergency equipment at the hospital. You shouldn't listen to your own insticts. They are wrong.
And as a result many women (including myself) are left with horrific birth stories about doctors jamming unwanted IV’s into our arms, pumping us full of drugs we didn’t ask for, slicing up our lady parts when it’s just taking way too long for the baby to come out, or using machines to pull or suction our babies out of our bodies. And when all that doesn’t work? They slice our abdomens open and drag our babies out while we lay with gapping intestines on an operating table.
But guess what? There is a LOT of room between all that and letting your baby die on your living room floor because you are too proud to go to the hospital. Which, by the way, makes you a total fucking idiot who should be in prison.
The best thing anyone said to me when I was having so much trouble breastfeeding came from Politica, who happens to be a championship level breastfeeder. After talking to her endlessly about all the different ways I’ve tried to get my milk to produce she said, “Huh. Well, I guess it’s just not part of your biology”.
It was the ‘He’s just not that into you’ equivalent revelation to breastfeeding. Freeing, in fact. I wasn’t a total failure as a woman; my body just doesn’t produce breast milk!
So, to all of you expectant mothers….here is my gift to you.
Have your baby in whatever way feels right to you. Use a doctor, use a midwife, go to the hospital, stay at home.
Use drugs, stay unmediated, lie down or squat. Totally your call.
If some fuckhead doctor is doing something you don’t want or like, you are allowed to tell him to FUCK OFF.
If some patchouli smelling hippy chick in desperate need of an eyebrow wax starts giving you shit about giving birth in a hospital or using a doctor, you are allowed to tell her to FUCK OFF.
If you choose to bottlefeed, either by desire or necessity, you feel free to go right ahead and make that choice. It is yours alone to make.
I am officially leading the charge to stop judging one another. It’s not a contest, no one is right or wrong. Each individual woman knows best about what is right for her and her baby. Period.
Other than Blossom’s friends. They are still total fucking retards.
"There are those among us who believe that if the baby can't survive a home labor, it is OK for it to pass peacefully," she writes. "I do not subscribe to this, but I know that some feel that … if a baby cannot make it through birth, it is not favored evolutionarily."
That quote is from the woman who played Blossom on that sitcom......Blossom. Myiam Blachic. Okay, I'm pretty sure that is not how you say or spell her name, but I already looked up the quote and I'm too lazy to go back and look up her name. You know who I'm talking about - that chick who wore all the hats and had that brother who would randomly appear in scenes to say, "Whoa!"
She fancies herself a 'holistic mom' now. And clearly needs a new group of friends.
Are you shitting me with that quote? Those people shouldn’t be allowed to be parents. Period.
“Hi baby! I’m your mom. Nice to finally meet you. I hope you’re feeling okay, because if it looks like you might need some medical intervention I’m not going to give you any. I’m just going to stand by and watch you die.
Yeah, I know it’s a drag, but my massive inferiority complex has made me wrap my entire identity up in this insane doctrine that states in order to be a real woman I need to have a successful home birth. And unfortunately for you, logic and reason haven’t knocked on my door in an extremely long time.”
I think those people are from the radical fundamentalist sect that sprung from all the moms who gave me those looks of utter contempt when they would see me bottle feeding one of my babies.
But here is the thing. I desperately wanted to have a midwife instead of a doctor, but that option wasn’t available to me. I live in a province that only has one option for birthing children, and that’s the hospital and a doctor.
I desperately wanted to breastfeed, but try as I might, no matter how many tips I tried, classes I went to, lactation consultants I hired or herbs I took, I just simply did not produce enough breast milk to feed my babies. Even though I had three healthy pregnancies that produced three healthy children, I felt like a complete failure as a mother because I was physiologically unable to feed them.
My feeling of utter failure was fueled by people who would say ridiculous things to me like, “All women produce enough milk to breastfeed twins or triplets” (read: you are not trying very hard) or “You aren’t eating enough healthy food or drinking enough water and milk” (read: you don’t care about yourself or your baby).
My feeling of utter failure got so bad that each time I had to reach for that bottle I launched into why I am bottle-feeding, including my entire family history (I later discovered that my grandmother couldn’t breastfeed either), all the different diets I have tried, the herbs I’ve taken, the lactation consultants I have hired…..the whole nine yards.
In reality, I was just SO worried about people judging me for not breastfeeding because I didn’t want them to think I was uneducated or unconcerned about the health of my baby.
I have been accused of being….uh…outspoken from time to time, so I’m sure there are plenty of people out there who think I’m a crazy bitch. And mostly, I’m okay with that. In fact, I don’t really mind having a crazy bitch alter ego I can trot out whenever I cross paths with someone who is just begging for a verbal smack-down.
But when a certain tribe of people, the ones who believe in home births, and midwives and breastfeeding and parenting their kids without all the trappings of technology and intervention, look at me with scorn when they see me walking by with that bottle sticking out of my diaper bag, it really hurts my feelings. And it hurts my feelings because in reality, I just wanted to be one of them.
Which brings me back to my original point. Those dipshits who sit back and watch their babies die because they couldn’t bring themselves to cross the imaginary picket line full of women who don’t want to have a doctor intervene when it’s NOT necessary, are really just scared of feeling like they won’t belong to the real-moms club so they refuse their babies medical intervention when it IS necessary.
Which is really just making it harder on the rest of us women. THOSE are the people doctors point to and say,
See? Women can’t possibly be trusted to have their babies without us! They are deluded, irrational creatures that serve no purpose during the birth process other than to shut-up and spread ‘em. WE know better. Not women, and certainly not midwives.
And now we don’t have the best of any world. Women have been told repeatedly that home births are dangerous, midwives are unqualified, and trust me, Dear, you really want a doctor and access to emergency equipment at the hospital. You shouldn't listen to your own insticts. They are wrong.
And as a result many women (including myself) are left with horrific birth stories about doctors jamming unwanted IV’s into our arms, pumping us full of drugs we didn’t ask for, slicing up our lady parts when it’s just taking way too long for the baby to come out, or using machines to pull or suction our babies out of our bodies. And when all that doesn’t work? They slice our abdomens open and drag our babies out while we lay with gapping intestines on an operating table.
But guess what? There is a LOT of room between all that and letting your baby die on your living room floor because you are too proud to go to the hospital. Which, by the way, makes you a total fucking idiot who should be in prison.
The best thing anyone said to me when I was having so much trouble breastfeeding came from Politica, who happens to be a championship level breastfeeder. After talking to her endlessly about all the different ways I’ve tried to get my milk to produce she said, “Huh. Well, I guess it’s just not part of your biology”.
It was the ‘He’s just not that into you’ equivalent revelation to breastfeeding. Freeing, in fact. I wasn’t a total failure as a woman; my body just doesn’t produce breast milk!
So, to all of you expectant mothers….here is my gift to you.
Have your baby in whatever way feels right to you. Use a doctor, use a midwife, go to the hospital, stay at home.
Use drugs, stay unmediated, lie down or squat. Totally your call.
If some fuckhead doctor is doing something you don’t want or like, you are allowed to tell him to FUCK OFF.
If some patchouli smelling hippy chick in desperate need of an eyebrow wax starts giving you shit about giving birth in a hospital or using a doctor, you are allowed to tell her to FUCK OFF.
If you choose to bottlefeed, either by desire or necessity, you feel free to go right ahead and make that choice. It is yours alone to make.
I am officially leading the charge to stop judging one another. It’s not a contest, no one is right or wrong. Each individual woman knows best about what is right for her and her baby. Period.
Other than Blossom’s friends. They are still total fucking retards.
Thursday, September 23, 2010
I think Naomi Campbell and Mia Farrow have something to do with that whole thing now too, right?
I have a nine year old son named Jake. A few of you may know that already, but...hey. I'm not exactly Dooce so I figured a bit of a backgrounder might be in order.
Jake loves science, long bike rides around the block and hasn't hugged or kissed anyone voluntarily in almost seven years. I have to bribe him, usually with candy, if I want some affection out of this kid.
100% of the time.
Me: Hey Jake – you know my birthday is coming up next month, right?
No, I didn’t know that.
Me: Well, it is. Have you thought about what you’re going to get me?
No.
Me: It’s a good thing I told you it’s coming up then, right?
Yeah. I guess.
Me: I have some ideas about what you could get me!
Okay. What?
Me: I’d like some love please. Say….three kisses and five hugs.
NO WAY!
Me: Okay, fine. Then I want a puppy. Or diamonds. Yeah, I think that’s it. Love, puppy or diamonds. Your call.
Dad won’t let me get you a puppy in a million years.
Me: So, diamonds then?
Okay. I’ll go to Dollarama.
Me: I don’t think they sell diamonds at Dollarama. And even if they did, they probably wouldn’t be conflict free diamonds, and that is really important to me.
What is conflict free diamonds?
Me: I’m not sure, exactly, but I know they have something to do with war and bad people. And Leonardo Dicaprio.
Who is Leonardo Dicaprio?
Me: That guy from the Titanic movie who dates super models.
If he is in movies he can buy all the diamonds and it doesn’t even matter.
Me: That’s true. He is in a position to be picky about his diamond purchases. You, not so much.
I think you are too old for birthdays now anyway.
Me: I know! That’s why I asked for love. Only old ladies ask for hugs and kisses for their birthday.
I’m still going to Dollarama.
Jake loves science, long bike rides around the block and hasn't hugged or kissed anyone voluntarily in almost seven years. I have to bribe him, usually with candy, if I want some affection out of this kid.
100% of the time.
Me: Hey Jake – you know my birthday is coming up next month, right?
No, I didn’t know that.
Me: Well, it is. Have you thought about what you’re going to get me?
No.
Me: It’s a good thing I told you it’s coming up then, right?
Yeah. I guess.
Me: I have some ideas about what you could get me!
Okay. What?
Me: I’d like some love please. Say….three kisses and five hugs.
NO WAY!
Me: Okay, fine. Then I want a puppy. Or diamonds. Yeah, I think that’s it. Love, puppy or diamonds. Your call.
Dad won’t let me get you a puppy in a million years.
Me: So, diamonds then?
Okay. I’ll go to Dollarama.
Me: I don’t think they sell diamonds at Dollarama. And even if they did, they probably wouldn’t be conflict free diamonds, and that is really important to me.
What is conflict free diamonds?
Me: I’m not sure, exactly, but I know they have something to do with war and bad people. And Leonardo Dicaprio.
Who is Leonardo Dicaprio?
Me: That guy from the Titanic movie who dates super models.
If he is in movies he can buy all the diamonds and it doesn’t even matter.
Me: That’s true. He is in a position to be picky about his diamond purchases. You, not so much.
I think you are too old for birthdays now anyway.
Me: I know! That’s why I asked for love. Only old ladies ask for hugs and kisses for their birthday.
I’m still going to Dollarama.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
I can hardly wait until they grow up and I can go crazy old lady on their ass
This week’s RTT is dedicated to my children and all the random shit they have destroyed in my house.
Here's the thing...they look really sweet and innocent – like kittens or those Mormon girls in the jean skirts. But in reality, I’m pretty sure my kids are minions of satan. Or this Not Me person whose singular focus is destruction. He probably has all three of them on retainer.
In no particular order -
1. The desktop computer – I do hold another minion of satan, the Disney Corporation, partially responsible for this one too. Every website they peddle has some kind of downloadable bullshit attached to it, and they use their mind-control techniques to force my children to download EVERYTHING they offer. And now every time I boot up, some cartoon princess pops up and tells me I need to be a good friend. Fuck you, Ariel. Like I want advice from some human-fish hybrid with daddy issues whose best friend is a lobster.
2. The keyboard – Not Me left the desk lamp on all night. This wouldn’t be a huge problem if it wasn’t also pulled down so close to the keyboard it melted all the keys left of 2WSX. My oldest explains it away by saying not having access to certain keys is just making her more creative and expanding her vocabulary.
3. The mouse and mouse pad – GUM . That’s all I have to say about that.
4. All of the lids to my pots – They have proved to be a solid stand-in when Not Me can’t find his Millennium Falcon. Or when more than one kid wants to be the drummer while playing ‘Rock Band’.
5. My COUCH. Yeah, you read that right. My oldest decided to straighten her hair in the living room while watching TV and left the straightener resting on the arm of the couch until it caught on FIRE. Good thing she’s pretty.
6. The light fixture above the kitchen table – Ohhhh….that one really hurt. It was a beautiful glass shade that was really big and fit the look of the kitchen perfectly. J was standing on the table waiting to pounce on one of the other minions and smashed it to bits with her head on the way down. And no, she wasn’t even hurt. I loved that shade. She didn’t even end up with a stitch or two.
I'm pretty sure when people first come to my house they feel like they just stepped into the ‘say hallo to my little friend’ scene from Scarface.
But without the giant mounds of cocaine and the awesome soundtrack.
Although sometimes I do like to wear my hair feathered like Michelle Pfieffer and call people ‘Mang’.
I think this post is over now.
Go see Keely.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
I love that liquor is so cheap in America
This July marked my in-law’s 50th wedding anniversary. The fact they have managed to hang in there for that long together without ever once having yellow police tape surrounding their house is impressive to me.
They decided to celebrate by having the whole family join them on their dream holiday.
To the Mall of America.
I’ve only been married for sixteen years, but if by some miracle we manage to make it to the 50 year mark, Minnesota is probably not going to be our celebratory destination of choice.
Nothing against Minnesotaians; they are our American doppelgangers who know exactly why we have a plug dangling out of the front of our cars and have transitioned ‘eh’ into the popular lexicon in the way god intended.
But the Mall of America? For the golden annivesary? After 50 years of marriage you’d think my in-laws would want to up their game a little.
However, I figure an anniversary of that magnitude buys the right to boss everyone around so I just rolled with the punches.
The punches being a 14-hour drive with three children.
Here is the problem - my husband has five siblings and NONE of them have small children. They either have teenagers, young adults or no children at all. So when they plan group events they don’t take into consideration stuff like asking our kids to sit next to each other quietly for the entire waking day is kinda like asking Hamas to lead the campfire sing-a-long at Hebrew camp.
I addressed this situation by buying enough candy to lull them into a diabetic coma and purchasing so much liquor at the duty-free store I was able to build a booze tower between the kids so impressive they couldn’t see or touch each other for the majority of the trip.
And all that liquor came in handy as a week with the extended family was a pretty tall order. Some of the highlights:
- My brother-in-law telling racist and homophobic jokes in public places to the horror of servers and patrons alike. I started writing little notes on slips of paper I could pass to random strangers that read, “I have nothing to do with this guy – I just married into this family and am being held hostage by tradition and obligation to my mother-in-law. She’s actually pretty nice. She makes cabbage rolls and plays the pan flute”
- Staying in a hotel that served gravy for breakfast and smelled like chlorine and old lady.
- My father-in-law barking at my 70 year-old MIL after she fell on the steps coming into the hotel - “If you think you need to go to the hospital, get in the car and drive straight to Canada”. Which, by the way, is a six hour drive from Minneapolis. NICE. You’d think someone THAT cheap would have sprung for travel insurance.
- Paying $9.00 for a slurpee at Valley Fair
Alright, it wasn’t all bad. We did get to meet up with my BFF from Winnipeg who just so happened to be passing through. We had lunch at a Burger King attached to gas station in some small town I can't remember the name of now. I had a Whopper Jr. with cheese.
And I discovered I'm not too fat to ride a roller coaster. That was good news.
But not even ONE time did we run into Prince. I spent all that time practicing my interpretive dance version of 'Raspberry Beret' for nothing.
They decided to celebrate by having the whole family join them on their dream holiday.
To the Mall of America.
I’ve only been married for sixteen years, but if by some miracle we manage to make it to the 50 year mark, Minnesota is probably not going to be our celebratory destination of choice.
Nothing against Minnesotaians; they are our American doppelgangers who know exactly why we have a plug dangling out of the front of our cars and have transitioned ‘eh’ into the popular lexicon in the way god intended.
But the Mall of America? For the golden annivesary? After 50 years of marriage you’d think my in-laws would want to up their game a little.
However, I figure an anniversary of that magnitude buys the right to boss everyone around so I just rolled with the punches.
The punches being a 14-hour drive with three children.
Here is the problem - my husband has five siblings and NONE of them have small children. They either have teenagers, young adults or no children at all. So when they plan group events they don’t take into consideration stuff like asking our kids to sit next to each other quietly for the entire waking day is kinda like asking Hamas to lead the campfire sing-a-long at Hebrew camp.
I addressed this situation by buying enough candy to lull them into a diabetic coma and purchasing so much liquor at the duty-free store I was able to build a booze tower between the kids so impressive they couldn’t see or touch each other for the majority of the trip.
And all that liquor came in handy as a week with the extended family was a pretty tall order. Some of the highlights:
- My brother-in-law telling racist and homophobic jokes in public places to the horror of servers and patrons alike. I started writing little notes on slips of paper I could pass to random strangers that read, “I have nothing to do with this guy – I just married into this family and am being held hostage by tradition and obligation to my mother-in-law. She’s actually pretty nice. She makes cabbage rolls and plays the pan flute”
- Staying in a hotel that served gravy for breakfast and smelled like chlorine and old lady.
- My father-in-law barking at my 70 year-old MIL after she fell on the steps coming into the hotel - “If you think you need to go to the hospital, get in the car and drive straight to Canada”. Which, by the way, is a six hour drive from Minneapolis. NICE. You’d think someone THAT cheap would have sprung for travel insurance.
- Paying $9.00 for a slurpee at Valley Fair
Alright, it wasn’t all bad. We did get to meet up with my BFF from Winnipeg who just so happened to be passing through. We had lunch at a Burger King attached to gas station in some small town I can't remember the name of now. I had a Whopper Jr. with cheese.
And I discovered I'm not too fat to ride a roller coaster. That was good news.
But not even ONE time did we run into Prince. I spent all that time practicing my interpretive dance version of 'Raspberry Beret' for nothing.
Friday, September 17, 2010
If it’s another shitty winter I might just be in line for a Pulitzer.
So, I took the summer off from blogging. There are a few reasons for that.
First of all, it was SUMMER. Living in a frozen arctic tundra such as mine, I feel obligated to spend the lousy three months of warm weather we get a year outside and NOT in front of a screen (unless it's to watch the new season of Big Brother, but even then I usually just record it to watch when it's raining out. This was kind of a boring season, don’t you think? I hated all those fucking people). Plus, I’m a lot happier in the summer. We’ve been hanging out at the lake, barbequing some steaks, drinking some beers, having a few parties on the deck...you know….FUN stuff.
As it turns out, carefree happiness doesn’t breed good writing material. I have had no motivation whatsoever to blog about a goddamn thing.
This morning I woke up and it was so cold in my house I had to turn my furnace on.
And it really pissed me off.
First of all, it was SUMMER. Living in a frozen arctic tundra such as mine, I feel obligated to spend the lousy three months of warm weather we get a year outside and NOT in front of a screen (unless it's to watch the new season of Big Brother, but even then I usually just record it to watch when it's raining out. This was kind of a boring season, don’t you think? I hated all those fucking people). Plus, I’m a lot happier in the summer. We’ve been hanging out at the lake, barbequing some steaks, drinking some beers, having a few parties on the deck...you know….FUN stuff.
As it turns out, carefree happiness doesn’t breed good writing material. I have had no motivation whatsoever to blog about a goddamn thing.
This morning I woke up and it was so cold in my house I had to turn my furnace on.
And it really pissed me off.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Random Tuesday - the one where I torture my husband with memories of the slammer, old boyfriends and tales of fantasy dogs.
My teenage daughter got her eyebrow pierced while she was away for a week in Ottawa/Montreal with her school choir last month. Apparently the legal age for drilling holes in your face is only sixteen in Ontario. You know, I think it actually looks kind of cute. At least until the infection sets in and half her face rots off.
Note to skinny girls everywhere who are lurking behind me while I’m weighing myself at the gym – “OMG I just have to say that you TOTALLY don’t look like you weigh that much!!” is not actually a compliment. Thanks anyway though.
The Hubby just got a full-time teaching contract for next fall! Yay!! Employment and regular pay cheques are magnificent. I wonder if the bill collector lady misses me yet.
My husband refuses to accept my ‘confirm you are married to FoN’ request on facebook. He thinks that if people he works with see my profile his career will be over. So, he basically is refusing to marry me. Real nice, huh? I need to figure out a way to publish my blog url in his school newsletter. Holy crap, he would be SO mad at me! Even madder than the time he was arrested while driving my car because the plates turned up over $400 of unpaid parking tickets. Trust me, he was SUPER pissed about that one.
But holy crap was it funny.
Speaking of facebook, here is an interesting experiment.....go through all of your facebook friends and see how many of them you’ve made out with at one point or another. I have made out with at least four, and possibly six of my ‘facebook’ friends. Respectable, but not overly whorish considering I have about 150 'friends'. I honestly can’t confirm or deny the other two – cheap wine coolers have a way of obscuring accurate memory details. Four for sure though.
I’ve been thinking lately that I really want to get a dog. I know they are expensive, messy, time consuming and all around a giant pain in the ass, but I want one anyway. Besides, MY dog will be super friendly, non-shedding, non-jumping, wonderfully socialized and perfectly behaved at all times. He will also love kids, only bark at the bad people and clean up his own poop. So it will be fine.
That’s as random as I’m ever going to get, so now go see Keely and peruse the other indiscriminate bloggers of Tuesday.
Git.
Friday, May 14, 2010
We're back! And alive! And wondering if your Baba needs a job.
Lena and I made it back in one piece from our little adventure west to visit Politica in British Columbia! It was a fabulous trip and Politica was a wonderful and gracious hostess that made sure I had all the comforts of home at my finger tips.
This, as luck would have it, meant the use of her full-time nanny.
At first I was a little skeptical about the whole nanny situation. I mean, really. How weird is it to have some woman come to your house to babysit your children? To have a whole other person show up at your house everyday and cook in your kitchen, and play with your kids, and fold the socks and shit like that? While I’m away at work? No thank you.
I would always come home assuming Rebecca DeMorney was going to turn up and bash me over the head with a shovel, seduce my husband and make my children call her mommy.
Then all of a sudden my house is clean, my husband is pluggin’ Rebecca DeMorney and my kids are all excited to tell their friends their mom is the hooker from Risky Business.
And me? I’ll be dead with a shovel stuck in my skull. No WAY am I going for that.
To make matters worse, it turns out Politica’s nanny is actually a blonde, leggy, 19 year-old girl with big blue eyes who smells like cinnamon heart candies and leaves a trail of sparkly pixie dust behind her everywhere she goes.
The minute I saw her I shot Politica the, “Are you out of your fucking mind?” look, but she didn’t even notice. She happily handed her little ones to Nanny and began her day quietly and immediately.
Hmm.
No crying, whining, or fighting about why you can’t wear your bathing suit to daycare?
No UN style- negotiation on what to pack for a snack or lunch?
No commute through five lanes of traffic trying to maneuver around that one asshole who stalled his shitty 1986 bitchin’ Camero right in the middle of the ONLY street that will get you to your destination?
That you’re already late for anyway because of all the shit that just happened while you were trying to get everyone ready and out the door by 7:00 am in the morning?
How about that. Maybe this nanny thing isn’t such a bad idea after all. I could totally see me getting used to it.
Although I would get a really ugly and fat one that smells like cabbage and doesn’t shave her legs.
This, as luck would have it, meant the use of her full-time nanny.
At first I was a little skeptical about the whole nanny situation. I mean, really. How weird is it to have some woman come to your house to babysit your children? To have a whole other person show up at your house everyday and cook in your kitchen, and play with your kids, and fold the socks and shit like that? While I’m away at work? No thank you.
I would always come home assuming Rebecca DeMorney was going to turn up and bash me over the head with a shovel, seduce my husband and make my children call her mommy.
Then all of a sudden my house is clean, my husband is pluggin’ Rebecca DeMorney and my kids are all excited to tell their friends their mom is the hooker from Risky Business.
And me? I’ll be dead with a shovel stuck in my skull. No WAY am I going for that.
To make matters worse, it turns out Politica’s nanny is actually a blonde, leggy, 19 year-old girl with big blue eyes who smells like cinnamon heart candies and leaves a trail of sparkly pixie dust behind her everywhere she goes.
The minute I saw her I shot Politica the, “Are you out of your fucking mind?” look, but she didn’t even notice. She happily handed her little ones to Nanny and began her day quietly and immediately.
Hmm.
No crying, whining, or fighting about why you can’t wear your bathing suit to daycare?
No UN style- negotiation on what to pack for a snack or lunch?
No commute through five lanes of traffic trying to maneuver around that one asshole who stalled his shitty 1986 bitchin’ Camero right in the middle of the ONLY street that will get you to your destination?
That you’re already late for anyway because of all the shit that just happened while you were trying to get everyone ready and out the door by 7:00 am in the morning?
How about that. Maybe this nanny thing isn’t such a bad idea after all. I could totally see me getting used to it.
Although I would get a really ugly and fat one that smells like cabbage and doesn’t shave her legs.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Later Gaters
Hey Everybody! Lena and I are checkin' out for a few days to go hang with Politica and her Homies in beautiful North Delta, British Columbia.
North Delta is one of the burbs of Vancouver. Kind of near Richmond. Hey...... that is where Captain Dumbass lives! I wonder if I'll see him? There are only about two million people in Vancouver and surrounding area.......and I'm there for six days.......and I have no idea what he looks like.
Hmmm.
I'll just ask all the cute, dark-haired little boys I see if their dad is Captain Dumbass.
Yeah, that should work.
Hmmm.
Maybe not.
North Delta is one of the burbs of Vancouver. Kind of near Richmond. Hey...... that is where Captain Dumbass lives! I wonder if I'll see him? There are only about two million people in Vancouver and surrounding area.......and I'm there for six days.......and I have no idea what he looks like.
Hmmm.
I'll just ask all the cute, dark-haired little boys I see if their dad is Captain Dumbass.
Yeah, that should work.
Hmmm.
Maybe not.
Monday, May 3, 2010
I am the new, thin, totally awesome and solidly heterosexual head of the Games Committee.
I may have been slightly misguided about the whole PTA thing. You know what they say when you assume, right? Quit being an asshole. It turns out the little army of PTA-ers weren't nearly as bad as I thought they were going to be. I think this whole parent council thing might just be okay. There were a few noteworthy events I hadn’t counted on:
1. There were two dads there. Yes, MEN are on this committee. Again, proving I’m kind of an asshole, I assumed that all the men in my neighbourhood kept their extra-curricular responsibilities to waxing the car, barbecuing meat and dicking around with the underground sprinklers. I was wrong; the dudes are totally representing. I’m pretty sure these guys are on the down low, but that just makes me love them more.
2. This committee gets to boss around the principal and they all totally love it. I’m not exactly sure what the back-story is on this one, but the principal is all ‘yes ma’am, right away ma’am’ with this group of parents. What ever the situation that created this dynamic, I’m ALL the way in. Considering this is the bitch that told me she didn’t think we needed to worry about Jake learning to write, having the power to make her dance whenever I want will be spectacular.
3. Ready for the best one?! The two women running this parent council? The president and the vice-president who are clearly the leaders of the group? They are both SUPER fat (I’m not saying that to be bitchy – I can call other people fat because I’m fat. That rule has already been clearly established by blacks and gays). And these women are the best kind of fat, which is fatter than ME. Now all I have to do is make sure I’m standing between them in the newsletter photo.
It turns out sitting on this committee won’t be that bad after all. Bitchy fat women and closeted gay dudes are totally my peeps.
Monday, April 26, 2010
Fat Chick Update
I am sure that at least one or two of you have noticed I haven’t been providing Fat Chick updates lately.
Guess why?
Because I have lost all of my excess weight and I am now a svelte 125lbs. Food is no longer an issue for me, and my favorite meal is steamed white fish with a side of broccoli. I have learned to just LOVE the gym, and I go there so often that all the staff yell “FoN!” when I walk in the door. I always respond with some witty gym banter like, “Mornin’ folks! Is that a bosu ball you have there, or are you just happy to see me?”
In fact, I’ve quit my job and am going back to school to become a personal trainer, just like all the former fatties from the Biggest Loser.
Then I’m going to get famous and design handbags.
Because as far as I can tell anyone that is famous without having any specific talent at some point designs handbags.
The end.
Okay, everything included in the above might not be entirely accurate, but I wanted to live in that fantasy world for a few moments.
I’m still fat. I haven’t lost a single pound since fall.
I suck.
I have started seeing Trainer Lady again though. She seems to not give up on me, so that’s nice. The fact I pay her probably doesn’t hurt either though.
I love going to see Trainer Lady. She trains me without judgment, and for someone like her I would imagine that to be difficult. This is best demonstrated by the fact she’s in Las Vegas this week and told me at our last session she was mostly excited about going to Vegas to workout because she loves working out on vacation.
She and I don’t really have much in common.
And that’s probably a good thing. If it was up to me we’d blow off that whole exercise thing each week and go for beers and nachos.
The only problem I do have working out with Trainer Lady is that I totally SUCK at pretty much everything she asks me to do. I have no strength, I get winded after 30 seconds and I have the balance of a toddler.
I’m not really one of these people that needs to be good at everything - I suck at tons of stuff and I’m pretty much okay with it.
I can’t parallel park to save my life.
The best round of golf I shot ever was a 75. For nine holes.
It took me an hour and a half to ski down a 20 minute run while on vacation in February.
People know these things about me, and it’s all just fine.
The problem with Trainer Lady is that she ONLY sees me when I’m sucking at something. She doesn’t know me as anything other than the chick who she trains that sucks at everything.
But I’m good at stuff, Trainer Lady!
I would kick all y’all’s ASS at Donkey Kong (the Colecovision version circa 1985).
I can sing the entire harmony part to Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Trouble Water.
I almost always win at rock, paper, scissors. BAM! How to do you like me NOW? That’s what I thought.
It’s okay if she doesn’t immediately recognize my mad skills.
I'm a ninja.
A chubby ninja with no balance and limited cardiovascular ability.
I am going to keep going to Trainer Lady. And try this whole business AGAIN.
How else will I be able to eventually realize my dream of becoming famous hand-bag designer?
Exactly.
Guess why?
Because I have lost all of my excess weight and I am now a svelte 125lbs. Food is no longer an issue for me, and my favorite meal is steamed white fish with a side of broccoli. I have learned to just LOVE the gym, and I go there so often that all the staff yell “FoN!” when I walk in the door. I always respond with some witty gym banter like, “Mornin’ folks! Is that a bosu ball you have there, or are you just happy to see me?”
In fact, I’ve quit my job and am going back to school to become a personal trainer, just like all the former fatties from the Biggest Loser.
Then I’m going to get famous and design handbags.
Because as far as I can tell anyone that is famous without having any specific talent at some point designs handbags.
The end.
Okay, everything included in the above might not be entirely accurate, but I wanted to live in that fantasy world for a few moments.
I’m still fat. I haven’t lost a single pound since fall.
I suck.
I have started seeing Trainer Lady again though. She seems to not give up on me, so that’s nice. The fact I pay her probably doesn’t hurt either though.
I love going to see Trainer Lady. She trains me without judgment, and for someone like her I would imagine that to be difficult. This is best demonstrated by the fact she’s in Las Vegas this week and told me at our last session she was mostly excited about going to Vegas to workout because she loves working out on vacation.
She and I don’t really have much in common.
And that’s probably a good thing. If it was up to me we’d blow off that whole exercise thing each week and go for beers and nachos.
The only problem I do have working out with Trainer Lady is that I totally SUCK at pretty much everything she asks me to do. I have no strength, I get winded after 30 seconds and I have the balance of a toddler.
I’m not really one of these people that needs to be good at everything - I suck at tons of stuff and I’m pretty much okay with it.
I can’t parallel park to save my life.
The best round of golf I shot ever was a 75. For nine holes.
It took me an hour and a half to ski down a 20 minute run while on vacation in February.
People know these things about me, and it’s all just fine.
The problem with Trainer Lady is that she ONLY sees me when I’m sucking at something. She doesn’t know me as anything other than the chick who she trains that sucks at everything.
But I’m good at stuff, Trainer Lady!
I would kick all y’all’s ASS at Donkey Kong (the Colecovision version circa 1985).
I can sing the entire harmony part to Simon and Garfunkel’s Bridge Over Trouble Water.
I almost always win at rock, paper, scissors. BAM! How to do you like me NOW? That’s what I thought.
It’s okay if she doesn’t immediately recognize my mad skills.
I'm a ninja.
A chubby ninja with no balance and limited cardiovascular ability.
I am going to keep going to Trainer Lady. And try this whole business AGAIN.
How else will I be able to eventually realize my dream of becoming famous hand-bag designer?
Exactly.
Monday, April 19, 2010
It's not like I'm Mary Louise Parker peddling a bag of weed or anything.
I’m getting pressure to join the PTA at my son’s school. Now that the Hubby is a teacher he has decided that all the GOOD families have parents (read: mothers) on the parent council and, you know, participate in some way. He is also feeding me some bullshit about there being a conflict of interest about him joining the parent council.
I’m not sure how that works exactly since he doesn’t teach at our son’s school, but he swears to god that is some kind of rule somewhere and he needs to follow it.
Here is the problem – we moved about five years ago to the other side of the city, and it’s kind of the wrong end of town.
For people like us.
Our neighborhood has three types of people:
1. Stay at home moms who are always draped head to toe in Lu Lu Lemon and can go grocery shopping at 2:00 pm on a Wednesday afternoon;
2. Families who love baby Jesus; and
3. Super old people with gazebos in their backyard who have lived in the neighbourhood since Kennedy was assassinated.
We do not fit into any of the above categories.
I make the Lu Lu Lemon moms super uncomfortable because not only do I have to work, like, everyday, I’m fat. Fat, working moms are not on their radar. At. All.
I make the baby Jesus families uncomfortable because I deliberately fuck with them whenever possible.
See, I have this ‘multi-faith’ calendar at work which alerts me to the various holidays being celebrated around the world on any given day. For example, today is the first day of Ridvan, the Bah’i festival that commemorates the 12 days that Baha’u’llah spent in the garden of Ridvan during his exile in Baghdad.
I know, right?
Now if I happen to see one of the Jesus families walking their dog while I’m playing with the kids outside after supper tonight, I’ll call out to them, “Happy Ridvan!” and wave fanatically.
As for the super old people – I irritate the shit out of them because aside from the standard mow now and again, I don’t really give a crap about the state of my lawn. The old people, however, will mow their grass, rake up the mowed grass, get this crazy looking contraption out and, I shit you not, VACUUM their lawn. They average about 3 hours a day on that mo-fo. It’s actually a nice wind down to the day watching them go through all that effort for a patch of grass. I just sit on my stoop and eat freezies.
Where was I originally going with this? Oh yeah, the PTA.
I have been avoiding joining the PTA because in my neighbourhood I’m the crazy fat chick with the brown lawn who worships satan.
Nobody wants that chick on the PTA.
But, apparently at some point in the not so distant past I indicated on some shitty little form I wasn’t really paying attention to that I would be willing to volunteer for school special events. Really? I’m pretty sure the Hubby suckered me into this one somehow, because I totally do NOT remember signing on for that. However, I got a call today, from the president of the PTA herself, inviting me to a meeting Thursday night to discuss planning the annual ‘Hoe Down’ the school throws in June.
I told her that she’s lucky the meeting wasn’t scheduled for tonight because it’s Ridvan, and work is traditionally suspended on days 1, 9 and 12 of the festival.
Then I told her I’d see her at the meeting and to keep an eye out for me - I’d be the chubby one in the WalMart 'George' label yoga pants with with blue freezie stain dripped down the front of her tank top.
Blue is the best freezie colour, hands down.
They’re going to LOVE me.
I’m not sure how that works exactly since he doesn’t teach at our son’s school, but he swears to god that is some kind of rule somewhere and he needs to follow it.
Here is the problem – we moved about five years ago to the other side of the city, and it’s kind of the wrong end of town.
For people like us.
Our neighborhood has three types of people:
1. Stay at home moms who are always draped head to toe in Lu Lu Lemon and can go grocery shopping at 2:00 pm on a Wednesday afternoon;
2. Families who love baby Jesus; and
3. Super old people with gazebos in their backyard who have lived in the neighbourhood since Kennedy was assassinated.
We do not fit into any of the above categories.
I make the Lu Lu Lemon moms super uncomfortable because not only do I have to work, like, everyday, I’m fat. Fat, working moms are not on their radar. At. All.
I make the baby Jesus families uncomfortable because I deliberately fuck with them whenever possible.
See, I have this ‘multi-faith’ calendar at work which alerts me to the various holidays being celebrated around the world on any given day. For example, today is the first day of Ridvan, the Bah’i festival that commemorates the 12 days that Baha’u’llah spent in the garden of Ridvan during his exile in Baghdad.
I know, right?
Now if I happen to see one of the Jesus families walking their dog while I’m playing with the kids outside after supper tonight, I’ll call out to them, “Happy Ridvan!” and wave fanatically.
As for the super old people – I irritate the shit out of them because aside from the standard mow now and again, I don’t really give a crap about the state of my lawn. The old people, however, will mow their grass, rake up the mowed grass, get this crazy looking contraption out and, I shit you not, VACUUM their lawn. They average about 3 hours a day on that mo-fo. It’s actually a nice wind down to the day watching them go through all that effort for a patch of grass. I just sit on my stoop and eat freezies.
Where was I originally going with this? Oh yeah, the PTA.
I have been avoiding joining the PTA because in my neighbourhood I’m the crazy fat chick with the brown lawn who worships satan.
Nobody wants that chick on the PTA.
But, apparently at some point in the not so distant past I indicated on some shitty little form I wasn’t really paying attention to that I would be willing to volunteer for school special events. Really? I’m pretty sure the Hubby suckered me into this one somehow, because I totally do NOT remember signing on for that. However, I got a call today, from the president of the PTA herself, inviting me to a meeting Thursday night to discuss planning the annual ‘Hoe Down’ the school throws in June.
I told her that she’s lucky the meeting wasn’t scheduled for tonight because it’s Ridvan, and work is traditionally suspended on days 1, 9 and 12 of the festival.
Then I told her I’d see her at the meeting and to keep an eye out for me - I’d be the chubby one in the WalMart 'George' label yoga pants with with blue freezie stain dripped down the front of her tank top.
Blue is the best freezie colour, hands down.
They’re going to LOVE me.
A hundred bucks says he has the nazi symbol tattooed on his forehead. There just can’t be any other explanation for that hair.
Who the fuck is Justin Beiber? Seriously, where did this kid come from? He interrupted my Juno awards last night (Canadian music’s version of the Grammys) with some horrible ‘Baby Baby Baby Baby’ song that included this kid with no forehead leaning over the stage singing to screaming 10 year-old girls while surrounded by huge black dudes trying to rap to this ridiculous song. Why is this kid even performing on the Junos? Shouldn’t he be guest staring on the Hills or dry humping Miley Cyrus or something?
Holy shit, is he….Canadian? No! He can’t be. Surely I would have heard about him before now if he was Canadian. I already feel bad enough about inflicting the world with Celine Dion, I’m not sure I could handle the shame if this twerp was Canadian.
And where is his mother? We ALL know how this will end – good ol’ JB will livin’ la vita-methamphetamine by the time he’s 21 and his ‘fan base’ is old enough to realize he kind of sucks.
I mean, here is the picture that was on MY wall when I was 13 years-old.
That didn’t really end so well.
I just googled him. Yes, Justin Beiber is Canadian. So was Corey Haim, as it turns out.
Attention Canadian mothers of cute, yet somewhat talentless children!!
Don’t whore them out for profit, okay? We get free health care; you don’t need the money that badly. Their mediocre singing and preposterous haircuts will eventually be discovered for what they are – a quick fad to bilk tweens out of their allowance and introduce them to the showerhead nozzle at an early age. Instead of sending your child on a self-destructive path that ends with dating Lindsay Lohan, how about you leave it with Junior taking the lead in the school musical and getting blown by a cheerleader in the backseat of his 1996 Ford Topaz.
Gonorrhea is way easier to treat than a heroin addiction.
You’re welcome.
Holy shit, is he….Canadian? No! He can’t be. Surely I would have heard about him before now if he was Canadian. I already feel bad enough about inflicting the world with Celine Dion, I’m not sure I could handle the shame if this twerp was Canadian.
And where is his mother? We ALL know how this will end – good ol’ JB will livin’ la vita-methamphetamine by the time he’s 21 and his ‘fan base’ is old enough to realize he kind of sucks.
I mean, here is the picture that was on MY wall when I was 13 years-old.
That didn’t really end so well.
I just googled him. Yes, Justin Beiber is Canadian. So was Corey Haim, as it turns out.
Attention Canadian mothers of cute, yet somewhat talentless children!!
Don’t whore them out for profit, okay? We get free health care; you don’t need the money that badly. Their mediocre singing and preposterous haircuts will eventually be discovered for what they are – a quick fad to bilk tweens out of their allowance and introduce them to the showerhead nozzle at an early age. Instead of sending your child on a self-destructive path that ends with dating Lindsay Lohan, how about you leave it with Junior taking the lead in the school musical and getting blown by a cheerleader in the backseat of his 1996 Ford Topaz.
Gonorrhea is way easier to treat than a heroin addiction.
You’re welcome.
Monday, April 12, 2010
Random Tuesday Thoughts - the best day of the week 'cause I don't have to think too much or come up with a witty post title.
I have the BEST piece of gossip ever, but it’s impossible to share with anyone who would really care because then I would appear petty and….. well, gossipy. Which, we will know I am, but I’m still too new at my workplace for the rest of my coworkers to realize that. I’m still rocking my ‘I am a PROFESSIONAL’ vibe. Although I have finally abandoned wearing the heels everyday. Baby steps, people.
It was so windy here last Friday that they actually evacuated the tallest building downtown because it’s parkade was separating from the building and it wasn’t considered safe to be in any longer. The building in question is the government-run auto insurance place (the Canadian equivalent to the DMV). I wonder what percentage of people who work there were actually rooting for it to fall over?
I have to register my youngest for kindergarten this fall. Unlike the first two children, I can’t WAIT to unload this child on to the school system. She is the kind of kid school was made for, which is pretty remarkable because as far as I can tell the public school system only works for about twelve kids total, but Lena is one of them. I know EXACTLY the type of kid she’s going to be in school. Lena has a better than average attention span, she is smarter than the average bear, she is extremely manipulative and LIVES for being right. She’s pretty much going to be Reese Witherspoon from Election. But more importantly, she’ll be my little revenge for the school system totally and completely fucking over my other two children. How do you like THOSE apples, Matthew Broderick?
I love how the contestants on the Amazing Race speak Spanish to the people in Singapore.
My 16 year-old daughter is going on a six day school trip to Ottawa and Montreal tomorrow. There will be 90 students, and 8 adult chaperones. Anyone want to lay bets on how that’s going to go? 2 to 1 she looses her ID, 3 to 1 she gets caught sneaking out at night, and even money I get a call from one of the chaperones that starts, “Mrs. Fon? I have your daughter J with me…..”
My new coworkers are adorable. They are just so happy and good. Once one of them got upset about a problem with the database and swore at his desk (he sits within ear shot). He came and apologized to me later for “dropping the 'F-bomb'”. Isn’t that cute? Dude, I came from television and the Gaming industry. My delicate ears are okay with the ‘F-bomb’. I’m in HUGE trouble if these people ever find this blog.
Okay, I think that’s it for me. I don’t want to over do it on the RTT after such a long absence. Go see Keely at the Un-Mom to dig on some more scattered blogging. It's fun, you should try it.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Some say 'Controlling', I say 'Proactive'
I decided when my children were born that I didn’t really want them to get married. I was not prepared to share any of them with some other random family who might eat mutton or open all their gifts on Christmas Eve.
I mean, what if my kids ended up with a skinny mother-in-law? She would be in the wedding photos all beautiful and thin and wearing a tasteful Marc Jacobs dress with open-toed sandals and a silk scarf just barely covering her arms because she’s so beautiful and skinny that she can go sleeveless and it’s July so it’s warm outside so she doesn’t even have to wear her scarf/wrap thing that much and then she’s on the dance floor with my son and everyone is smiling and clapping because it’s just such a beautiful wedding and “Wow, doesn’t she look great for her age!”?
That’s just not okay.
For obvious reasons.
But, the idea of grandchildren kind of appeals to me, and then there is that whole thinking around my kids being happy and in love and having a nice life with a partner who loves them and scratches their back before going to bed at night because it’s always easier to sleep after a good back-scratch.
So I’ve decided to arrange all my children’s marriages and force them to marry the children of my friends.
The only problem I see with this plan is that all my friends are really beautiful and shit so I would end up with the Marc Jacobs-sleeveless-dress-skinnier-than-me-in-the-pictures problem anyway.
But I could deal with it better if the skinny and beautiful MIL was one of my friends because then I would feel okay about sneaking my arm around their back and giving them bunny ears in every wedding picture.
No matter how gorgeous you are, no one can pull off bunny ears.
Problem solved.
So! Who to match up with whom? The first one is easy. My son Jake is betrothed to Politica’s daughter Mara. Mara is about four and a half years younger than Jake, but that’s only a problem now. I won’t make them start dating for another 20 years, which will make them 28 and 24 respectively which is far less creepy. They will date for three years and then they will get married.
I have only recently shared this news with Jake. He took it like a champ.
Me – You’re going to help me clean up the house today, okay Jake?
Jake – What!!? No way! Why do I have to help clean the house?
Me – You need to learn how to clean the house because I expect you to be a good husband to Mara.
Jake – I’m NOT getting married!!
Me – Well, not right now you’re not, but when you’re 28 and finished college and have a good job you’re going to start dating Mara. Then when you’re 31 and she’s 27 you’re going to get married and Aunt Politica is going to wear a really nice sleeveless Marc Jacobs dress to your wedding.
Jake – Okay. Whatever. I’ll marry Mara, but then you have to buy me a light saber.
Me – I’ll buy you a light saber, but only as a wedding present. You have to marry Mara first.
Jake – No, I need the light saber first.
Me – No deal. Marriage, then light saber.
Jake – Well MOM! I have to have the light saber first because I’ll need it to save Mara’s life because that’s how she’s going to fall in love with me!!
Good point, son.
I hadn’t thought of that.
I wonder what he’ll want when he finds out he’s going to have to convert to Judaism?
I mean, what if my kids ended up with a skinny mother-in-law? She would be in the wedding photos all beautiful and thin and wearing a tasteful Marc Jacobs dress with open-toed sandals and a silk scarf just barely covering her arms because she’s so beautiful and skinny that she can go sleeveless and it’s July so it’s warm outside so she doesn’t even have to wear her scarf/wrap thing that much and then she’s on the dance floor with my son and everyone is smiling and clapping because it’s just such a beautiful wedding and “Wow, doesn’t she look great for her age!”?
That’s just not okay.
For obvious reasons.
But, the idea of grandchildren kind of appeals to me, and then there is that whole thinking around my kids being happy and in love and having a nice life with a partner who loves them and scratches their back before going to bed at night because it’s always easier to sleep after a good back-scratch.
So I’ve decided to arrange all my children’s marriages and force them to marry the children of my friends.
The only problem I see with this plan is that all my friends are really beautiful and shit so I would end up with the Marc Jacobs-sleeveless-dress-skinnier-than-me-in-the-pictures problem anyway.
But I could deal with it better if the skinny and beautiful MIL was one of my friends because then I would feel okay about sneaking my arm around their back and giving them bunny ears in every wedding picture.
No matter how gorgeous you are, no one can pull off bunny ears.
Problem solved.
So! Who to match up with whom? The first one is easy. My son Jake is betrothed to Politica’s daughter Mara. Mara is about four and a half years younger than Jake, but that’s only a problem now. I won’t make them start dating for another 20 years, which will make them 28 and 24 respectively which is far less creepy. They will date for three years and then they will get married.
I have only recently shared this news with Jake. He took it like a champ.
Me – You’re going to help me clean up the house today, okay Jake?
Jake – What!!? No way! Why do I have to help clean the house?
Me – You need to learn how to clean the house because I expect you to be a good husband to Mara.
Jake – I’m NOT getting married!!
Me – Well, not right now you’re not, but when you’re 28 and finished college and have a good job you’re going to start dating Mara. Then when you’re 31 and she’s 27 you’re going to get married and Aunt Politica is going to wear a really nice sleeveless Marc Jacobs dress to your wedding.
Jake – Okay. Whatever. I’ll marry Mara, but then you have to buy me a light saber.
Me – I’ll buy you a light saber, but only as a wedding present. You have to marry Mara first.
Jake – No, I need the light saber first.
Me – No deal. Marriage, then light saber.
Jake – Well MOM! I have to have the light saber first because I’ll need it to save Mara’s life because that’s how she’s going to fall in love with me!!
Good point, son.
I hadn’t thought of that.
I wonder what he’ll want when he finds out he’s going to have to convert to Judaism?
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
A retarded kid and a raging bitch walk into a bar.....
Around the end of October this year my eight-year old son was diagnosed with Aspergers, which is a ‘high functioning’ form of Autism. He is on the ‘high functioning’ end of the autism ‘spectrum’.
Every time someone says that to me it feels like they are comparing my son to the newest technological equipment used for pap smears.
This diagnosis wasn’t totally out of the blue; there have been signs something wasn’t quite right since my son was a baby. He didn’t really communicate at all until he was two (he wasn’t even gesturing), and he didn’t use speech as his regular form of communication until he was three.
And then there was the tantrums. Holy good Christ, the tantrums. Four to six full-on, screaming screaming freaking out with the screaming tantrums per day. For any random thing.
He was kicked out of three daycares by the time he was three and a half years old.
For the most part, all of his behaviour problems were contributed to the fact that I was just a shitty mother. My son looked perfectly normal, therefore if I didn’t suck so tremendously at parenting him, he would just know better.
That was the position of my extended family, the daycare(s), the doctor, and even some of my friends. I was subjected to endless parenting tips because clearly, based on the behavior of my devil child, they were desperately needed.
But, deep down….I knew better.
My boy was not experiencing the world in the same way the rest of us were. He wasn’t just a spoiled little shit disturber, he was kind of ….stuck. What he saw, felt, heard and tasted was just different than the rest of us, and although we couldn’t see ‘it’, ‘it’ was often unpleasant for him.
I started calling for help, and found a fantastic organization called the ‘Early Childhood Intervention Program’. They are small and have no money (as evidenced by the fact they don’t even have a website I can link you to), but they are wonderful people who COME TO YOUR HOUSE and help teach you ways to play with your child that will stimulate learning and help remove communication barriers. And not once did any of my interventionists give me the, “wow, what a little bastard you have there” look.
I also was lucky enough to finally find a daycare that was up for the challenge my son brought them. They never considered the idea of cutting him lose because he was just too much of a pain in their ass to deal with. If they came up against a problem, they tried to fix it. Sometimes it would work, and sometimes it wouldn’t. But they didn’t give up on him and consequently, he had a place to go everyday where he felt safe and happy and was surrounded by people who didn’t just tolerate him, they loved him.
I look back at that time now as the two years of cease fire. We coexisted in this world without having to do battle.
Oh, how I wish I knew then what I know now. I would have enjoyed that peace a lot more that I did.
My boy had to leave that wonderful daycare to start school. I knew it wasn’t going to go well, so I tried to meet with the kindergarten teacher prior to school starting to debrief her on the ways and means of Jake. I wanted to give her a little history, and possibly pass on some ‘lessons learned’ from the daycare regarding how Jake needs to handle group situations.
The kindergarten teacher poo-pooed me and chalked me up to a nervous mom who was apprehensive about her son starting school.
Her - Oh, Mrs. FoN, I’ve been doing this for many years now, and they eventually adjust.
Me – Um, maybe….but…Jake has some communication and sensory issues since birth, and….
Her – You don’t have to worry about it now! He’ll be in great hands.
Me – I don’t doubt you are the most kick-ass kindergarten teacher since the chick from Romper Room, but there are a few behaviours you should be prepared for. The daycare….
Her – Really, we will do just fine. Have a good day!!
*hustles me out of the room*
Predictably, that same teacher called me four days into the school year. It wasn’t going that well. No shit? Hmmm.
Who would have thunk it, huh?
It was that phone call that started the fight I have had to wage and will continue to wage for the foreseeable future.
I knew Jake was on the autism spectrum, but I was really scared to be given that news.
Officially.
From someone with more credentials than Dr. Google.
But, I was repeatedly told from many sources that once a diagnosis was made all kinds of wonderful doors would open and a flood of services would be available at my finger tips and we would all live happily ever after. Just like all those autistic kids on television who are charming and oh so smart and who have families who learn a wonderful lesson about love by having their lives enriched by the unexpected gift they were given of their autistic child.
So I did it. I finally pushed for a diagnosis and I got one. Aspergers.
My biggest fear of all was that once my son was given that ‘autism’ label he would immediately turn from the rotten little kid who just has a shitty mother who never taught him manners, to the retarded kid who doesn’t need to learn to read anyway so let’s just teach him how to mop up the place. You know, a skill he really needs.
Unfortunately, I was right.
Since that faithful day in November we received the official news of Aspergers, I have been battling my son’s school in an effort to get them to focus on ANYTHING other than just his behavior. He is in grade three, and suddenly the focus is not learning cursive writing or times tables, but how to put up his hand before asking a question instead of just blurting something out. A useful skill, sure, but so is READING.
I would do anything to go back to people just assuming I’m a bad parent who indulges or ignores her son and that’s why he sometimes acts like a little asshole. I would have happily taken that bullet for the rest of my life if it meant others would be required to hold my son to the same standard they hold the ‘normal’ kids.
Now I fight. Every single day. To insist my son learns the same thing the other kids are learning. LEARNING is not his problem. Learning while surrounded by 25 screaming children, colourful posters, bells ringing, music playing, that sickly glue/vomit/lunchmeat smell schools have, and the teacher yelling over all of it….that’s his problem.
So he tries to deal. He tries to deal by putting his hoodie on and wearing his hood over his head.
Not allowed in school – it’s considered disrespectful.
So he crawls under the desk to escape.
Not allowed in school - what if ALL the kids wanted to crawl under the desk?
So he puts his arms around his ears and starts banging his head on the table.
Retarded kids do that kind of thing. What are you going to do, huh?
Why don’t we back it up a few steps and just let him wear the fucking hood? There is a big difference between wearing a hood in class as a way of coping and telling Mr. Vernon to Eat. My. Shorts.
And after you let him put on the fucking hood, teach him to read, would ya?
So, here we are. No longer little bastard with the shitty mother, but the concerned mother and the poor little retarded boy who lights up the world with his smile and has a wonderful future ahead of him greeting people at WalMart.
Fuck that.
So, the fight wages on. Now we have some new goals. Jake is going to get an education, and I am going to make that happen. And hopefully stay out of prison in the process.
If I go a super long time between posts you’ll know why.
No Lifetime movie moment ending here. Sorry about that.
Every time someone says that to me it feels like they are comparing my son to the newest technological equipment used for pap smears.
This diagnosis wasn’t totally out of the blue; there have been signs something wasn’t quite right since my son was a baby. He didn’t really communicate at all until he was two (he wasn’t even gesturing), and he didn’t use speech as his regular form of communication until he was three.
And then there was the tantrums. Holy good Christ, the tantrums. Four to six full-on, screaming screaming freaking out with the screaming tantrums per day. For any random thing.
He was kicked out of three daycares by the time he was three and a half years old.
For the most part, all of his behaviour problems were contributed to the fact that I was just a shitty mother. My son looked perfectly normal, therefore if I didn’t suck so tremendously at parenting him, he would just know better.
That was the position of my extended family, the daycare(s), the doctor, and even some of my friends. I was subjected to endless parenting tips because clearly, based on the behavior of my devil child, they were desperately needed.
But, deep down….I knew better.
My boy was not experiencing the world in the same way the rest of us were. He wasn’t just a spoiled little shit disturber, he was kind of ….stuck. What he saw, felt, heard and tasted was just different than the rest of us, and although we couldn’t see ‘it’, ‘it’ was often unpleasant for him.
I started calling for help, and found a fantastic organization called the ‘Early Childhood Intervention Program’. They are small and have no money (as evidenced by the fact they don’t even have a website I can link you to), but they are wonderful people who COME TO YOUR HOUSE and help teach you ways to play with your child that will stimulate learning and help remove communication barriers. And not once did any of my interventionists give me the, “wow, what a little bastard you have there” look.
I also was lucky enough to finally find a daycare that was up for the challenge my son brought them. They never considered the idea of cutting him lose because he was just too much of a pain in their ass to deal with. If they came up against a problem, they tried to fix it. Sometimes it would work, and sometimes it wouldn’t. But they didn’t give up on him and consequently, he had a place to go everyday where he felt safe and happy and was surrounded by people who didn’t just tolerate him, they loved him.
I look back at that time now as the two years of cease fire. We coexisted in this world without having to do battle.
Oh, how I wish I knew then what I know now. I would have enjoyed that peace a lot more that I did.
My boy had to leave that wonderful daycare to start school. I knew it wasn’t going to go well, so I tried to meet with the kindergarten teacher prior to school starting to debrief her on the ways and means of Jake. I wanted to give her a little history, and possibly pass on some ‘lessons learned’ from the daycare regarding how Jake needs to handle group situations.
The kindergarten teacher poo-pooed me and chalked me up to a nervous mom who was apprehensive about her son starting school.
Her - Oh, Mrs. FoN, I’ve been doing this for many years now, and they eventually adjust.
Me – Um, maybe….but…Jake has some communication and sensory issues since birth, and….
Her – You don’t have to worry about it now! He’ll be in great hands.
Me – I don’t doubt you are the most kick-ass kindergarten teacher since the chick from Romper Room, but there are a few behaviours you should be prepared for. The daycare….
Her – Really, we will do just fine. Have a good day!!
*hustles me out of the room*
Predictably, that same teacher called me four days into the school year. It wasn’t going that well. No shit? Hmmm.
Who would have thunk it, huh?
It was that phone call that started the fight I have had to wage and will continue to wage for the foreseeable future.
I knew Jake was on the autism spectrum, but I was really scared to be given that news.
Officially.
From someone with more credentials than Dr. Google.
But, I was repeatedly told from many sources that once a diagnosis was made all kinds of wonderful doors would open and a flood of services would be available at my finger tips and we would all live happily ever after. Just like all those autistic kids on television who are charming and oh so smart and who have families who learn a wonderful lesson about love by having their lives enriched by the unexpected gift they were given of their autistic child.
So I did it. I finally pushed for a diagnosis and I got one. Aspergers.
My biggest fear of all was that once my son was given that ‘autism’ label he would immediately turn from the rotten little kid who just has a shitty mother who never taught him manners, to the retarded kid who doesn’t need to learn to read anyway so let’s just teach him how to mop up the place. You know, a skill he really needs.
Unfortunately, I was right.
Since that faithful day in November we received the official news of Aspergers, I have been battling my son’s school in an effort to get them to focus on ANYTHING other than just his behavior. He is in grade three, and suddenly the focus is not learning cursive writing or times tables, but how to put up his hand before asking a question instead of just blurting something out. A useful skill, sure, but so is READING.
I would do anything to go back to people just assuming I’m a bad parent who indulges or ignores her son and that’s why he sometimes acts like a little asshole. I would have happily taken that bullet for the rest of my life if it meant others would be required to hold my son to the same standard they hold the ‘normal’ kids.
Now I fight. Every single day. To insist my son learns the same thing the other kids are learning. LEARNING is not his problem. Learning while surrounded by 25 screaming children, colourful posters, bells ringing, music playing, that sickly glue/vomit/lunchmeat smell schools have, and the teacher yelling over all of it….that’s his problem.
So he tries to deal. He tries to deal by putting his hoodie on and wearing his hood over his head.
Not allowed in school – it’s considered disrespectful.
So he crawls under the desk to escape.
Not allowed in school - what if ALL the kids wanted to crawl under the desk?
So he puts his arms around his ears and starts banging his head on the table.
Retarded kids do that kind of thing. What are you going to do, huh?
Why don’t we back it up a few steps and just let him wear the fucking hood? There is a big difference between wearing a hood in class as a way of coping and telling Mr. Vernon to Eat. My. Shorts.
And after you let him put on the fucking hood, teach him to read, would ya?
So, here we are. No longer little bastard with the shitty mother, but the concerned mother and the poor little retarded boy who lights up the world with his smile and has a wonderful future ahead of him greeting people at WalMart.
Fuck that.
So, the fight wages on. Now we have some new goals. Jake is going to get an education, and I am going to make that happen. And hopefully stay out of prison in the process.
If I go a super long time between posts you’ll know why.
No Lifetime movie moment ending here. Sorry about that.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
That American Pie song is going to be in my head for weeks
Remember summer camp?
Where everything was kind of extra fun, even the regular stuff that you would do all the time at home anyway?
And you felt like you had this little secret place that only you and your fellow campers knew about and only you and them understood what it was like to be at camp?
And even the kids there that were really odd and you would never consider hanging out with in real life were still cool to be with because they were part of the chosen few that understood your special camp world?
Even that girl with the back-brace and inhaler who picked her nose and started crying because her s’more fell in the fire?
The provincial government decided to close my summer camp yesterday.
I know I have bored the shit out of you with tales of my career woes of late (the new one is going very well, thanks for asking), but prior to April 1, 2008 I had a job that was so awesome it was like being at summer camp. For four years. I worked at a provincially owned broadcast station that helped tell the stories of my province, provided e-learning opportunities for students living in the north, helped emerging film producers launch careers and just generally kicked all kinds of ass. I loved the work, people, management, purpose, working environment..…..it was all just awesome. I even had a killer nice office over looking a garden.
I met people who I will be friends with for life working there. I also worked with serious weirdos, and I loved them too. I left my summer camp job for greener pastures in April of 2009, but that place and those weirdos are still really important to me. I consider myself one of them.
They were all laid off yesterday. Every last one of them.
The conservative government running this province doesn’t attach value to anything that doesn’t earn a dollar, so they decided to shut down my summer camp yesterday.
It was a cultural massacre, and my camp buddies were the casualties.
I don’t know why conservatives can’t support things that exist only to provide beauty and comfort. I don’t know why they want to destroy an industry that is full of enthusiastic young people who want to make a career out of telling stories and sharing our province with the rest of the country. I’m going to blame their parents. Clearly they were all raised by Joan Crawford because this fucking government represents everything that is soulless and wrong.
They took away my summer camp. In a few short days it will exist only in my mind, and my friends will be left scrambling to pick up the pieces and try to stay afloat.
Now my beloved camp will be just a story that will eventually fade away. Just like the broadcast network will.
I hope they don't go quietly, though. This fucker is on the air for another few days, so I am expecting some seriously funny shit to suddenly make it to my television set.
Heh.
Where everything was kind of extra fun, even the regular stuff that you would do all the time at home anyway?
And you felt like you had this little secret place that only you and your fellow campers knew about and only you and them understood what it was like to be at camp?
And even the kids there that were really odd and you would never consider hanging out with in real life were still cool to be with because they were part of the chosen few that understood your special camp world?
Even that girl with the back-brace and inhaler who picked her nose and started crying because her s’more fell in the fire?
The provincial government decided to close my summer camp yesterday.
I know I have bored the shit out of you with tales of my career woes of late (the new one is going very well, thanks for asking), but prior to April 1, 2008 I had a job that was so awesome it was like being at summer camp. For four years. I worked at a provincially owned broadcast station that helped tell the stories of my province, provided e-learning opportunities for students living in the north, helped emerging film producers launch careers and just generally kicked all kinds of ass. I loved the work, people, management, purpose, working environment..…..it was all just awesome. I even had a killer nice office over looking a garden.
I met people who I will be friends with for life working there. I also worked with serious weirdos, and I loved them too. I left my summer camp job for greener pastures in April of 2009, but that place and those weirdos are still really important to me. I consider myself one of them.
They were all laid off yesterday. Every last one of them.
The conservative government running this province doesn’t attach value to anything that doesn’t earn a dollar, so they decided to shut down my summer camp yesterday.
It was a cultural massacre, and my camp buddies were the casualties.
I don’t know why conservatives can’t support things that exist only to provide beauty and comfort. I don’t know why they want to destroy an industry that is full of enthusiastic young people who want to make a career out of telling stories and sharing our province with the rest of the country. I’m going to blame their parents. Clearly they were all raised by Joan Crawford because this fucking government represents everything that is soulless and wrong.
They took away my summer camp. In a few short days it will exist only in my mind, and my friends will be left scrambling to pick up the pieces and try to stay afloat.
Now my beloved camp will be just a story that will eventually fade away. Just like the broadcast network will.
I hope they don't go quietly, though. This fucker is on the air for another few days, so I am expecting some seriously funny shit to suddenly make it to my television set.
Heh.
Monday, March 8, 2010
This is totally accurate and EXACTLY what happened.
I ran into an old friend at Wal Mart the other day. We’re ‘facebook’ friends, but we haven’t actually seen each other in real life in at least a decade or more. When I knew her she was very tall and strikingly beautiful.
She looks exactly the same.
Of course since it was just a quick Saturday trip to Wal Mart I looked like a homeless person.
This is how the conversation went:
Me – (cautiously waves)
Her – Smiling politely, waves back and stops in the isle, “Wow, I would have NEVER recognized you if we weren’t ‘friends’!!”
Me – “Ha, ha, How’s it going? These are my youngest, Jake and Lena.”
Her – “Oh, they are so cute! Where is the Hubby? Working?”
Me – “He’s at home, probably grading papers. He’s a teacher now”
(she didn’t know that because the hubby is super paranoid about putting anything on facebook and refuses to even acknowledge he’s my husband on there. So I started a blog. Heh.)
Her – “Oh, that’s nice. Your oldest seems like quite the firecracker from what I can tell from facebook!”
Me – “Yeah, she sure is.” So what have you been up to? Moved back, I see?"
Her – “Yes, moved back a while ago. It’s been great.”
Me – “It’s nice to see you again”
Her – “You too! Your kids are so cute. Better run. Bye!”
Me – “See you later!”
Isn’t that nice? Not really. Here is the sub-text transcript of this conversation:
Me: Ah, shit. There she is, looking striking and she’s coming my way. Doesn’t ANYONE else I know ever get fat? Fuck. I’m going have to acknowledge her.
Her: Why is that fat homeless chick waving at me? Oh, god! Is that,…..FoN?
“Holy SHIT! I could tell from your facebook pictures you put on a few, but I had NO idea! Is this for real? Seriously, are you really this fat or did Tyra Banks put you in a fat suit and hide a camera in your folds so you could record how people react to how totally HUMUNGOUS you are????”
Me: “Fuck you. Life hasn’t been a cakewalk and I eat my feelings, okay? Not everyone can be seven feet high and fifteen pounds you know.”
Her: “Yeah, I bet. I assume those two kids fighting over who gets to hold the mango are yours? Yikes. Good thing they’re cute. I assume you and whats-his-face broke up by now?"
Me: “As a matter of fact we got married and bought a nice little house in the south end. We both have great jobs and make a LOT more money than you. So, you moved back in with your parents after your marriage broke up, I assume?"
Her: “Yeah, but at least my kids aren’t saying ‘fuck’ every five minutes on facebook. You should be totally ashamed of your daughter. It’s too bad she can’t be like my kids. I’ve taught them to love Jesus and they are perfect in every way."
Me: “Well, your kids are 10 and 7, so call me when they’re teenagers and we’ll talk."
Her: “Hey, I gotta run and call everyone we knew from high school to tell them you’re a WHALE!! Bwwaaaahahahahahaha!!!!!"
Me: “Whatever. You’re divorced and poor”
THE END.
She looks exactly the same.
Of course since it was just a quick Saturday trip to Wal Mart I looked like a homeless person.
This is how the conversation went:
Me – (cautiously waves)
Her – Smiling politely, waves back and stops in the isle, “Wow, I would have NEVER recognized you if we weren’t ‘friends’!!”
Me – “Ha, ha, How’s it going? These are my youngest, Jake and Lena.”
Her – “Oh, they are so cute! Where is the Hubby? Working?”
Me – “He’s at home, probably grading papers. He’s a teacher now”
(she didn’t know that because the hubby is super paranoid about putting anything on facebook and refuses to even acknowledge he’s my husband on there. So I started a blog. Heh.)
Her – “Oh, that’s nice. Your oldest seems like quite the firecracker from what I can tell from facebook!”
Me – “Yeah, she sure is.” So what have you been up to? Moved back, I see?"
Her – “Yes, moved back a while ago. It’s been great.”
Me – “It’s nice to see you again”
Her – “You too! Your kids are so cute. Better run. Bye!”
Me – “See you later!”
Isn’t that nice? Not really. Here is the sub-text transcript of this conversation:
Me: Ah, shit. There she is, looking striking and she’s coming my way. Doesn’t ANYONE else I know ever get fat? Fuck. I’m going have to acknowledge her.
Her: Why is that fat homeless chick waving at me? Oh, god! Is that,…..FoN?
“Holy SHIT! I could tell from your facebook pictures you put on a few, but I had NO idea! Is this for real? Seriously, are you really this fat or did Tyra Banks put you in a fat suit and hide a camera in your folds so you could record how people react to how totally HUMUNGOUS you are????”
Me: “Fuck you. Life hasn’t been a cakewalk and I eat my feelings, okay? Not everyone can be seven feet high and fifteen pounds you know.”
Her: “Yeah, I bet. I assume those two kids fighting over who gets to hold the mango are yours? Yikes. Good thing they’re cute. I assume you and whats-his-face broke up by now?"
Me: “As a matter of fact we got married and bought a nice little house in the south end. We both have great jobs and make a LOT more money than you. So, you moved back in with your parents after your marriage broke up, I assume?"
Her: “Yeah, but at least my kids aren’t saying ‘fuck’ every five minutes on facebook. You should be totally ashamed of your daughter. It’s too bad she can’t be like my kids. I’ve taught them to love Jesus and they are perfect in every way."
Me: “Well, your kids are 10 and 7, so call me when they’re teenagers and we’ll talk."
Her: “Hey, I gotta run and call everyone we knew from high school to tell them you’re a WHALE!! Bwwaaaahahahahahaha!!!!!"
Me: “Whatever. You’re divorced and poor”
THE END.
Friday, March 5, 2010
Just back for a quick sec to offend tons of people
This is the funniest 'motivational' poster EVER.
I really do love Jesus. He thinks it's funny too.
God bless.
Friday, January 8, 2010
RIP 2009....
Wow, it’s a New Year and decade – how do you like that? Before I launch in to my diatribe of my love/hate relationship with New Years (I actually have been writing, just not posting. Weird, huh? I’m a complicated soul), I thought I would reflect on 2009. It was a banner year in the old FoN household! I mean, it’s not like one of us won American Idol or anything, but a few pretty major things got checked off the giant ‘to do’ list of life. Here are some of the highlights -
January – I started blogging about my big fat ass in Fat Chick vs. Food, but what I remember most about that month is that it was so fucking cold I might as well have been living in the arctic circle. I came out to start my car each morning expecting penguins and polar bears to be lounging in the driveway. I bet there were a LOT of babies born in September around these parts, because you literally needed someone INSDIE you to stay warm. I was a miserable bitch that whole month. Freezing and starving to death (the new diet, remember) is a really bad combo. That must explain why most totally impoverished countries are hot; God didn’t want to be a total bastard.
February – After my application to obtain refugee status in Florida because of the unholy conditions I found myself living in was denied, I decided to pack up and go visit Politika in the much warmer province of British Columbia. The trip was awesome and aside from a 5 HOUR delay due to the fucking weather coming home, extremely successful. Guess how long you can keep a three year-old entertained in an airport? It’s significantly less than five hours, I assure you.
March – My career was not in a good place. While I loved my coworkers, it turned out that Jesus took over the head-honcho job at my workplace. Don’t get me wrong – I love Jesus as much as the next gal – but he should really just stick to curing leprosy and being a martyr and shit like that. Maybe a career modeling sandals or designing robes would be a good fit? A job as a walking tour guide, perhaps? But running a television station......not so much. I made the decision to move it along…..
April – So I jumped ship and joined a money-making government powerhouse and took a position coordinating the strategic planning and corporate reporting. I mean, who doesn’t love a job dripping in corporate bureaucracy? Nothing makes me wetter than having the exact same meeting, with the same people, discussing the same topic, over and over and over and over again, without actually ever accomplishing anything. Ever. Not even one time. Yeah….good call, FoN.
May – Fat Chick vs. Food commitment was starting to slip a little. I had dropped almost 30 pounds by this point, but summer was rapidly approaching and nothing confirms the imminent approach of summer quite like the lure of deck beer and meat on a stick. Each day the weather got warmer, my ‘fuck it, get me a pilsner’ attitude got a wee bit stronger.
June – Holy shit, this is the month that contains the day I never thought would actually happen. Ever. For SIX years, Hubby had been in school preparing to become a teacher. For all those years, everyone would say to me, “Don’t worry – it will go by fast”. Well, fuck you guys because that was the longest six years of my life. But in June, 2009, Mr. FoN donned the robe and graduated university. He was now able to mold young minds (read: indoctrinate them with left-wing socialist propaganda). I’m so proud.
July – Because we were a little light on funds this year, I whored out my family for a lake front cabin rental-for-trade for two weeks in July. It was a great vacation that taught my kids the value of a hard day(s) worked. That, and they better get their ass to university after high school and get a job making enough money to just pay for a holiday so they can skip all that yard work bullshit when they are older and want to go on vacation.
August – We returned from vacation to the grind of life. Then my daughter turned sixteen. This is pretty remarkable considering I’m only twenty-five myself. I also celebrated my 15th wedding anniversary. We were married on the playground during recess when I was in grade five, if you were wondering.
September – The kids returned to school, and Mr. FoN made his classroom debut. Godspeed, children. This is also the month it became clear to me I had made the wrong career move. Working for THE MAN is just not good for my street cred, you know? Resume building began in earnest.
October – We made our annual trip to Winnipeg, the bigger, meaner, dirtier version of Regina to see my mother. It was better than our usual trips to the ‘Peg. I got drunk and went shopping. Those things happened on two separate occasions; I didn’t get drunk and THEN go shopping. Although drunk shopping can actually be a pretty good time. Other than those silly ‘you puke on it you bought it’ rules stores seem to have. Pfft.
November – Have you ever seen the Simpsons episode where Homer saves up enough money to quit his job at the nuclear power plant in favor of his dream job at the bowling alley? Well, my bowling alley job went up for bid. A local non-profit culture organization posted an opening looking for someone to coordinate a new program they are developing that provides funding to children with social/financial barriers so they can participate in art and culture activities. Dance, music, theatre, writing, etc. Can you think of just the perfect candidate for that job? I’ll give you a clue…..she is a bittered government worker who feels like she’s trapped in a bad remake of GlenGarry Glen Ross on a daily basis. You are correct, it's ME! I sent them my resume by mail, email, messenger and carrier pigeon. Just to be on the safe side.
December – Christmas time! I love Christmas. I bought the most obnoxiously large Christmas tree you’ve ever seen, sang carols for the whole month, went totally overboard on the Christmas presents and put booze in my coffee every morning. Every day for the whole month of December. So I was a little tipsy when the non-profit group called and OFFERED ME THE JOB!! I start on February 1st. Thank, you baby Jesus, and happy birthday.
So, that was my year in a nutshell. What’s going to happen this year I wonder? I have some money for the first time in my life, so that should be pretty interesting. We have a couple of trips planned in the next few months, I’m going to start a brand new career, my husband will need to secure a new teaching contract, and in September my youngest will start her first year of school while my oldest starts her last year of school.
Oh, and I’m still fat so I guess I'll keep ringing the weight loss bell again for another year.
Sigh.
But, hey...I’ll do my best to keep you posted. HA! Get it?? I’ll keep you POSTED?!!
I’ll give up the bad jokes in 2011.
January – I started blogging about my big fat ass in Fat Chick vs. Food, but what I remember most about that month is that it was so fucking cold I might as well have been living in the arctic circle. I came out to start my car each morning expecting penguins and polar bears to be lounging in the driveway. I bet there were a LOT of babies born in September around these parts, because you literally needed someone INSDIE you to stay warm. I was a miserable bitch that whole month. Freezing and starving to death (the new diet, remember) is a really bad combo. That must explain why most totally impoverished countries are hot; God didn’t want to be a total bastard.
February – After my application to obtain refugee status in Florida because of the unholy conditions I found myself living in was denied, I decided to pack up and go visit Politika in the much warmer province of British Columbia. The trip was awesome and aside from a 5 HOUR delay due to the fucking weather coming home, extremely successful. Guess how long you can keep a three year-old entertained in an airport? It’s significantly less than five hours, I assure you.
March – My career was not in a good place. While I loved my coworkers, it turned out that Jesus took over the head-honcho job at my workplace. Don’t get me wrong – I love Jesus as much as the next gal – but he should really just stick to curing leprosy and being a martyr and shit like that. Maybe a career modeling sandals or designing robes would be a good fit? A job as a walking tour guide, perhaps? But running a television station......not so much. I made the decision to move it along…..
April – So I jumped ship and joined a money-making government powerhouse and took a position coordinating the strategic planning and corporate reporting. I mean, who doesn’t love a job dripping in corporate bureaucracy? Nothing makes me wetter than having the exact same meeting, with the same people, discussing the same topic, over and over and over and over again, without actually ever accomplishing anything. Ever. Not even one time. Yeah….good call, FoN.
May – Fat Chick vs. Food commitment was starting to slip a little. I had dropped almost 30 pounds by this point, but summer was rapidly approaching and nothing confirms the imminent approach of summer quite like the lure of deck beer and meat on a stick. Each day the weather got warmer, my ‘fuck it, get me a pilsner’ attitude got a wee bit stronger.
June – Holy shit, this is the month that contains the day I never thought would actually happen. Ever. For SIX years, Hubby had been in school preparing to become a teacher. For all those years, everyone would say to me, “Don’t worry – it will go by fast”. Well, fuck you guys because that was the longest six years of my life. But in June, 2009, Mr. FoN donned the robe and graduated university. He was now able to mold young minds (read: indoctrinate them with left-wing socialist propaganda). I’m so proud.
July – Because we were a little light on funds this year, I whored out my family for a lake front cabin rental-for-trade for two weeks in July. It was a great vacation that taught my kids the value of a hard day(s) worked. That, and they better get their ass to university after high school and get a job making enough money to just pay for a holiday so they can skip all that yard work bullshit when they are older and want to go on vacation.
August – We returned from vacation to the grind of life. Then my daughter turned sixteen. This is pretty remarkable considering I’m only twenty-five myself. I also celebrated my 15th wedding anniversary. We were married on the playground during recess when I was in grade five, if you were wondering.
September – The kids returned to school, and Mr. FoN made his classroom debut. Godspeed, children. This is also the month it became clear to me I had made the wrong career move. Working for THE MAN is just not good for my street cred, you know? Resume building began in earnest.
October – We made our annual trip to Winnipeg, the bigger, meaner, dirtier version of Regina to see my mother. It was better than our usual trips to the ‘Peg. I got drunk and went shopping. Those things happened on two separate occasions; I didn’t get drunk and THEN go shopping. Although drunk shopping can actually be a pretty good time. Other than those silly ‘you puke on it you bought it’ rules stores seem to have. Pfft.
November – Have you ever seen the Simpsons episode where Homer saves up enough money to quit his job at the nuclear power plant in favor of his dream job at the bowling alley? Well, my bowling alley job went up for bid. A local non-profit culture organization posted an opening looking for someone to coordinate a new program they are developing that provides funding to children with social/financial barriers so they can participate in art and culture activities. Dance, music, theatre, writing, etc. Can you think of just the perfect candidate for that job? I’ll give you a clue…..she is a bittered government worker who feels like she’s trapped in a bad remake of GlenGarry Glen Ross on a daily basis. You are correct, it's ME! I sent them my resume by mail, email, messenger and carrier pigeon. Just to be on the safe side.
December – Christmas time! I love Christmas. I bought the most obnoxiously large Christmas tree you’ve ever seen, sang carols for the whole month, went totally overboard on the Christmas presents and put booze in my coffee every morning. Every day for the whole month of December. So I was a little tipsy when the non-profit group called and OFFERED ME THE JOB!! I start on February 1st. Thank, you baby Jesus, and happy birthday.
So, that was my year in a nutshell. What’s going to happen this year I wonder? I have some money for the first time in my life, so that should be pretty interesting. We have a couple of trips planned in the next few months, I’m going to start a brand new career, my husband will need to secure a new teaching contract, and in September my youngest will start her first year of school while my oldest starts her last year of school.
Oh, and I’m still fat so I guess I'll keep ringing the weight loss bell again for another year.
Sigh.
But, hey...I’ll do my best to keep you posted. HA! Get it?? I’ll keep you POSTED?!!
I’ll give up the bad jokes in 2011.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
