Wednesday, October 5, 2011

Rocker chick...

My 7 year daughter is looking for a very specific school bag, it has to:

1.  Not have any characters on it whatsoever (ie Hanna Montanna)

2.  Be over the shoulder (because backpacks are sooooo kindergarden)

3.  Be not too big (because she's barely 40 lbs)

4. Be something that harbors NO CHANCE of being copied by other kids in her class (there was a slight emergency when another kid in her class bought the same backpack mid-year...resulting in a frantic search for anything else to carry her books in...by her, I did not participate in that madness.  I think she used a rolling suitcase....)


So my husband calls me on the way home  from the mall and says, "I think we found the perfect bag for Kenzie, it's over the shoulder with a nice wide strap, the bag itself is not too big and there's only one left in the store..... but I didn't buy it"

"Why not?" I say, "This is a problem solved, you actually found a bag that she likes and you didn't fall to your knees with gratitute, raise the bag to the heavens in exaltation and purchase it before someone else did????  Have you never shopped with this kid before??"   Trying to get  this kid to decide on something that she likes is akin to, well, trying to get my husband to actually decide on something that he likes.  If you've read my earlier posts about trying to get him to make a decision, and the subsequent necessity of pharmaceuticals on my part, you'll feel my pain.

"It has AC DC emblazoned on it.... it giant white letters so I didn't know if that was appropriate".  he says.  Now, this did give me a moment's pause.  I did not want our daughter to be thought of as trying to look older, or beyond her years.  I did not want her teachers to think that we were the kind of parents who just lets there kid act 14 when she's only 7, even though she has passed both the disdainful attitude and eye-rolling exams with flying colors.

He finally made the decision when he took her for a drive and let her listen to some AC DC to see if she liked it.

She went to school the next day with the bookbag singing "Hell's Bells".

I'm sure the teachers thought it was cute.....no reflection of my parenting at all....


Thursday, August 25, 2011

Death to the scooter....

As I said in the previous post, I was inspired to pick up the ole' quill (or tap on the ole' keyboard) again because my friend CO started blogging.  She was inspired because she wants to make some changes in her life (52 of them, once per week for a year...) you can check out her journey here:http://52changesandotherstories.blogspot.com/.  She is much more ambitious with change.  She often states that if it is not big, dramatic and all the way at once that she will not do it.  I am a little more gradual with change... I like to dip a big toe in, see how it feels, go slowly and figure I'll get there someday.  If it feels uncomfortable, I won't continue.  I like to trick myself into changing, make it so gradual that I can deny it's even happening.  This is why it has taken me the last 17 years or so to exercise even 2 or 3 times per week.

I currently am in  a yoga phase, I'm trying to do 20 minutes of yoga, 3-5 times per week.  The reason I do this is to stave off age-related decline.  I have a pact with a couple of friends that we won't let ourselves end up in a nursing home, drooling and being alone.  We plan to have a senior- hippie commune, where we travel and exercise and cook and terrorize the young men that we will eventually hire to do the yardwork...    I don't ever want to have to use a motorized scooter to get around, not until I'm 100 anyway.

I also am trying to drink more green tea, because it is so good for you.  Unfortunately, while I love regular orange pekoe (Tetley please...)  I tend to not like other teas, herbal or green.  I'm trying to choke this stuff down for the good of my health, until I jump onto some other health related, life extending bandwagon....

or scooter.


Wednesday, August 24, 2011

Ode to renewed efforts...

I have been avoiding looking at my blog because I haven't posted in....4 months.  This is typical anxiety avoidance behavior on my part... I feel guilty for not posting, not like I'm disappointing legions of devoted fans or anything.  I last wrote about the fact that since my boys have been getting a bit better I haven't had the screaming inside of my head that gets relieved when I write about it.  Having said that, they are going through a bit of a rough patch...more on that later, but I'm posting today because on of my friends (Cyn or CO as she is known online..) pointed in my face last night and said.."You need to start writing your blog again, I check it everyday".  So even if no else reads it, Cyn, this is for you.  I am also inspired because my other slack blogger friend, Dawn has posted on fruitflies, which you can read at http://heymanwhatthehell.blogspot.com/2011/08/what-is-with-fruit-flies-anyway.html

Anyway....so I have to think of other things to write about, which should be ok, since I feel the need to verbally regale people with triviality that I find interesting.  At least with a blog, they have the option of shutting it off.

Thank God that's not an option in real life.  My fragile ego (think inflated balloon that's easy to pop) couldn't take it.  I prefer to live in the misty pink haze of self delusion....no, I'm sure they want to hear about this, just look at their smiling faces, heads nodding in encouragement... wait, maybe that's not a smile but a grimace of pain, and wait...are they nodding off???  No,  it can't be...come on misty pink haze..work for me..

Maybe you should just head on over to that other blog now....


Wednesday, April 20, 2011

Ages and Stages...and Cages?

It's been a while since I've written a blog post.  If you read the first one, you really shouldn't be surprised.  I'm a little surprised myself that I've stuck with writing a couple of times a month for the last  6 months.  Usually I end up jumping onto idea bandwagons, getting bored or distracted by shiny object and leaping right off onto another passing wagon (usually full of chickens and dudes in overalls named Zeke...)

It is getting a little harder to write about things because my drive to write usually comes out of energy derived when my children (or happenstance in my life) results in some kind of internal trauma, some emotional turmoil, some state of overdramatic whimpering angst that I feel that I have to foist upon the world (oh, the world....really, you think the world reads your blog... more like foist upon the half dozen or so kind folks that take pity on you to read your ramblings... God do I have to be so dramatic all of the time..yes mom, finally I am asking myself this question..congratulations you are now permanently living in my head..)

Ok, non-grammatical stream of consciousness aside....

Anyway...it seems that the emotional trauma that has characterized my surviving with a 7 going on 17 year old girl and toddler twin boys is settling down.  I find myself able to sit for periods up to 20 mins, and occasionally I can even assume a horizontal position on the couch while they watch something on TV or play the WII.  A strange, intermittent peace has descended on the house..starting with Christmas day of this year.  The boys are talking more, in between the fighting, and amusing themselves more.  The screaming, leg clinging impossible-ness has gotten less.  I can now leave a room and gasp, even go up the stairs without a duo of panicked, frantic leaches attaching themselves to my body whilst simultaneously battling each other to occupy the same space.

I've heard other parents say, "Oh, I just want to freeze them at this age...I don't want them to get any older"  Up until now, I could not share this sentiment, my daily mantra of "please grow out of this" repeated over and over in my head has been the only conscience thought regarding ages and stages.

I can honestly say that I am getting to the point where my husband and I are looking at each other more and more, hands clutched to chests, with the "oh, isn't that cute" head tilt.

I guess when you are forced to stick with things they get better. There are actually moments that I wish that they would never get older, that I could capture and keep them just as they are.

 Just like any other wild animal.

Thursday, March 24, 2011

Look at me I'm Sandra Dee....

So last week was winter fun-fest or carnival or some such cold-inspired celebration at Mackenzie's elementary school.  She is currently in grade one having just turned 7.  She comes home and announces that the next day is "dress up like your favorite character day".  

Now this is probably not meant to invoke a panicked parental response, a sharp intake of breath with eyes closed, bracing for the inevitable back and forth of "Why don't you wear this?, No?  How about this?  What's wrong with this?  Why not your halloween costume from last fall? No, no and no?  What's that you say, you'll be a social pariah and be laughed out of the school yard if you don't wear exactly the right thing?  What's that, you don't know what exactly the right thing looks like, only what exactly the wrong thing looks like?  Watch it kid, you're about to knock me over with that eye roll....

I was preparing for this fight, our daughter is just like my husband who I vowed never to shop with again, "Honey those pants look fine, no the seam is not hanging too low, no they don't look funny....well maybe when you stand like that but not if you stand erect like a normal homo-sapien...  what, after 10 stores you want to go back to the first pair of pants that we saw??  KILL ME NOW, I BEG OF YOU, IF YOU'VE EVER LOVED ME, TAKE THOSE PANTS AND SMOTHER ME WITH THEM?

Ahem...

So needless to say I was dreading the same sort of interaction with the picking out of the costume for character day.  You can imagine my pleasant surprise when she already knew who she wanted to be...

"I want to be Sandy from Grease"  (which is her current favorite movie, please hold all judgement.  It's the more censored TV version... and plus it keeps her busy whilst I'm cleaning up after the poop monsters...)

"OK", I say, "I'll find you a long skirt and some Bobby socks and a ribbon for your pony tail....."

"No, Mom", she sighs exasperatedly "The Sandy at the end.."

Cue sharp intake of breath, eyes closed and heel of hand to the forehead as I brace for the fight.

"You are not being BAD SANDY", I proclaim, preparing for my puritanical speech...that would be inappropriate.."

So then I began to question myself as the all powerful censor of her ideas and wishes.  The thing is, she knows that the black clad, sexy  Sandy at the end of Grease is more powerful, more attractive, more special and gets more attention than Sandra Dee.  She doesn't quite get the concept of sex as power in words that she can articulate, but she gets it all the same.  I begin to struggle with trying to navigate this reality and stomping on it entirely.  We have a discussion about it and I decide to let her go ahead with an age-appropriate version  (not to mention it's 30 mins past her bedtime, and I have NO OTHER OPTIONS for costumes in March at this point....)

So on the way to school the next morning, she is wearing a pair of black leggings, black Mary Jane shoes, a black tank top with a black velvet cardigan (stolen from her Christmas concert dress)  I see that the other girls in her class are dressed as princesses (which have been dead to her since age 4), mermaids and I see one Minnie Mouse.  I glance at my black clad, blond coiffed kid.

"You know that the other kids will have no idea who you are, right?"  I say....

"I know" she replies, knowingly nodding her head..."My friends are probably not old enough to watch Grease yet..."

She has always wanted to be older, I swear to God, two minutes after birth she demanded a New York Times and a glass of chardonnay....

I struggle with this child.  I don't know how much of her personal spirit to squelch.  She likes the idea of doing things that are different, that make her appear special and unique.  She does not want to be the same as the other "regular" kids in her class.

Hold on a Warlock Nanosecond, it seems that I've given birth to Charlie Sheen.

Friday, March 4, 2011

And this is why we can't have anything nice!

So this weekend, one half of the dynamic duo, Marcus,  (now 3 and 1/2) decided to start a new hobby.  He has decided to begin removing his pull-up (because, no they are not toilet trained yet....just another speedbump on my twinned highway...)  and in the great tradition of pissed-off chimpanzees everywhere..has begun smushing poop into any hard to clean surface that he can find.

He came running into the kitchen on Friday...at suppertime when I was just about to sit down to eat.  I was starving, my blood sugar dropping, in a   I will EAT YOU if you get in my way... kind of way.  He is positively gleeful, naked from the waist down.... singing a made up song about his pee-pee being free or some such opus.

"I've got nuffin on!!! He squeals..."  I think this is adorable until he runs into the den and leaps onto the couch.  It is then I notice his backside, and legs and ankles covered in poop.  I grab the back of his shirt and lift him vertically, frantically looking around for the scene of the crime whilst he is dangling and getting even more excited about this new turn of events...  Poop Crane!!  Awesome game Mom!

I locate the epicenter of the shit storm... the soggy sticky pull-up, smooshed poop side down on the carpet.  So now I have a classic parent dilemma, what to clean first?  The floor or the child.  I am tempted to clean the floor, as the child seems perfectly content with his present circumstance... but I decide to give him a brief hose down before I get to the floor, in an attempt to avoid further poop travels through the house.   I only give him a quick wipe down, getting the worst spots, I don't have the luxury time in this situation, so half-assed it is (literally...)

I need a safe place to stash the half-cleaned kid while I clean the floor, but this will involve having to leave the crime scene unattended, a perfect magnet for the other set of tiny feet scurrying about underfoot.

So I dash upstairs and stand Marcus in the empty tub, where coerce him into staying upon pain of death to his blankie, and fly back downstairs to get to the den before the other one discovers his brother's gift.

I get there and begin the process of decontamination.  Now the thing is, I have a deep wine-red carpet in the den.  I haven't changed it for the same reason I leave the ugly paint and ripped furniture in that room, it's the kids TV room and I don't care what they ruin in there.  Also the carpet doesn't show dirt... the downside to this being that it doesn't show POOP either.

Picture it, I'm on my hands and knees sniffing the carpet like a hound dog, trying to find splatters that have been tracked from the epicenter.  The other boy is dancing around my head and jumping on my back, while his brother wails at the insult of being left alone in the upstairs bathroom, naked and still half-covered in poop.

He proceeded to do this little act two more times over the weekend, once at my mom's house and once yesterday under the dining room table (oh, hardwood you say... nope, he got the fabric covered chairs...give the boy some credit..)

At least the chimpanzees I could send for scientific experimentation.

Thursday, February 24, 2011

Toto, we're not in Kansas anymore....

So I just watched this great video on TED.com about the 4 Parenting Taboos. (http://www.ted.com/talks/lang/eng/rufus_griscom_alisa_volkman_let_s_talk_parenting_taboos.html)   It was a presentation about how the media machine that feeds us all of those joyous images of happy, smiling kids and parents, frolicking on beaches together is greatly misleading to those of us that are not so much frolicking on beaches but more in the trenches, surrounded by mud, in the rain, with bombs exploding everywhere.

And it always smells like poop....

I've kind of made it a personal mission of mine to shout from the rooftops the disparity between the Cosby Show and the Skippy Peanut butter commercials and the real life of real parents.  It is my hope that my shouting from rooftops (ok, exaggeration... I'm being DRAMATIC again...Sorry Mom...) will keep some new parents from flinging themselves from those rooftops once they discover the reality... (or worse, flinging their children from various elevated surfaces...)

They talked about the 4 taboo subjects of parenting which I will talk about in several posts:


Number one:   You may not fall in love with your baby right away.

 Well, I wish someone had told me this when I had my first child.  I remember looking at her in the bassinet after birth and feeling only what I can describe as a sickening sense of doom... like "Dear God, look at what you've gone and done now...this is not like growing your own broccoli sprouts, you can't give up the project after three days..."  I realized  I can't  take her back, I was now responsible for another human life..I am going to be the source of someone's MOMMY ISSUES!  I was numb for many weeks after this, and I didn't leave the house much.  This was a shameful secret to me, no one had mentioned that this may happen, that it was normal.  I would paste on the bright smile and give Oscar worthy performances of how happy I was when people asked how it was going. I remember the very first time anyone had given me the slightest hint that it didn't have to be all rainbows and butterflies all of the time...  A friend that I hadn't seen in a while dropped in and asked me how I was doing and I gave he requisite perky, "mother in heaven" reply.  "Really?"  she said, "that wasn't the way it was with me at all... I had trouble bonding."

WHAT?  Trouble bonding...."Tell me what you mean..." I asked, unbelievingly... I felt like an alien imposter on earth, trying to blend in with the masses..only to discover that I was not alone, that there was someone else here from my home planet..  In  my head I was all like...  "There are others like our kind.....?"  She described a scenario similar to that which I was currently experiencing.  I can't even begin to tell you how that moment changed my life...(drama alert).  But seriously...I was shocked.  And to top it all off...she didn't even seem to harbor the deep sense of shame that ensures that real parenting facts will never trump the glossy images of contented, well coiffed, comfortably rested families.  After that, I began to tentatively talk about how hard it was, and my feeling of being detached.  Luckily, things improved...

I remember the exact moment when the wave of love hit me, and it was when she was about 2 months old, and I was looking at her in her crib and I realized that I was in love with her, not just that I loved her, but it was like falling in romantic love for the first time.  I started to cry and snottily apologized to her tiny face for not feeling it all the way before.  After that parenting was still hard, but I found myself looking forward to coming home to see her and missing her terribly when she was gone and a strange physical yearning I had to be close to her when she was visiting with her grandparents..

Ahem, attention grandparents... I am now over it, so if you want to take Miss Attitude now for extended stays... you'll brook no argument from me....... just saying.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Humiliation....Jumbotron style

Whew, that last post very depressing and super lame.  Who says lame anymore you ask?  Well I do, for starters, and I'm sure there is some aging Valley Girl who won't give up her teenage vernacular who is right there with me...

Anyway.  Hmmmmm. What to write about.  Well behind door number one I've got a giant monster poop in the middle of the kitchen floor by Zac (I thought it was a stuffed animal behind him, I swear.)  Out the top of the diaper and onto the floor in a little pile...my friend CO was visiting...it was bad, you can ask her, I was afraid her child would inadvertently fall into it and never be recovered, which would be  a shame, I like baby CO a lot....

Or behind door number two:  the intense, public humiliation that I suffered in front of a room full of people, beamed to other universities?

Humiliation or Poop: both compelling subjects, I'm sure Shakespeare had the same dilemma when he was figuring out what to write...  Hmmmm "To sleep, perchance to dream.... or musings on poop"  I'm sure he was wrought with indecision...

So, humiliation it is....

Last week I attended a research grant writing workshop at the medical school at Dalhousie, the largest university in Nova Scotia ( for all of you stumbling upon this from Tasikstahn and other parts of the world....)

After a very painful, non-relevant morning, we came back from lunch to attend a workshop on writing Layperson summaries of our research projects, so that other scientists reading our work would give the go ahead to give us money to continue to be research geeks.

We are in a giant seminar room in the medical school and I am totally distracted by the technology in this room...there are three Jumbotron screens at the front, and we can see the seminar rooms of the other universty audience and they can see us too.  There is a button with a sensor at each seat so that if you push it , one of the 6 high definition cameras in the room will train itself on you so you can be seen on the large screen at the front, as well as the large screens at the front of the rooms of the participating universities.  You can see that this is not going to end well, can't you....

So the guy at the fronts asks the first question, "What should be in a summary?" I lean over to my manager Lynda, and whisper..."the purpose...".  Some dude on the left side of the room calls out, "The purpose..." and the prof says, "Yes, exactly...." he then addresses the room, "What else???"

Now,  no one is answering.... he's just standing there like Ben Stein in Ferris Bueller's day off, intoning, "Anyone......anyone....."  I immediately begin to feel sorry for the guy.  I have this intense rescuing instinct, and I tend to use it, even if others don't particulary need or want to be rescued.  I think I was a St. Bernard in a previous life.  Come to think of it...I could really use one of those little portable kegs of whisky....who wouldn't love to see that coming??

So anyway, after squirming a bit and waiting for someone else to call out an answer I say, "Well, you'd probably want to say something about your methodology......."  I expected the guy would be suitably grateful that I saved him from awkwardly standing at the front of the room while everyone else pointedly ignored his question.  I also felt ok about answering because he was enthusiastic about the previous answer given by some dude who turned out to be a Zebrafish researcher.  I'm sure such a nice guy would reward me with a verbal pat on the head and  a nice compliment on the timliness and brilliance of my answer, given just when he needed it the most. Ahh, another satisfied customer....

So is that what you think the guy did?? "Thankyou, small blonde angel, for your exquisitely correct answer, I can now move on with my day with my will to live left reasonably intact.....lets share a shot of whiskey later shall we?"

Nope, THAT would not be blog content....no no, friends...there has to be trauma, humiliation, screaming inside of one's head and a ceaseless manic stream of conscienceness  in order to qualify for space in this small section of the blogosphere....

He trains his critical, "oh, Blondie is going to pretend to be smart" look on me and says, "What exactly do you mean by that....can you follow up on that answer??"

What?  That is not gratitude...no mountain top shots of Glenlivet  for you buddy.

Now, a strange thing happened to me.  The enormity of this will be lost to those who do not know me in person, who have never been subject to my never ending stream of verbage, who have never heard me rant in a "I can't believe she hasn't taken a breath yet"...type of way.  Not only that, I'm THAT kid who raises her hand to always answer the question, I suffer from an intense case of "Ooooh, Pick-me-itis...."  I will make up stuff, dredging bits and pieces of fragmented factoids on any given subject just to have something to say on a topic....   BUT, in this case....

I had nothing.....I mean... I listened for the voices in my head... who are normally shouting over one another to  be heard, "ooh, say this....no, I've got something better.....oh, this will make you look the smartest of alllllllllll!!!"  and strangely, they were all quiet, minding their own business, reading newspapers and sipping lattes and laid back cafes somewhere..... maybe meditating or doing suduko, I don't know.

So I smile weakly, and mumble some offhand attempt at a comedic response, "Oh, that's a good question... I don't want to take up ALL of the time, heh, heh..."  and I attempt to wave him off in  what I thought of as an "offhand yet disarmingly charming" way.

He is having none of it..."No, could you follow up that answer please.  Oh, and hit your button."

WHAT?  Hit the button, but he didn't make Zebrafish boy hit the button, he just let him sail on by with his correct answer, no jumbotron necessary.

So I start to get flushed, and I slowly reach for the button whispering under by breath (whilst hyperventilating...)  Ohmygod, hewantsmetopushthebutton.......I've got NOTHING!  Ok, calm down...just relax... you'll think of something...

So I push the button and sit in dread as the camera slowly arcs toward me and suddenly, there I am..On the Jumbotron.  Oh and did I mention that it was drizzling outside and my mascara was running and I looked like a Romanian Refugee? (Not that I mean to minimize the plight of real refugees, with the starving and the losing of their homes and such, but you get the enormity of my personal angst here..)  Anyway,  I didn't quite realize how incredibly pathetic I looked until I saw myself in HD at the front of the room.  I mean High Definition???  Is this really necessary...celebrities cringe at the thought of HD after they've spent 4 hours in hair and makeup with a professional.  All I can say is t'wasn't pretty Cletis....

So back to frantically searching the recesses of my brain, begging the voices for help.  Evidently the union got to them and they were on a mandatory break cause you could hear crickets on the ole thought assembly line.  Finally I squeaked out... "Well, maybe you should say something about your participant pool and your research design??"

"Participant pool......research design....."  he intones...  ahhhhh.   He pauses for a moment as if lost in thought and just when I think he might move on, he begins to lambaste my answer in front of the whole auditorium as well as the auditorium at the University of New Brunswick where the lovely HD signal was beamed to. "Do you actually think anyone would continue to read your summary using words like that?? You've bored me to death in the first sentence"...

I was actually embarrrased, and the thing is I don't get embarrassed, as in a sense of hot humiliation and shame... The last time it happened was in 2006.  The funny thing is, when I told my manager that I was actually embarrased, she said, "Wow, that never happens, the last time I remember was in 2006".  That's how seldom it happens, when it does it's a memorable event.  And if you've read any of the other posts in this blog, you should know it takes a lot to embarrass me.  Not that I shouldn't be embarrassed....I'm just comfortable in my own dorktom, and I take great pleasure at marvelling at just how much of a twit I can be sometimes, often floating above myself, shaking my head and thinking.."Will you just look at yourself down there..."


The funny thing, it wasn't even the Jumbotron thing that got me.  I was past it, I didn't care anymore.  Lacking any decent sense of self-preservation,  I proceeded with 2 more futile attempts to redeem myself during the seminar. I spent the rest of the session trying for a right answer, slapping that damn button, not caring that I looked like a desperate, haggard, annoying,  overachieving game show contestant.... I just wanted that guy to tell me I was RIGHT about SOMETHING before the end of the day.

He didn't....

Gag me with a spoon.

Monday, January 24, 2011

And the sleep deprivation continues....

Ack, I'm tired.  I'm not sure if it's the lack of light, because I stopped taking my Rhodiola, or because I can't sleep because I have to play musical beds all night.

I start out by needing to sit with the oldest, Kenzie until she falls asleep.  She has developed a fear of her bedroom over the last year  and refuses to sleep alone. I've tried letting her cry it out at age 6 but she seems so genuinely fearful that I'm sitting with her and hoping this too will pass.

So anyway, after she falls asleep around 8 or 830 I continue with my night until 11 or so when I go to bed.  I am usually woken by Kenzie between 130-230 am when she wakes up and finds herself alone, gets scared and calls for me.  I go into her bed for a while until Zac wakes up somewhere between 3 and 4.  He too refuses to sleep alone, stating he is scared of his bed.  I crawl into bed with him until his brother wakes between 5 and 530 wanting to get up for the day.  After some high stakes negotiations, Marcus is settled back into his bed and I try to go back to my own.  Sometimes I make it and sometimes Kenzie wakes AGAIN and I have to go back in with her.    This happens EVERY NIGHT.

Luckily I have learned to survive on very little sleep during basic training, back when the twins were infants and woke every two hours until they were 14 months old.  I would like to have hope that this will pass but considering Mackenzie is sleeping worse now than than any other time in her life, I'm not optimistic.

I would usually try to insert something funny here, but my funny is tired today too, so just carry on, go about your business... nothing to see here....

Thursday, January 13, 2011

I give up, let the judgement begin...........

I could also entitle this post, "One of the many reasons I should be asked to get out of the car so I can be smacked on the back of the head".

This post is not about my kids..... the thing is, they're getting better, they seem to be morphing toward a more humanoid form, from the life-force sucking, face-melting screaming overlords that they were once wont to  be.   So now I need to find new things to write about, until they throw the next curveball at me and I find myself sobbing in a corner somewhere, while feeling vaguely grateful for blog content.

So on Monday morning I'm rushing about, getting everyone ready for school/work/babysitters and I go to start the car to warm it up for the mitten refusing screamees.  I reach into my purse and find that my car keys are not there.  I look in the cubby on the shelf in the kitchen, also no keys, coat pockets.... NOPE!  A rising sense of panic begins to engulf me...not that I won't be able to leave the house and I'll be trapped in the snow with bored kids all day trying to work from home....wait, why wasn't I more panicked about that???

Hmmmm, probably because I was more preoccupied with dreading having to tell the husband that I couldn't find the keys.  I'd get THE LOOK, the EYE ROLL and THE sermon about not looking after my stuff and not paying attention, and the I told you this would happen, blah blah blah until I lose the ability to process sound and colors become a blur and I begin to rock back and forth emitting high pitched keening sounds to block it all out.

You see, the problem is, I may have borrowed his spare set of keys to the car and I may have already irrevocably lost uh, misplaced them.  I may have already not paid quite enough attention to where I put the spare valet key that also came with the car.  I mean who pays attention to the valet key?  How pretentious do you expect me to be that we need a whole separate key for the valet for Pete's sake? There is not one place to valet park in our whole county.  I can't be held responsible for keeping it real man.

So, yes, that's three sets of keys for the car, not in my possession.  Oh, and did I fail to mention that we only bought the car 2 1/2 months ago?

You can commence the fantasy head slapping now.   I'll just wait here while you close your eyes and join my husband in this imaginary delivery of due justice.

So I called in to work and our secretary, who is extremely organized and on the ball stated, "don't worry, you just have to give them the number of the metal security tag that came with the car to get the keys replaced."

"Ahh, yes" I say, wracking my brain for the faint memory of that tag, "of course, I'll just fetch it from its secured spot where I would have put it away for just such an emergency"

Of course I have NO flippin' idea where that thing could be, I mean give me a break....why would I pay attention to that, I mean I have THREE sets of keys for the car, why in God's name would I ever need to order more???

So as is turns out I have to have the car TOWED to the car dealership and pay for the new high-tech electronic key and it's programming.  It came to almost $180.  This is of course on top of the over $400 I incurred in fines from events chronicled the last post.

Go ahead and judge me now, I deserve it....

I think I'll just go sign up for that back of the head slap now.......

Tuesday, January 4, 2011

Please don't judge me.....

I'm kind of cringing as I write this.  I don't know why I need to confess my sins in this way, but I'm telling you things here that I usually sanitize for other people who I have to see face to face.

You see, the problem is, I'm a slackass.  I usually procrastinate in doing mundane detail type tasks until severe consequences occur.  This is most apparent when it comes to details about my car.

There, I said it, it's about the car.

That's not so bad you say?  Well just give me a minute here.

So I'm driving in Halifax (our closest bigger city for all of you who stumble upon this blog from Australia and New Zealand and Russia.....)  and I'm with one of my best friends, Tabitha.  Now Tab is extremely responsible and not usually a bad influence but something EVIL got into her this day.

We're coming down a road about to turn into a busy, stop and go type road with lots of traffic lights and I arrive at the intersection just as the light is turning yellow.

"Just GO!"  She says, although it was my instinct to stop, not rush into strange intersections in a city I'm visiting.

So I go,  and I see that now directly behind me as the light changes... there is a police car.

Now this would not normally be a problem to most non-slack-assed, law abiding citizens of the world.  But I begin to panic like I've got a trunk full of Mexican cartel members with nether regions stuffed full of nefarious substances.  This is because I have failed to get the licence tags renewed on my car.  It is December and they have been expired since September.   The cop is close behind me so I just know it is going to be apparent that I have failed to do my law abiding duty of renewing my tags REALLY SOON!

"I'm just going to turn off here, my tags are expired, I want that Cop off my ass" I say.  "Oh, don't be silly," says Tab.  That cop is not going to want to get out of a warm car and do all of the paperwork for some stupid expired tags, just keep going.  They're too busy at this time of year for that, and probably lazy on top it all".

So I continue driving, sweating bullets the whole time.  Now you may be thinking that I am overreacting, but here's the thing.  I couldn't bring myself to tell Tab that, um,

Ahem... my licence also expired over a year ago.  So if I get pulled over, I have no licence for the car and no valid driver's licence.  You see my Mexican drug cartel reaction now?

So, of course the inevitable happens, I'm sitting in traffic at a light and "Whooooo, on go the lights and the siren behind me."  We're at a red light and I'm on the inside lane of traffic so I can't go anywhere so I just start yelling, "LIGHTS!  What do I do????  I can't move!"  We have to sit there, waiting for the light change with the cop's lights going behind me. People in other cars are looking at me..."What??  It's not me...can't you see I am clearly a law abiding citizen here....DO I LOOK LIKE A DRUG RUNNER TO YOU?"

So we pull over and the cop comes over.  Female.... just great, harder to manipulate.  She informs me that my licence plate tags are expired and asks to see my license, insurance and registration.

So now I pretend to dig through my purse to look for my license  and the thing is, I know it's not there...I don't carry it with me, cause it's EXPIRED!.. I have this delusion that if I ever get pulled over, I can just say that, "Oops, I don't seem to have my license on me" and they'll say, "Ok, you have 24 hours to bring it to the station, at which point I may feel motivated to get it renewed before I present it to them.  I know, it's a miracle people let me handle sharp objects.....

"I have more bad news, officer" I confess with a cringing look on my face.  I don't seem to have my license on me.."  "Just cuff me now and throw me in jail" I add dramatically, offering up my wrists for her inspection.  She declines politely an asks for some other picture ID to prove that I am indeed the person to whom the car belongs.

Now, here's something else....  the only picture ID I have is my work ID, and the thing is....it's in a different name than the one on my license and insurance.  I have TWO names.  One that is legal that I don't use (my birth name)  and one that I use that is not legal (my step father's name who raised me from a baby).  So some of my ID is in one name (school diplomas, job title) and some is in my legal name on my birth certificate (driver's license, passport).

So I explain to her my two name thing, and she asks if I have any other ID with my legal name on it.  I offer her my credit cards, and then inform her that I realize they of course, could be stolen and prove nothing....  I'm going with as much self deprecation as I can here.... she then asks for my insurance, which I thankfully, do have.  I inform her in a self-rightous way that I would "Never drive with out insurance...."  which I quickly realize has NO CREDIBILITY coming from me.... she takes my stuff back to the car.

Then she comes back to the window and informs me that my license expired in January of 2009..that's almost two years ago, it's worse than I thought.  It's truly a wonder she didn't demand that I get out of the car just so she could smack the back of my head...Instead she informed me that she can't let me drive the car without a valid licence so my friend has to drive it away under her supervision or she has to have it towed.

'Oh, no problem officer" I say, and we give her Tab's license.  As she goes back to her car I realize that my car is a standard and TAB CANNOT DRIVE A STANDARD.  (are you dropping your shaking head into your hands yet??)

So we have to call Tab's husband, Jamie, to come and rescue us.  Tab does not tell him what's going on, only that she'll explain when he gets here.  10 minutes later we see him sitting at the same traffic light (the one that will exist in my nightmares) that we were just at and he looking over at us sitting beside the cop car with the flashing lights, and laughing his ass off! He sends a text. "what did you guys DO?"  I'm so glad it wasn't my husband we had to call, he would not have been laughing so hard via text.

So I finally get the tickets after 20 mins of waiting, and the officer informs me that I can attend court on the date indicated on the ticket and plead not guilty if I so wished.  Seriously, I have no idea how she kept a straight face whilst telling me this....yes, I'll go to court and FIGHT THE MAN..or woman as it were.  Nope, more like sheepishly taking the ticket, and slinking away as quietly as I could, as a passenger in Tab's car cause now I'm not allowed to drive my own...

So I went to the DMV as soon as I could and got my license and plates renewed.  The picture on my driver's license is the worst one I've ever seen of myself, I look like I'm having an anaphalactic reaction to the camera.

To punish myself I vowed to keep it and let is serve as an ugly reminder of the ugly day.