Classification of Little Old Men.

My year of serving the public as a cashier in a small town convenience store has given me the opportunity to meet a wide variety of human beings and to judge them unfairly for my own amusement.
People generally fall into one of several broad categories- Male, female, kid, geezer etc. Which can be further divided into sub-categories such as hippy, farmer, rich bitch, hot guy, crack-head and so on and so forth. One of the most interesting and diverse groups is the one broadly know as "Little Old Men" I have classified them into six easy groups for people-watchers to spot.

1. Cute.
The Cute Little Old Man is one of my favorite types of customer. Cute Little Old Men have white hair, sparkly eyes and rosy cheeks. They may well have little round bellies that shake when they laugh like bowls full of jelly, but it's not a requirement. They mostly buy milk and lottery scratch tickets. They have adorable nicknames like Jigger, Sonny or Bear. They give change to small, stupid children who can't afford their baggies full of penny candies. They call me Sweetie, Love or even Beautiful. They may well be racist child molesters in private, but they give off an air of old fashioned gentlemanlyness which I find very endearing. They are grandfatherly in a way your own grandfather may never have been. They wink.

2. Angry.
The Angry Old Man has come to your place of business today because he wants to argue. He is an ass-hole, but you're not allowed to refer to him as such because he is over the age of seventy-five. Ass-holes grow up to be Angry Old Men in the same way puppies grow up to be dogs. It's unavoidable. The Angry Old Man is very good at finding reasons to be upset: Perhaps he feels the small jug of milk is ludicrously overpriced in comparison to the larger jug of milk but he doesn't want the larger jug of milk because it will spoil before he can drink it. He will explain this predicament to you loudly and repeatedly, secure in the knowledge that he will be able to carry on being Angry because there's nothing you can possibly do to ameliorate this situation, particularly because he is unvaryingly deaf as a post and unable to hear any solution you might suggest to him. They never call me by any name.

3. Lonely.
The Lonely Old Man is sad. He is quiet when the store is busy, but given the opportunity he will stand at your counter for hours on end talking to you about his youth. You talk to him because you feel bad for him despite the fact that you have an extensive to-do list and talking to Lonely Old Men is not on it because your manager is kind of a jerk like that. They mostly buy chocolate bars. They call me by the name on my name-tag.

4. Dirty.
Dirty Old men must be further divided into literal and figurative sub-groups.
Dirty Old Men (lit.) are old farmers and mechanics so deeply encrusted with dirt that no amount of bathing will ever get them clean again. They stink of manure, gasoline and tobacco. They are generally missing one or more fingers. They communicate mostly by grunts and hand (stump) gestures. Their overalls, shirts and hats are stiffened with sweat and filth to such an extent that they could easily maintain the form of their owners even after having been removed from their bodies. They mostly buy cigarettes and coffee. They call me *slight nod of the head* if they are in a good mood.
Dirty Old Men (fig.) are aging perverts. They mostly buy porno magazines. Sometimes they claim they are too old to climb the stepladder which is required to access the top shelf where such magazines are kept and ask me to climb up for them while they stay below, ogling my ass and giving directions such as "The one on your left...further...further...reach a little further...yeah, that's it Honey." Or asking for a description of the magazine's content, specialty or price, claiming that their eyes are no longer strong enough to read for themselves without acknowledging the fact that if their eyes are that far gone this magazine will do them little to no good anyway. They call me Honey, Baby, Cutie or Sweetheart.

5. Crack-headed Old Men.
They are usually dirty (lit.) They have long, straggly hair that is grey or tobacco yellow. They have red or yellow eyes and teeth rotted by meth. They may not actually be all that old but their faces are made of creased leather so it's hard to tell. They mostly buy penny candies or individual coffee creamers and rolling papers, for all of which they pay with pennies, nickles and the occasional dime. They smell of piss, sweat, pot and failure. They don't call me anything, Thank God.

6. Utterly Bat-Shit Crazy Old Men.
Always entertaining, the UBSCOM can usually be identified by his wild, staring eyes and the smell of goat and vomit. He may well have forgotten one or more important articles of clothing this evening. He will be carrying something- possibly a broken walkie-talkie, possibly a can opener, possibly a human foot. He believes aliens may try to communicate with him via the ATM in the corner. Sometimes they are furtive and paranoid and you feel bad for them, but other times you luck out and get an UBSCOM who has embraced dementia with open arms and he will regale you with stories better than anything you might see on TV. They usually don't bite under the bright lights inside the store. There's no telling what they might buy, but it's possible that they will try to pay with cat food. They call me Susan.

I Don't Know Which Way To Go

A while ago Adam and I went to Toronto to visit a friend of mine, Erin (people who know how to work their Internet would make her name glowy and then you could click on it and be magically transported to her blog to read about her adventures as she lives my dream life, but seeing as how I barely know how to turn my computer on, all I can do is this: http://madhatter848.blogspot.com/ So, there ya go) who was passing through as she works her way around the world. We went to the hostel (yeah, hostel not hotel, she's that bad ass) where she was staying. It's called the Canadiana and holy shit is it ever Canadian up in here, y'all. You can tell by the stuffed animal heads on the walls and giant wooden Canadian figures and free pancakes for breakfast with real imitation maple syrup..erm, yeah. This is where they got all that shit for the Olympics closing ceremonies. Anyway, the guy at the desk presented me with an envelope marked "Top Secret" which contained the directions we were to follow in order to find Erin and the Band Camp reunion she had organized. (Band rules, tell your friends!)


Erin, like anyone who knows me at all, knew that these directions would have to be painfully detailed and clear, since I am quite capable of getting lost in my own kitchen. When I visited her in BC this past summer she had to write out step by step instructions to get me through bus/skytrain/ferry transfers that would otherwise have left me sobbing on the sidewalk or bound unwittingly for Yellowknife. Even with those instructions I failed to get off a bus at the right place and missed my ferry, then on the return trip I gave up after only the second of eight or nine steps and instead made friends with a nice young man on the ferry who took me on a bus right inside the boat that then took me all the way to the train station, where we parted ways... and I proceeded to get on a train going in the wrong direction. Yes, I'm that dumb. The point is; I require really good directions. Erin certainly delivered. I am going to share those directions with you now, just in case you ever need to get from the Canadiana Backpackers to the Hard Rock Cafe in Toronto.

Step 1: Put your party pants on.

Step 2: Remember your room key. Trust me.

Step 3: Exit hostel. You are now standing on a wee step in front of the hostel, facing the street. Get the fuck out of the way, you're blocking the doorway! You're not the only guests here for chrissake...

Step 4: Walk down the steps. At the bottom, you'll be standing on the sidewalk of Widmer street. Turn to your left and begin walking. Widmer dead-ends very quickly, with an Extreme Fitness on the right-hand corner and a parking lot ahead. The street you have dead-ended at is Richmond Street.

Step 5: Turn right. You will need to keep walking, passing Extreme Fitness, a cinema and Chapters on your right. Chapters is on the corner of Richmond & John Street.

Step 6: Look up to your right. Oooooh! CN tower! Like a freak accident between a Tim Hortons doughnut and a Juno award. The World's Ugliest free-standing structure!!

Step 7: Turn left and cross Richmond Street. Walk away from the CN tower! Flee the tower! Run, run away! You will now be walking North on John Street. Do this for ONE BLOCK ONLY. You will see a pub on your left called the Friar & Firkin. Ignore this pub. You do not want to stop for a drink. Resist the urge. You've barely begun your quest!

Step 8: After ONE BLOCK on John st. you will find yourself on the corner of Queen st. & John st. Looking to your right, you will see Much Music's famous studio. To your left will be a Second Cup and across the street is a Starbucks. Resist the urge for overpriced refreshment and walk to your right, past Much Music. You are now on Queen street.

Step 9: Pass the Condom Shack. Giggle. (*note: after exiting the shop, be sure to go RIGHT to keep yourself headed in the right direction).

Step 10: Walk, walk, walk, walk. You will pass Duncan st, Simcoe st, University Ave, The Sheraton Centre, Nathan Phillips Square, Bay street, James street and the Hudson Bay building. You will then find yourself at the corner of Queen & Yonge st. This is NOT your final destination. Do not sit on the curb and cry. You're almost there! Cross Yonge street.

Step 11: Turn left and walk North on Yonge street, AWAY from the monstrous tower. The Eaton Centre Mall will be on your left. You will be on the right side of the street.

Step 12: Walk, walk, walk. The Hard Rock Cafe is on the right-hand side of Yonge street, corner of Yonge and Dundas.

Step 13: Enter the Hard Rock Cafe. Ask hostess for the 'reunion table' if you are unable to spot me dancing on a table already.

Step 14: Get your party pants hitched up and join the fun!

Step 15: Get Erin very drunk!

Step 16: Read these instructions backwards to find the hostel again. Unless they've moved in the hours since you left. Then you're fucked.

PRETTY MAP
Follow the pencil mark route, for optimal sight-seeing pleasure.

Then there was a hand drawn map, complete with route marker and Points of Interest.

I think Erin needs to work for GPS. I would never get lost again. The best part is that the directions would be delivered in the truly fucked up Scottish/Australian/Canadian West Coast accent she has cultivated over the course of her travels. Entertainment AND accuracy? Done.

I didn't get lost! Whoo! We found the place and a good time was had by all...all five people, including us and Erin, who showed up that is. But no matter, we ate, drank, and made merry all evening and walked back arm in arm singing horrendously offensive camp songs (and this was a military camp so the songs were truly filthy) Then sat around at the hostel drinking with interesting young people from around the world for a while, until Erin got sick (she claims it was food poisoning, not booze and I'm inclined to believe her) and Adam and I retired to our private room, because having sex on bunk-beds is embarrassing enough without six other people sharing your room.

P.S. all this happened over a month ago. I'm just writing about it now because I only just found those directions in my coat pocket last night and I was pleased to find I hadn't lost them.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Me- Eew, what are you doing?

Adam- Uum, kissing you?

Me-Yeah, I don't think that's gonna happen. You're all sick and mucous-y and gross.

Adam- But I'm extra warm, that's a plus right?

Me- I like warmth, not germs.

Adam- We could do this without any kissing?

Me- Hmm, maybe...no wait...Does jizz have germs?

Adam-Huh?

Me- I mean, it must have germs. That's how STD's work, right? But does it have cold germs? Like spit and snot? Or is it somehow immune?

Adam- I...don't...think so..?

Me- Research that and get back to me.

..........................

Hope your Valentine's Day was super romantic too!

mini vaycay

HI! It's been a while, I know. Been busy. Lots to do. Also, I'm lazy and easily distracted.

Sooo...where were we? Father's day. Right. On that day we dumped our adorable children at Adam's parents place to celebrate with their Papa and we hightailed it to Niagara Falls.

It had occurred to us (Me) that not once in seven years had the two of us gone away for a weekend. We've gone to visit friends or camp out with old buddies or gone our separate ways for a few days now and then, but never actually spent a child-free weekend alone together. I felt it was time to remedy this omission, if only out of morbid curiosity as to whether or not we still had the capacity to get along without the prop of day-to-day life.

So, yes. Niagara Falls, where we enjoyed the most fantastical hotel room our poor, lower-class eyes had ever beheld. With floor to ceiling windows around two walls overlooking both the Canadian and American falls, a king sized bed which we tried out within minutes of walking through the doors and a jacuzzi big enough for the two of us and a bottle of wine.

Fireworks at Niagara Falls. I was going to delete this picture, cause it's boring, but Adam said not to because:
"Look at all those Orbs!"
"Orbs?"
"You know, that's how ghosts look in photographs."
"Uum, we're at Niagara freaking Falls. I think that's caller Water."
"Maybe lots of ghosts decide to come here before they cross over."
"Unfortunate to come on a fireworks night then. Just imagine! Hey, don't go towards the lights! They buuurrnnnn!"

The next day we went to Wonderland and rode the kick-ass new roller coaster: Behemoth ( I highly recommend it, as a roller coaster aficionado) and generally had all the fun that theme parks can provide when you don't bring along kids to whine and complain about standing in line, and get tired and throw fits when they're too short to get on the good rides, and throw more fits because they want some over-priced crap that you'll then have to carry around for the rest of the day, and fall asleep, and slather with sunscreen, and demand to be carried, and beg for ice cream, and throw up the ice cream, and why the hell do they allow children in amusement parks anyway?

We spent that night at what turned out to be a university residence rented out as a hotel for the summer. Less grand yes, but dude, we had a microwave!

Then off to Wasaga Beach for relaxing in the sun. Which was pretty much all we could do there since the water was frigid and filled with some nasty yellow plant-life or sewage spill residue (we debated which it might be and decided we didn't really want to swim anyway) and the entire tourist district burned down a year or two ago and hasn't quite been rebuilt yet.

Then we came home, collected our offspring and enjoyed the first week of summer vacation by: Attending swimming lessons with Skylar. Going to work. Babysitting a crippled dog. Turning 24 and 26, respectively. Playing the wii my mom got us for our birthdays (thanks Mom! p.s. my mom doesn't read this). Filling a kiddie pool in the back yard. Trying to find a teenage babysitter (no luck whatsoever, know anyone?) and going to see UP, which I found hilarious but my kid found by turns terrifying and sad, except for the part about the squirrel, that she liked.



Fun in our own backyard. Happy Canada Day!

Twi-hard. It's sad that I even know that word.

It's all Adam's fault.

A month ago he rented Twilight based on "You like vampires, right?" Yes, yes I do. I don't know why, but they make me all tingly in my special place. What can I say? Bloodsuckers are HAWT. My first celebrity crush was on Angel, who should so totally have ended up with Buffy, I mean WTF? They were meant to be together, although Spike was pretty damn nice too and.....But seriously, Twilight? Isn't that some teenybopper angsty pop shit? We watched it. I bitched and commentated and made snide remarks for the first 45 minutes as I am wont to do. It was awkward and melodramatic and predictable..and yet oddly compelling?

The next day was mind numbingly boring at work, and Twilight was right there on the bookshelf, and I'd already seen the movie so why not leaf through a couple pages while I waited for things to pick up? I bought the damn book and finished it that night.

Then I had to go to a book store for the second volume in the series. First I pretended to browse nonchalantly through the aisles, deflecting helpful sales staff in the hopes that I could find it without having to admit to anyone that I was looking for a book meant for 13 year old junior-high girls. When I got to the checkout the smart ass college kid at the till just couldn't shove it in a bag quietly, oh no.

"Ah, Twilight. You got sucked in, huh? I tried to read the first one but I just couldn't take it. They're really not well written at all. I just couldn't get in to it. I can't believe it's surpassed Harry Potter in sales"

Shut up, boy. I know that they're not "well written" I've studied English and Literature and I'm well aware that these books don't qualify as either, except in the loosest possible terms. They're awkward, underdeveloped and lacking in almost every possible literary attribute....but yet...I can't look away.

I can't explain it. Why are these characters so compelling? They are one dimensional and juvenile. They don't swear or go to the bathroom or even have sex until the fourth damned book. But for some reason, I am Bella Swan.

I devoured the second book and asked Adam to pick up the third and fourth volumes on his way home from work the next day. He can escape any embarrassment by claiming they're a gift.

Then I watched the movie again.

Then I started reading magazines when the film's stars were on the covers because although I truly wish I didn't care whether or not the actors portraying Edward and Bella are dating in real life, I do! Oh, how I do!

But wait, it gets worse!

Adam asked me an innocent question about how some element of the movie compared to the book....and we are now reading them aloud to each other every evening. We're a quarter of the way through the last book and I got seriously pissed off at Adam last night for reading ahead while I was at work and I went to bed all moody and refused to read with him anymore if he was going to CHEAT and I shut off the light and curled up in a little ball with my back to him, because obviously; I really am that immature.

It would have been a really good pout too, except for the fact that I am apparently incapable of producing my own body heat. I couldn't sleep because my feet were so cold and Adam knows this about me, so eventually he reached over and voluntarily put my icy toes on his warm leg to heat me up and it's hard to stay angry when confronted by that kind of love.

This has been my confession.

Please excuse me now while I go buy a Robert Pattinson poster for my bedroom.

Is there a law against molesting spermophiles?

As I was heading to work the other day I happened to notice a dog turd squirming around under a tree at the edge of my yard. It seemed odd to me that a dog turd would be moving around under it's own power so I went in for a closer look, because I'm a freak.

It was a baby squirrel, all small and blind and helpless, wriggling around like so much cat-bait. I had to get to work so I called Adam out and told him to put it back up in the tree. Then I headed off, filled with the warm glow of a good deed well done, despite the fact that I kind of figured it was as good as dead anyway.

When I passed the tree the next day it was back down again, and this time it was actually on the road. Gotta be dead now, right? No. I leaned closer, because apparently I like to examine roadkill as well as dog shit, and saw that it was still moving. Fuck.

"Adam, come save the baby squirrel....again!"

So Adam came out, but Skylar got there first and immediately picked up the adorable little bundle of rabies. Again, I had to get to work, so I left. Once again secure in the knowledge that I had helped a cute little furry creature...well, you know, not me personally, but still. I assumed Adam would stick it back in the tree. Maybe he would even call the vet or the humane society and find out if some sort of animal rescue person would come and collect the sweet little rodent. Perhaps he would enquire as to the likelyhood of our daughter dying of Squirrel Flu or distemper. Hopefully he would prevent her from dressing it up in Barbie clothes and kissing it.

I did NOT expect to come home to find him googling recipes for "squirrel formula" and feeding our squirrels (yes, squirrels, plural) with a baby medicine dropper.

"Squirrels are surprisingly delicate, you can't feed them cow's milk or they'll die."

"Really?"

"Yeah, and you can't feed them if they're cold, or they'll die."

"Really?"

"Skylar says the black one is named Owen and the brownish one is Cole."

"After the boys across the road?"

"Uh huh. You have to feed them every two to four hours."

"I do?"

"And after you feed them you have to rub their genitals with a warm, wet cotton ball to stimulate them."

"Excuse me? Would you mind clarifying that last part?"

"According to this (gesturing towards the all knowing google search) baby squirrels can't just go on their own. They can't relieve themselves unless their mother stimulates them to do so, and if you don't they'll die of constipation and kidney failure"

"Well, that's just...the dumbest survival trait ever, isn't it? Seriously, this is a flawed species."

"Do you want me to just drown them now?"

"No! I just..."

"It's a little tricky to get them to hold still at first, but after a minute they relax."

"I'll bet."

"Have a nice day, I've gotta go to work."

So then he left. I decided to do my own research, just in case he was just trying to fuck with me and was laughing all the way to work, imagining me spending the day rubbing off infant tree rats.

Turns out it's true. So I fed them, which was freaking adorable, and I rubbed them, which was not. They're boys! Baby squirrels have bigger dingdongs than you'd expect. There, now you've learned something today. You're welcome, you sick freak.

I also made many phone calls. To the vet, who told me to call the OSPCA. To the OSPCA, who are not taking wildlife due to renovations. To the Humane Society, who wouldn't take them because we're out of the region. To the Shady Acres Squirrel Sanctuary, where I tried to leave a message, but was hindered by the fact that I was trying not to laugh hysterically at the mental image conjured up by that title ( A huge estate, run by the Squirrel Lady from Rat Race (wouldja like ta buy a squir'l?) with a sign reading "We're nuts about squirrels!" etc.) And finally, to another Humane society who agreed to take them so long as we dropped them off, since we were once again, out of their region.

Then we drove for over an hour to deliver our spermophiles (Look it up, it's not technically accurate, but isn't it an awesome word? Filthy little nut lovers.) To some experts who told me off for feeding wild animals and suggested I should have just have left them to freeze or be eaten by our cats. Not in so many words, but still.

So ya, that was my day. But doesn't this cuteness pretty much make up for it?

Mother/Daughter time, old-school.

Tomorrow I leave Goober and Mooch with Adam's parents and head off for some good ol' fashioned mother-daughter time, with me reprising my roll as the daughter.
My mom and I are off to Niagara Falls for the weekend. There to sit in a hot-tub, drink some wine, stare at water and NOT do kiddie touristy crap for 2.5 whole days.
The mini-vacation is my mom's somewhat spur of the moment idea (which is one of the reason's I love her) But it has not escaped me that this is the 1 year anniversary of my Grandma's passing and the Falls hold some special memories for us in that regard, so it's likely to be a bit of a bittersweet trip. I'm looking forward to being able to finish whole sentences without interruption, to not planning my day around nap-time, to never having to ask anyone to eat just 2 more bites, and most of all to living 2 whole blessed days without listening to any whining.

Incidentally, did you hear about that guy who survived going over Niagara Falls 2 days ago? Failed suicide attempt. It was on the News. Know what you don't see on the News? All the successful suicide attempts. Two years ago we watched from Table Rock as a body was pulled up from the gorge by a crane. Our friendly tour bus driver told us that it happens 5 or 6 times a year, but it never makes the news because they don't want to encourage people to try to go out with a splash, so to speak. Apparently putting the dead person's name in the paper is like giving in to a toddler's tantrum: It only encourages them. So instead we ignore it. Tourists from all over the world mug for photos (Have you ever noticed that no matter what language people are speaking they ALL say "cheese!" when a camera is pointed at them?) with the Horseshoe falls, or the everlasting rainbow, or the yellow body box suspended by a wire in the background. It's kind of surreal. People crane their necks a little as they walk by, maybe they even put a few coins in the binocular thingies so their kids can get a better look, but then they go about their happy vacations with smiles on their faces and a few more cool photos to show the family when they get home.

Oh, and speaking of death and Niagara Falls (What a happy little trip down memory lane this post is turning out to be!) The most disturbing thing I've ever seen at a family tourist destination is the delightful street exhibit right next to the Dairy Queen on Clifton Hill, where for just 2$ you can push a button and execute a man. Because if anything can keep little kids entertained while waiting in line for ice cream, it's the sight of a very realistic mannequin strapped to an electric chair with a sack over his head, screaming and thrashing around violently, complete with flashing lights and smoking ears. That's good wholesome family fun, well done tourism board, bravo.

It could happen to anyone, with a penis.

So that guy in Saskatchewan who left his babies to freeze to death in a snow storm got 3 years. Nice. Apparently getting loaded while you're responsible for a 3 year old and a 1 year old and taking them outside in a blizzard, wearing nothing but diapers and t-shirts and fucking loosing them and only remembering that you have offspring 8 hours later, by which time they have died what must have been a terrifying and painful death, is the kind of tragic accident that could have happened to anyone. Sure. So long as it's the father we're talking about. Of course had it been a mother there would have been outcries of "Heartless Monster! Lock her up for life!"

What is the deal? In our modern world of paternal involvement why are men still held to standards so much lower than women when it comes to the death of a child? We claim that men and women are equally responsible for their progeny but yet more often than not men still get shafted when it comes to custody arrangements. I suppose it's a logical trade off really. Men get the larger child support payments and shorter visitations, but if they should happen to kill their children they are more likely to get off with a slap on the wrist because, well obviously, men just don't have the maternal knack.

Mothers aren't allowed to make mistakes. When a child dies in it's mother's care she is a despicable baby killer. Possibly she's deranged by post-partum, in which case she's still a monster, but at least she's a crazy monster. Possibly she's a negligent, selfish bitch. Possibly she's an abusive crack whore. Rarely is she a decent woman who made a forgivable mistake.

Fathers, on the other hand, get second chances. That guy became a father again earlier this year, and the mother stands by him. He will have another chance to prove himself a worthwhile human being, as he will be out of jail by the time this new baby is as old as her sister was when she died.

Everyone makes mistakes, some minor and some major, and I personally believe that everyone deserves a second chance, but everybody should have to face the consequences of their actions to an equal degree. The double standard lives on and adds to the obvious fact that gender equality has not yet been achieved.

It's absolutely disgusting, which means it must be super healthy right?

Last night I was innocently playing around on my computer when my nose was brutally ass raped. I know you're wondering if such a thing is possible, but trust me it is.

Oh Shit! Noooo! Not again! Not more Rotting Sewage Soup!

This is the third time this month that Adam has brewed up this vile concoction. By the time I realized what was happening it was too late to stop it and the stench had already permeated every corner of the house. There was nothing I could do but update my Facebook Status to:

Christine is wondering why adam insists upon torturing me with stinky disgusting soup. 10:45pm

People who were out of smelling range expressed interest:

Pon at 11:45pm February 22
i'm dying to know what he is making you...lol

Christine at 11:48pm February 22
he's not actually making it for me, it's just the fact that he's making it at all that's the problem. It has onions and garlic and spinach and squash and quite possibly some donkey piss and the whole house reeks. I'm 3 rooms and a floor away and my eyes are still watering.

Melanie at 8:29am February 23
LOL!

Kristin at 3:02pm February 23
Why is he making such horrible soap?

Christine at 7:16pm February 23
Not soap, soup. And who knows why Adam does things? He's just weird, hadn't you noticed?

So I asked Adam what the hell was actually in the soup that possesses such a pungency that it curls paint and causes the hairs inside one's nose to shrivel up and die:

Adam: It's not that bad!

Me: Are you insane? Has your proximity to the soup killed your sense of smell entirely?

Adam: Well it's mostly cabbage, then there's zucchini, potatoes, celery, onions, garlic, and whatever else I feel like throwing in.

Me: What about the rancid sheep testicles, cheap cologne, hot tar and cat shit?

Adam: It's not that bad! It's just vegetable soup.

Me: That's not normal vegetable soup! Normal people make soup with carrots and tomatoes and peas and other things that don't smell like vomit.

Adam: Tomatoes tend to overpower the flavour as well as the scent.

Me: Yes! That's it! Tomatoes get rid of stink right? You use tomato juice to wash off skunk spray! For the love of God your soup needs tomatoes!

Because there is no way to post scent on a blog (luckily for you) here's a picture to help you appreciate the nastiness, and I hope you appreciate it because I put my life in danger by going near the bowl and taking the lid off:

Ya, it pretty much smells like that.

And after a day or so it goes completely black and purplish and he continues to eat it.

Now granted, I have the same sense of culinary adventurousness as the average 4 year old and I would happily live on pizza, ice cream, grilled cheese and goldfish crackers, but there's no way this is just me, right?

The Good, the Bad, and the...

Excerpt from a conversation I had with Adam, inspired by another conversation I had with a friend...who is basically the only person who reads this blog anyway...so, enjoy!

Me- Well, I realize I'm not the easiest person to get along with.

Adam- You do?

Me- Oh ya, I wouldn't want to be in a relationship with Me. I wouldn't put up with half the shit from Me that you do.

Adam- So, you know you're doing horrible things to me and yet you do them anyways?! 'Cause it's one thing if you just don't realize, but you're telling me you're actually aware of this....

Me- Well, not usually until after the fact....you know, in hindsight I realize I've done something crappy.

Adam- And then you do nothing?

Me- Um, well I usually try to make it up to you somehow...without debasing myself so far as to admit that I'm wrong or apologize or anything crazy like that.

Adam- Uh huh, so you make it up to me how?

Me- I dunno, I just try to be extra nice for a little while so I can mentally balance out the bad things on my little internal karma scale.

Adam-.....Wait...holyshit, is this where blow jobs come from?!

Christmas give-away = free junk for anyone willing to brave the Cave of Doom to dig it out.

A couple of months ago we moved from a reasonable sized house to a small apartment. In order to make this work we took multiple loads of junk to the dump, filled an entire moving truck with slightly less junky junk to donate, and rented a good sized storage shed. Still, I knew that having a family of four in this space would require a strict regime of tidiness and organization. Sadly, I suck at both of those things.

We have this tiny bedroom that we decided to use as a walk-in closet, since the master bedroom has no closet at all (it was taken out to extend the bathroom) But as we continued to open boxes, look into them and think -where the hell am I going to put that? More and more stuff has ended up in my fabulously huge closet. Today it looks like this:

Ya, there is no walking-in to this closet. There is also no door to hide this behind. There is simply a wall to wall, floor to ceiling, avalanche prone, black hole of stuff. I believe new life forms may be evolving in the sub-levels. Now, while this is irritating for many reasons, the most pressing one is that fact that in this room is a wooden wardrobe (see it there in the far left hand corner? No, didn't think so) and in this wardrobe are the Christmas presents. Of course by "in" I mean "in the general vicinity of" because as the room got more and more stuffed I eventually ended up standing in the doorway and simply heaving my lovingly selected gifts towards the wardrobe one by one as I brought them home, counting on the sheer magnitude of the disarray to camouflage them from sight. This system has worked remarkably well, until this morning when.. I snarled with a sneer; next week is Christmas. It's practically here! DAMMIT!

Not only does this mean I have a hell of a lot of digging to do, it also illustrates how disgustingly bogged down with material things we have become. We tried to purge ourselves when we moved, really we did, but still we are quite literally up to our necks in stuff and here comes Christmas to bury us completely. Spirit of giving, Good will towards men, Peace on Earth and so on and so forth are all well and good, but I simply haven't been able to tell my kids that Santa's not bringing any toys this year because Mommy has no freaking place to put them!

So, to anybody out there still looking for a last minute gift for us : Send money, we need a bigger house.

I'm thankful for...

Every other blogger has a post up about Thanksgiving, well I'm not feeling tremendously creative just now so I'm going to write about how I spent my Thanksgiving, here in Canada, a couple of months ago.

We did brunch with my family in the morning, then headed straight to Adam's family's place for dinner. Our callous disregard for nap time in between actually paid off when Mooch slept through dinner and I was able to eat without her squirming on my knee, throwing food off the table, whining to get down, or any of the other joys that come when dining with toddlers. We spent the rest of the day attempting to take one photograph of 8 children, no mean feat when the eldest is 8 and the rest include 2 babies, 3 three year-olds, a sick 6 year old, and Goober.

If you came here looking for sweet stories about my kids, or if you are my mother, please stop reading now.

We recently moved back to the town where I grew up. The house where I grew up, in fact, and where my mom still lives, because we are failures. The up side to this arrangement is that Grandma is always handy and perfectly willing to babysit...if the children are sleeping.

Another nice feature is the proximity to the nature trail. The main trail was once a train track and small walking trails have webbed out from it over the years to cover a good chunk of land featuring pretty hills, bush and streams which makes a lovely setting for ... uum..."becoming one with nature" if you get my meaning. This is where I had my first kiss, when I was 16 ( yes sixteen, and it was with Adam too, sad I know). We followed it up with another big first out there several months later. So, we decided to make use of the unusually warm evening to welcome ourselves back to the old place.

We asked my mom to listen for the girls and were about to head out for a "walk" when Adam told me to wait, he had a present for me. Yay presents! I like presents. Was it chocolate? No, it was not. It was purple and rubbery and shaped like a dolphin and it had straps and a remote. Now, having been with the same guy for 7 years and 2 kids, I'm not about to turn my back on a new experience, so I put on some loose pants and strapped the thing to my thighs and off we went. Once we were on the trail Adam flicked the ON switch and...nothing happened. Bit of a disappointment really, Stag Shop return policies being what they are and all. But we continued walking, resigned to entertaining ourselves the old fashioned way.

There was a bright full moon, but we decided to be unusually bold and make use of a bench quite near the main trail. Operations were well under way when I heard the crackling. We paused to listen but decided it was probably the dry fall leaves rustling in the Indian summer breeze and went about our business. Then I heard it again. This time definitely not wind, someone was coming. There followed a silent flurry of activity in the darkness as we tried to get ourselves decent (pants, pants, where are my PANTS!) But we were sitting nonchalantly side by side on the bench when our visitor appeared. A deer. A big beautiful deer walked within 10 feet of us, shimmering silver in the moonlight. She stood still and stared at us for several minutes as we tried not to make a sound and startle her away. At that moment the damned dolphin (which was still in place) decided to come to life, scaring the bejesus out of me and causing me to jump. The deer snapped out of her trance and went on her way, followed by a friend or fawn. We finished up and walked home, having passed a very pleasant Thanksgiving all around.