Ahhhhhhh, A/C

I hate to sweat. I would much rather be freezing cold than even a little bit hot. When you are cold you can always put on more clothing, when you are hot you can only take so much off (without scaring other people anyway). This is why I can not live without air conditioning.

Air conditioning is a requirement for any house I live in or car I drive. Four walls and A/C and we're good, four wheels and A/C and we're good. I don't have it cranked to some ridiculous temperature that might turn my family into ice cubes, just a nice comfortable 74 degrees Fahrenheit is about right.

The first apartment X and I ever lived in was without air. It was our first summer in our first apartment that I purchased our first window air conditioner. The great big giant white box pumped all kinds of ice cold air into the tiny apartment cooling X, Roger the cat and I and making me a much happier lady.

My first car, a 1982 AMC Concord, dark green with baby poop brown interior, did not have air conditioning. The dark green paint helped to heat the little crap box up to a nice 110 degrees or better in the summer. Thankfully it had nice plush seats instead of vinyl or I may have been melted to them permanently. The most clothing I could ever wear to go for a drive was a bathing suit and a pair of shorts. It was brutal.

I feel sorry for all those poor bastards sweating it away all day and not sleeping at night. If I didn't have air conditioning (hypothetically speaking of course since that would never happen) I would spend my day at a coffee shop nursing the same soda for hours and soaking in their glorious artificial cool.

Or we could make an overly extended trip to Walmart. As long I buy something they can't kick me out can they? Yeah, I think Walmart would work best. Kids could take naps in the cart, on pillows that I "might purchase". I could visit with people I haven't seen in a while (I always run into these people when I go in to grab something quick). I could price compare any and all items I might purchase with my cell phone and save a bundle. Most Walmarts have a McDonalds in them so we would be set for meals as well.

Lord help me...or my in laws if my air conditioning breaks because I'll be moving in with them or who ever will take me until it is fixed...I will not sweat. It is not an option. Now will you excuse me, I need to go get a sweater.

Potty Training Impossible

My oldest son potty trained at 2.5 years old. He was super easy to train and gave me a false sense that potty training itself was an easy process. Oh, how wrong that would turn out to be.

Fuzzy will be 3 in November. At the rate we are going with potty training he will be going to high school in diapers. Everyone told me that he would be easier to train than Little Bear because he would see his big brother using the toilet and wearing “big boy underwear” and would want to do the same....This has not been the case.

Fuzzy refuses to even consider using the toilet. He doesn’t seem to be afraid of it. He just doesn’t want to use it. He also has no interest in standing to pee which was a big deal to Little Bear when he was training so I purchased a potty chair. He will pee on the potty chair but not with any kind of regularity (not the kind of regularity that has to do with bran).

When I change his diaper I always ask if he wants to go pee on the potty. Sometimes he says yes and sometimes he says no. When he says yes he actually goes and I think “great. We are actually going to get this” and then I put a fresh diaper on and he goes again...

I ask him throughout the day if he would like to go pee on the potty and he almost always answers “I already did”.
By “I already did” he means “I already took a giant crap and have been marinating in it for the last 5 minutes”.
When I ask why he didn’t tell Mommy he had to go he either stares blankly at me or repeats “I already did”.

Fuzzy also has no interest in “big boy underwear”. With Little Bear wearing real underwear seemed to be the ticket to getting him to use the toilet instead of peeing his pants. Even though the thought of putting Fuzzy in underwear because of the number of times that boy poops in a day and the thought of cleaning crap out of underwear several times a day gives me the heebie geebies I am willing to give it a try if it means he will train quicker. However, when I ask him if he wants to wear “big boy underwear” like Little Bear he always says “no”.

Further discouraging is the fact I have several friends that have kids, boys at that who are the same age and well on their way of being potty trained. If we don’t get moving on training, Wee One is going to train before Fuzzy. Come on Fuzzy I’m about done with doing diaper duty for 2.

Practice Makes Perfect

I think Papa Bear is trying to get fired from diaper duty. I guess I should be happy that he helps at all since so many men have diaper phobia. Since we currently have 2 in diapers, unless I’m going to do nothing but change diapers all day long, I need the help.

This morning he suited up Fuzzy in a fresh diaper and released him into the house. Not long after Fuzzy climbed into Wee One’s playpen to play he climbed back out and came to me with poop sliding down his leg to tell me that he pooped in the playpen. There was a serious diaper malfunction and Fuzzy got a shower only half hour after his bath.

Papa Bear fitted Fuzzy with another fresh diaper and set him free again. While digging through Fuzzy’s dresser for clothes to dress him I distinctly heard the sound of liquid hitting laminate. I turned around to see Fuzzy standing behind me in a puddle of urine with a look on his face as confused as mine. When I changed this diaper I found that his penis was not enclosed in the diaper at all but sticking out the leg hole. What the heck Papa Bear?

If Papa Bear’s plan is to be removed from this duty he is going to be sadly disappointed. He obviously needs MORE practice so I think he should take over the job completely until he is a pro...like me :).

I don’t think this is the first time Papa Bear has tried to get fired from a less than pleasant task by displaying shoddy skill at that task. We have a similar issue when it comes to folding laundry...or rather ROLLing laundry as Papa Bear prefers to do.

We have 5 people living in our house and 5 people generate a lot of laundry. A lot of laundry means a lot of folding so similar to the diaper issue if only one of us is responsible for folding laundry they're not going to have much time for anything else. This being said I refuse to wear a piece of clothing that is so wrinkly it looks like I have been sleeping in it for a week.

I believe he has been applying this “do a crap job and get fired” method to get out of other jobs like taking out the garbage and sweeping the floor as well. Sorry Papa Bear but I’m not going to fire you I’m only going to “help” you get more practice. After all practice makes perfect...like me :).

2000

2000 hits on this blog since June 8, 2009. Whoo hoo!

Ugly In The Cradle, Pretty At The Table?

Have you ever seen a baby that is just...less attractive than most,...attractively challenged,...or just plain butt ugly? You don't have to lie, I'm pretty sure everyone has come across a Baby Egor or two in their time.

What's worse than an ugly baby? Parents of an ugly baby who don't know that they indeed have an ugly baby. They post their pictures on Facebook and send them to their friends and family via email without being the wiser. "Oh isn't she just a cutie?". How the heck are you supposed to answer that? This is one of those few times when it is recommended that you lie your face off. Stay calm, DO NOT let the "No" escape your lips or let out a scream.

These homely little beings get entered into baby contests and have their picture displayed on Grandma's wall for visitors to be subjected to. They are dressed up in frills and lace but come on you can't disguise a turkey as a swan.

It's not the baby's fault they didn't ask for the less than stellar genetics. They are just victims of poor meshing of genes. Poor little ugly buggers.

Someone once said to me "ugly in the cradle means pretty at the table" (she was also famous for asking "Do I look like I jut fell off the turnip truck?"). I have heard her say this a few times about a few babies but have not actually seen the results she predicted. Usually "ugly in the cradle" results in a homely looking toddler, youngster, and teenager.

Of course I can not relate to these parents of ugly babies since I, myself have 3 of the most gorgeous boys ever. ;)

Die With a T

I have never been on a diet. Not that I shouldn't just that I don't have the will power to do it so why bother setting myself up for failure. I have the will power to quit smoking (thrice) but not to lose a couple of fifteen pounds. To me diet is DIE with a T.

I step on the scale every now and then with hopes of wishful shrinking but really I'm not surprised when there is no change to those ugly numbers. So I shove the scale way under the vanity so I can forget that I own one.

I love food. Love it. If I crave it, I eat. Its not like I'm anti vegetable or anything, I like carrot cake (Ha!). No seriously I really do like vegetables and fruits...it's just that I also really like potato chips, ice cream and bacon.

I'm also terrible for late night snacking. It's like I'm bored just sitting in front of the TV or computer so I need to fill my face. I know this is no good but I can't help it. I'm not very good at portion control either. I say (type) this as I finish off the other half of a bag of chips I opened yesterday...

I tried exercise but I don't really like to sweat. About the only exercise I would really be interested in would be swimming because the sweat gets washed about but due to my bathing suit issues this isn't likely to happen very often either. That leaves chasing my kids, doing housework and running around for 8 hours at a time at the Donut Shack as my only sources of exercise.

I was actually losing a tiny bit of weight doing the step aerobics and hula hooping on the Wii Fit but once the batteries died in the Wii Fit board that was the end of that. The Crazy Mamas planned on walking nightly or at least weekly but that plan never made lift off.

My new plan to make myself appear thinner is to discourage my friends from dieting and bake them lots of goodies so they get bigger creating an optical illusion that I am smaller.

Buzz Off!

Why do mosquitoes have to come out at the exact time that I most like to be outside? Dusk is my favourite time of day to sit out on my new deck and just hang out but before you know it they have you surrounded. They take turns dive bombing you and attacking from all angles.

Tonight I had the displeasure to get trapped in my van with 2 very aggressive mosquitoes. Damn things were trying to cause an accident. One got me in the leg and narrowly escaped getting mushed while the other went for my forehead. What the heck? There I was driving along our windy dirt road singing away and smacking myself. A sight to see I'm sure.

Chesty McBreasty (how do you find your way into so many of my blogs?) is a freak about mosquitoes. She will stand right up at the table in the coffee shop and yell "oh, oh, get it, get it, kill it, kill it" so that most of the people in the shop turn to see what in the world is wrong with her (we still aren't sure, we are waiting on the results of her evaluation).

Mosquitoes are not the easiest to kill. They fly in some sort of windy pattern, faking a left and going right. I don't even really like to kill them. Not because of some "save the mosquitoes" kind of protest but because it makes me want to vomit when you squish the little bugger just to find yourself splattered with blood that may or may not be your own.

I can't stand the smell of mosquito repellent either. The smell is one that is so strong that you can taste it as it chokes the air out of you. I've tried a bunch of other non repellent ways of deterring them. Some sort of work and some just don't.

Mosquitoes are just another reason way I prefer winter over summer. Frozen mosquitoes don't bite.

Monday Rescued

Sometimes a little something tickles your funny bone when you most need it. That happened to me today and I'm glad because it saved my day.

Today is Monday. (It will probably be Tuesday by the time this is actually posted but at the moment it is Monday dammit). If you follow my blog you know just how well Monday and I get along, or DON'T get along. Today started out just like most Mondays. Today was a work Monday so that added to the Mondayness of this particular Monday.

The morning consisted mainly of chaos and miserable people. Miserable people who were probably miserable because it is Monday and Monday gets them too. I managed to make it through without going "caffeinated" on anyone ("going caffeinated" is the Donut Shack equivalent to "going postal" at the post office in case you didn't know).

By early afternoon I was sent to sweep the floors. With my trusty mode of transportation...I mean broom I started out on my task. I was sweeping away in the bathrooms when a man came in. He said to me "Oh, is this a bad time?".
I responded, "ummmm...sir I don't really think there is ever a good time for you to be in the women's washroom"...he was in the wrong bathroom. After a bit of grumbling about there not being a urinal and being embarrassed he headed to his intended destination.

Now, even though he didn't have a clue, this gentlemen saved my day. He unintentionally provided me with some oh so very needed comic relief. Right there in the middle of my less than fantastic day he made me smile (and giggle and maybe even laugh out loud a bit). Thank you for rescuing my Monday sir.

Sticks and Stones May Break My Bones

This week I have been called lots of names by different people. Some of them warranted and some of them not.

I was called "bitchy" and "bossy" by a lady at work (not to my face of course, just to everyone else in the hut). Why? For some reason it is bitchy to ask someone to do their job. Apparently it is too much to ask that they listen to what the heck the customer asked them for...and get it. If we are going to get paid the same should we not do the same amount of work? Come on lady, keep your name calling to yourself and keep up. Less jaw-jacking, more coffee pouring.

I was called names by a relative who has become an unwelcome member of my blog audience. Interesting that I am criticized for the way I treat people yet it is OK if they call a member of their "family" nasty names. I guess I should be glad it isn't behind my back anymore. Who's the bitch there? Take the knife out of my back and move along.

I was called a meanie by my 6 year old. A meanie because I asked him to eat some of his veggies at dinner and because I made him go to bed on time. I'm so sorry son that I want you to get proper nutrition to grow. I'm so sorry if I think that getting a good night sleep is more important than getting in some TV time. Dreams are better than cartoons anyways, go to bed.

Bitch seems to be a favourite. I think this is because a lot of people lack the creativity to come up with something original or because they are one themselves so they think they can identify their own kind.

What makes me a bitch? I'm not saying I am and I'm not saying I'm not but I will admit to ACTING like a bitch on an occasion or two...or three...or four. I am definitely not a "bitch" in the traditional meaning of the word as I am not a canine. Am I a bitch because I will tell the truth? I'm not sure when honesty no longer became the best policy but it seems people would rather be lied to. Am I a bitch because I will say things to your face where other people will say far worse behind your back? Whatever, most names don't penetrate my super, duper, ultra strong, anti name calling force field anyways.

When people call me names I just remember that childhood rhyme, "sticks and stones may hurt my bones but names will never hurt me". The rhyme holds true for the most part although sometimes it is the source that does indeed hurt though I rarely admit to that. I usually just try to make a joke of it. That way if it does hurt I can try to fool myself into thinking that it doesn't. Works for me most of the time.

That's all from this Bitch on this subject for now.

The T.P. Experiment

A week or so ago I went into the bathroom to use the toilet (just to clarify, I have done this several times since as well) and found that the toilet paper roll on the holder was empty. There was a half roll sitting on top of the empty roll. There was a half roll sitting on the back of the toilet and an empty roll on the floor in front of the toilet.

What the heck??? Really Papa Bear? There is a garbage can right there under the holder so there was no reason for the empty roll on the floor. Apparently there was a need for a second half roll sitting on the empty holder because the roll on the tank was a whole reach around away?

It was at this point that I decided that I was NOT going to replace the roll either and see what happens. For a couple of days, nothing. The same collection of empty and half rolls. Then this morning I went in to have my morning piddle and low and behold, I almost fell off the damn throne, there on the holder was a brand new roll safely secured in its place.

By golly he can do it! I'm so proud.

Now that we have tackled the toilet paper my next mission is getting Papa Bear to pick up his underwear off the bathroom floor after he is done in the shower. Training a man really requires some patience. We made some real progress this week. Baby steps, baby steps.

20 Random Things I'd Like To Do Before I Die

1. Skydive (I think it would be freaking awesome, unless of course my chute fails and I plummet to my death)
2. See a palm tree (I have never been ANYWHERE)
3. See a mountain (nope, never been ANYWHERE)
4. Take my kids to Disney Land (again I have never been ANYWHERE)
5. Retire (I would like to do this BEFORE I die not upon my death)
6. Meet someone truly famous (not like Kurt Browning famous, like Brad Pitt famous)
7. Write a book of some sort even if it is never published (been thinking about this for a while but don't know where to start other than "once upon a time")
8. Get an apology from a specific person who never apologizes but from whom I feel I am owed an apology.
9. Go to a Ireland (I don't know why Ireland but yeah, Ireland)
10. Have a positive relationship with my children to the very end of my days (don't want to be known as that jerk that raised me)
11. Dye my hair a shocking colour and wear it with pride
12. Be recognized for something major I have done
13. Ski
14. Hold my grandchildren (and be glad the diapers are someone else's problem)
15. Take a vacation BY MYSELF (I think the only TRUE way to have a vacation)
16. Own and drive a beetle (Ok, I'm a geek but I have always wanted to)
17. See a concert (of at least a half decent band)
18. Work somewhere besides the Donut Shack (after nearly 11 years this one isn't looking very promising)
19. Drive a Combine (it's a farm thing)
20. Be the Master of Ceremonies at someones wedding (I think I would kill it)

ANGRY

I'm angry. Angry at the world lately. Angry at work, angry at home, angry in traffic, angry at night, angry in the morning, angry all day long.

I didn't even realize it until the last couple of days that I am so angry. I need to chill or I'm going to have a heart attack before my 30th birthday. The stupidest crap is making me angry.

I'm angry at home. Angry that my house is a pig sty and I don't even know where to start. This is a direct link to something else at home that is making me angry, not being able to find ANYTHING. Thus causing me to hunt for 20 minutes to find a hat for each of my kids. A hat, something we have a million of but can't find 1.

I'm angry at work. Angry at coworkers (who don't do their job to the same degree as I do but still get paid the same - I'm not saying I'm perfect but I'm putting a ton more effort in that a lot). Angry at customers (that do/say dumb stuff - I really just want to "Soup Nazi" their coffee...NO COFFEE FOR YOU!) Angry about stupid little things that mount up to big heap of things to be angry about. Doing jobs like sweeping or mopping the Donut Shack provide me with time to think about all the things that make me angry at work and therefore just make me angrier so by the time I'm done I'm red in the face MAD.

I'm angry in traffic. Angry because 3/4 of the drivers on the road don't really know HOW to drive and end up cutting me off, not waiting their turn at an all-way stop and are incapable of using a signal. So far I have kept my anger mostly to myself and have only said a few 4 letter words with the boys in the van.

I don't know why I am so angry. I am not generally a crazy hostile person but I am really worked up. I don't know how to shake this off but hopefully this is short lived and I can go back to enjoying my job and let some things roll off my back. I really don't like being so angry. I just am.

The Itsy Bitsy Spider

Millions of people are afraid of spiders. I'm not necessarily AFRAID of them but I don't exactly like them either. I do however know quite a few that are very much afraid of the creepy little critters. I don't know if it because of how ugly they are or they move but for being so small in size they are feared by plenty.

I live with an arachnophob. He's 6. He is afraid of all bugs and spiders but mostly spiders. I thought all boys were supposed to love to touch bugs and creepy crawly, slimy things but not my Little Bear.

When he comes across a spider most often than not he lets out the loudest ear piercing girlified scream ever to come out of a male body. He will then either flee the scene or yell for someone to get it - usually it's his 2.5 year old brother is his rescuer "I get Bear, I get it".

Little Bear isn't satisfied with just a flattened spider, it must be properly disposed of in the toilet where it is to be flushed and never seen again.

Another person I know who is very afraid of spiders is my good pal and fellow Crazy Mama, Chesty McBreasty. This chick isn't afraid of too much but if a tiny little spider crosses her path she is suddenly an 8 year old school girl dancing around and screaming like a freak. Seriously the frigging thing is smaller than the fingernail on your pinky finger and she acts like it is going to swallow her whole.

I have to admit the contrast between Chesty McBreasty's fit of fear and my 2.5 year old, Fuzzy's amazement by the 8 legged wonders is rather humorous. Where Chesty refuses to enter a room where there is a spider, Fuzzy is more than happy to follow a spider around the house for an hour before it disappears or he decides it's life is to end.

I'm pretty sure after reading this Chesty is likely to have a nightmare of a giant, 8 legged beast chasing her down and spinning her up in it's silky web and eating her for dinner. Sleep tight Chesty, Muhahahahaha!

Dress?

The power of TV is amazing. I have a habit of turning the TV on while I am "working" on the computer and leaving it on the same channel until Papa Bear comes and changes it. Last night I left it on TLC and came across a show called "Say Yes To The Dress", a show about women searching for their perfect wedding gown. Just when I was looking for some inspiration to get moving on wedding stuff, voila!

Now I am excited to get cracking on finding my own dress. I think if I accomplish this one task it will set the rest into motion. I have wedding dresses on the brain. I dreamt about them last night even, so I need to make a day (ha!) and decide who I'm going to take with me. I think I require a specific couple of people to come with me. I need a brutally honest person to tell me the truth at all cost and a person who is willing to lie to me to spare my feelings to cushion the blow of the honest person.

I need a plan of where in the heck to start. Style. What style is first appropriate (I'm thinking the full skirted princess type dress is not the right choice for a mother of 3 taking her vows for the second time, outside, on the farm in her late 20's) and second flattering for the ol' baby belly and expanded ass? Colour. What colour is right? Obviously I'm not "pure" so crisp bright white probably isn't quite right. Modern or classic? Floor (grass) length or not? Plain or beaded? Strapless? Halter? Bell skirt? Sheath? ? ? ?

There are so many options but I think I need to put them on to know which direction I should go. The next day I have to myself I am definitely planning to start looking.....although if I wait for a day to myself we may have to move the wedding date to 2020...

Thank God I'm A Country Girl

When Papa Bear and I first started talking, before we ever went out, he asked me a question. A question that was very important to him...Can you ever see yourself living in the country? The answer, YES!

For all of my life up until the 2 oldest boys and I moved out here to the farm I have lived in town. A small town, not as bad as a big city but still a town. A town where your neighbours can see what you are watching on TV and the mailman cuts across your yard. Where my driveway was no wider than my car and only big enough to fit a few cars. Where you could hear sirens and other peoples' music blasting. Where everyone in the neighbourhood was affected by a backyard BBQ.

I much prefer living in the country. I like to wear my rubber boots as much as possible (doesn't hurt that they are super cute pink rubber boots with flowers on them). I like that I never have to worry about what I wear when I put Little Bear on the bus and I like to hang my underwear on the clothesline and not worry about who is going to see them (there is nothing better than wind blown fresh underpants).

I like to look out in my backyard and see the crops that Papa Bear planted there and that he will harvest. I like that my boys get a first hand look at how things grow and the work involved in farming. I like how excited they get when they get to go for a ride in the tractor or the combine.

I like to run around and play in my giant wide open yard with my kids without worrying about how much noise they are making or how silly we look. I like that my kids are free to ride their bikes without being on the road and that we have our own park only steps from our back door.

Of course there are things that I don't like so much about living in the country, like no cable or high speed internet. I don't much like that the septic tank sometimes acts a fool and decides not to take the poop away but rather back up beside my back door. I don't like that a little country mouse knocked out our phone for days when he decided to make his nest in the connection box and most of all I don't like that my van is NEVER clean because of the several trips down our dirt road.

I don't know why I lived in town for all those years when the country is really where I feel I most belong. People ask me all the time if I like living in the country, my answer is always the same, "Thank god, I'm a country girl"

In My Red High Heels

For the longest time I never understood how or why women wore high heeled shoes. Part of this ignorance towards heels might have been to my inability to walk in them. OK, I was able to walk but it wasn't pretty.

Then one day I walked into a store and saw the most adorable pair of red polka dot heels and I had to have them. I put them on and instantly felt the pull of the muscles in the back of my legs. I felt my sex appeal go up a couple of points. I felt taller and more powerful. I felt more feminine than any other piece of clothing or accessory had ever made me feel before. I felt like shouting "I am woman, hear me roar!".

I bought them with intentions to first learn how to walk in them and then to wear them to my future brother in laws wedding. I also bought a pair of flats...just in case.

For the next couple of weeks I wore my super cute heels around the house. I wore them while I did laundry and while I did dishes (well while I loaded the dishwasher anyway). I wore them while chasing my 3 little monkeys around the house in my pajamas. I planned an outfit to wear to the wedding that would match the heels as well as the flats...just in case.

Determined to wear these fabulous shoes to the upcoming event I decided I needed to make sure I didn't look like a heffelump walking in them. I asked Papa Bear but really I needed a women's opinion. Crazy Mamas to the rescue! Just one of the millions of times it comes in handy to have 9 great friends willing and able to help with just about anything at any given time.

I went to "The Young, Blonde Wannabe"'s house first and strutted across her hardwood. Looks good she told me. OK...but I wanted to be REALLY sure...just in case. Next I went to "Chesty McBreasty"'s (she is probably the closest I know to a high heel expert) and paraded around her living room. With her approval I was finally convinced that I was ready to make my public high heel debut.

I continued to practise for the last few days before the wedding and then the day of I slipped on my spectacular red footwear, felt the "power surge" and cautiously headed out.

At the end of the night I had several blisters (mostly due to the extremely rainy wet weather) and a new sense of accomplishment. That's one small step for any women, one giant (sexified) leap for Slightlyinsanestacey.

A SlightlyInsane, Coffee Pouring, Crazy Mama And A Milk Delivering, Farming, Bear Get Hitched

Papa Bear and I have been engaged since early December. We plan to get hitched in September of next year and need to get cracking on some things. It will be a second marriage for both of us. We would like to get married in our own yard on our own little farm.

Even a "simple" wedding requires so much planning that I am getting exhausted just thinking about the lists of things I need to start doing. Tent rentals, a minister that will do an outdoor wedding, a dress, bridesmaids, bridesmaid dresses, decor, guest lists, seating both for the ceremony and the meal, the meal, flowers, AAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHH! Lord help me, why am I doing this again? Oh yeah, because I love Papa Bear and he loves me...Because I love Papa Bear and he loves me...because I love Papa Bear and he loves me...OK I'm good now.

I have decided to ask all 9 of my Crazy Mamas to stand up for me as well as my future sister in law. This may sound nuts but I've never been known to be completely sane. Papa Bear has 5 close friends so this will work out OK if we go 2 gals to each guy.

Deciding on colours was a tough one for me and I'm still not 100% sure. For now I have decided on dark brown with pink, blue, yellow, orange, green, teal, or red. This is the extent of my decisions made...

The guest list is proving to be a problem. How big is too big for a small wedding? How do you invite the people that you want there the most and not hurt any ones feelings. Papa Bear comes from a decent sized family that he sees on a regular basis. I do not. I have a considerable number of friends where as Papa Bear has fewer, closer friends. I'm not sure yet whether or not my mother will be getting an invitation or whether or not my grandmother on my father's side will be willing to make the 7 hour trip required for her to be here for our event. Without an idea of how many people we wish to attend a lot of other plans are on hold.

I am excited to look for a dress but that introduces even more decisions. What colour to go with and in what style?

There are so many things we need to get moving on but with Papa Bear being the King of Procrastination and me being the Queen we might just need a little bit of a push. I'm sure you haven't heard the last on the wedding front. I bet this is just the beginning.

1000 Mutha Lovin' Hits

This blog has received 1000 hits since June 8th 2009. That's 1000 hits in 1 month. Thank you to everyone that is reading (and coming back for more). Thank you for letting me think that I am funny too :)

Got Ink?

Tattoos. Lots of people have them. I have one. Nothing exciting. Just a little something that I got when I was 17. Not really unique in anyway. Not in a very good spot. Its a little blue butterfly in the middle of my back. It really doesn't get seen much since my bikini days are about 6.5 years gone.

I like tattoos. Wait, let me rephrase that. I like TASTEFUL tattoos. I'm not a fan of having some one's name (besides your children) branded on your body. I'm sure about 75% of these such tattoos result in a cover up or serve as a sad reminder of a bad choice. Chinese tattoos are also risky. A symbol you thought meant "serenity" really means "one who wears dirty underpants". If you have one of these Chinese symbol tattoos and random Chinese people laugh at you, you might want to check this possibility.

Placement of tattoos is also important. I don't like tattoos on a persons face. What are you a circus clown?
A tattoo of heart on your abdomen may look more like a picture of a kidney after a couple of kids. Are you going to enjoy explaining to your grandkids what the "F.T.W." stands for on your forearm? Though my tattoo is boring and unoriginal if it starts to look old and wrinkly as I age I'm not too worried about it. It's on my back, I can't see it.

I would really like to get another tattoo some day. I'm not sure of what or where on my body but for sure something. Maybe something with my kids names in it (NOT in Chinese though).

Papa Bear doesn't have a tattoo and says he will never get one. I don't know why not. Maybe he's too scared or too cool or maybe the thought of shaving off some of his fur concerns him. He says it's because he doesn't like needles even though I tell him that I don't either and it doesn't look or feel like a needle.

Perhaps I can convince him to get matching Chinese symbol tattoos. One that means "one who wears dirty underpants" and one that means "one who cleans them".

If You Build It, They Will Swing

6-8 hours to assemble. HA! This is what it said on the assembly instructions for the build-it-yourself climber/swing set Papa Bear bought for the kiddos. This included the time it would take to cut all the boards to the appropriate size. Maybe 6-8 hours if you had a crew of 10 people or if you were to consume 1/2 a dozen energy drinks. After 9.5 hours we had a ladder and a pile of cut wood...

I'm not sure if assembling play equipment falls into that category of things not to do with your spouse but I think Papa Bear and I did OK. This is a good thing with both of us wielding power tools. There were no major injuries. I say this while icing the series of giant bruises on my upper right thigh from having the ladder dropped on me but for the most part OK.

After 14.5 hours, 4 big bruises (all on MY body), about 1/2 a dozen power drill batteries, probably around 20 foul words and just shy of $1000 spent in materials we have a climber/swing set fit for our 3 princes. Little Bear's response "I like the climber but I wish I had some friends to play on it with me".
Fuzzy's response "I fall off da swing, it hurt me, I dun like it".
Wee Ones response "da".

Dinner and a Show (The Lost Blog)

*A while ago I wrote an entry that got deleted and it has been requested that I rewrite and post anyway. Here you go Chesty McBreasty. Not as good as the original but never the less here you go.*


As you may or may not know (depending on how often you read my blog or how well you know me in “real” life) I am a member of The Crazy Mama Society. Our group goes out for dinner and drinks once a month.

Usually these events are fairly uneventful. We eat some food, drink some drinks, and have some laughs. June’s dinner was not our usual evening.

We started off in a typical way by going to a local Chinese restaurant and enjoying some delicious cat balls and rice. Afterward we moved to the lounge of one of the two inns in our small town. When we got to the inn we ordered some drinks and continued our friendly banter and chatter. Shortly after we got there the lounge started to fill up a bit with young drunken men fresh off the green (not pot silly, golfing green) where they were participating in a golf tournament.

Seeing a table of all women with no sign of husbands, boyfriends or children, three of the young men approached our table and delivered their lines. We informed them that we were all married and that we averaged three kids a piece. We were declared a “waste of time” and they turned on their heels and returned to their drunken fun.

A few other young men were not as easily deterred. One young man now stood by our table and asked if he could sit down. He was told that we were having a Mama’s night out and that he had the wrong parts to sit at our table. He responded with “What part? I don’t got no part”
Buddy if you don’t have that part that’s a whole other issue and if you don’t know what that part is you need to see your parents for a long over due chat.

Another drunken soldier came and without asking plunked his butt in a chair and introduced himself. His name is one that I’m sure none of the Mamas will soon forget. He explained that he had returned to the table, not because of a bet but because of a conversation and asked if NONE of us was really single. “Sorry pal but you just lost your...conversation”. His friend joined the discussion after first taking a sip of one of the ladies drinks. Since it didn’t look like we were going to shake our new acquaintances we decided to have a little fun and made them the topic of several jokes.

The rest of the drunken young men were also having their own fun which resulted in vomit all over the floor behind us and a few broken and spilled beer bottles on the floor and pool table. Luckily one of the gentlemen (I use this term in the loosest of ways) was kind enough to warn us that if we wanted “to keep our tits up” to beware of the slippery, pukey floor. Thanks mister none of us would have enjoyed landing “tits down” in a pile of your friends bile.

One of the “gentlemen” took quite a liking to one of the (very obviously pregnant) Mamas and proceeded to kiss her cheek, blow in her ear and whisper “sweet nothings” to her. It didn’t take too long after this began to decided it was time for us to move on.

While waiting to pay our bills at the same time most of the young men where retrieving their “last call” drinks one of them decided that he needed to relieve himself, so he did - on the front of the bar and surrounding carpet.

It was on this note that we ended our June get together. There is nothing like dinner AND a show. Thanks for the entertainment guys but next time use the urinal.

Bedtime Blues

Every night after I tuck my oldest son in and he lays down and falls asleep in a matter of minutes I remember that my 2.5 year old, Fuzzy is not going to be so easy on me. See Fuzzy is anti-bedtime.

It doesn't matter what time you put Fuzzy to bed he is not going to go to sleep for at least 2 hours or better.

Bedtime with Fuzzy starts out promising. He lays down and pulls the covers up to his chin and gives goodnight kisses. Then it goes downhill from there.

First thing he will ask for a drink. After I provide the requested sippy cup of water - WITH ICE he will ask me for a specific stuffed animal - usually the same brown dog but sometimes he likes to mix things up. Then he will ask for a tractor, car, toy phone, bus, book, pillow, action figure, etc. until his entire little blue race car toddler bed is full. At one point this is where the game would end.

The next part is the part the drives me completely up the wall. This game makes me want to poke my own eyes out.
"Mommy?"
"Yes Fuzzy?"
(Fuzzy stares blankly at Mommy for several seconds)
"Mom?"
"What Fuzzy?"
(Fuzzy stares blankly at Mommy for several seconds)
"Mom?"
"What do you need Fuzzy?"
(Fuzzy stares blankly at Mommy for several seconds)
"Mom?"
This is the point where I sigh and close the door.
"Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa, MOMMY! Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa"
I open the door
"Mom?"
"Yes Fuzzy?"
(Fuzzy stares blankly at Mommy for several seconds)
"Mom?"
"If you don't tell me what you want I'm leaving"
"I wanna drink"
UGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHH!

I've tried not participating in his games. He just screams. I've tried just about everything. He just screams.

How is it possible that I have 2 kids that go to bed really well and one that insists on making bedtime complete and utter hell? Any other time he is a copycat and follows his older brother's lead but not when it comes to bedtime. He will even ask "Little Bear seeping? Wee One seeping? Papa Bear seeping?"
and I answer "Yes and Mama wants to go to sleep too but Fuzzy needs to go to sleep first".

If I leave the door open he won't stay in the room let alone the bed. If I close the door he hops out of the bed as soon as it latches. If I leave the light on he plays. If I turn the light out he yells for it to be turned on or gets out of bed and turns it on himself. If I try to ignore him for a bit he lays on the floor in front of his door and yells under the door so that it is twice as loud which then wakes up Wee One.

On very rare occasion Fuzzy has laid down with his sippy cup and his brown dog, stayed in the bed, even asked for the light to be turned off and drifted off in less than a half hour. I don't know how to do this every night. So for now I'm singing the bedtime blues.

O Canada

Today was Canada's 142nd birthday. I'm proud to be a Canadian. I don't know how to be anything else. I'm Canadian through and through.

Some great things about being Canadian:

Toques (not hats)
Poutine
Wearing red
Snow in the winter
Snow in the spring
Snow in the fall
Canadian bacon
Fries from Taco Bell
Tim Hortons
Thanksgiving in October
The word eh (come on we do too)
Free health care


There are probably another million things to add to the list but I'm tired and half brain dead so that's the best I can do for tonight. Feel free to add your own in the comment section (note: you may have to submit your comments twice-it sometimes doesn't work the first time).

Happy Birthday Canada my home and native land