I'm off work for 11 days starting in roughly 120 minutes. ELEVEN days boys & girls. The shitty part about my eleven days off work is that I don't feel like I need a break from work, I feel like I need a break from life. Sitting on my couch in the post-Christmas mess for eleven days (minus the time I'll spend smoking in my garage and going to the fridge for beer) is not going to make me feel relief from the shitstorm this year turned into. The break I'm looking for goes a little like this:
Moving out of my house for eleven days and checking in to a 5-star hotel where I wouldn't cook a meal, wash or fold a load of laundry, feed a cat, fight with a 13 year old, shovel a walk, fill a dishwasher, change a garbage. Where I would get my hair and make-up done daily, and massages. Probably the type that end with sexual gratification because what kind of break would it be without that? I would pair all that with renting some fancy car whose dipstick fits in the transmission and has a thumpin stereo so I could blast Adam Lambert's Fever repeatedly and then, yes, I would keep going to work. Maybe for like, three hours a day once or twice.
Now that's a break. My eleven days off is going to look nothing like that. But hey, if nothing else, I don't have to brush my teeth or my hair until 6am January 4 if I don't want to. My kid and my cat wont judge. Ok, my smart-ass kid probably would, but she'll be punished enough as I win the fights over who gets to play on the laptop that Santa is bringing her. And does this look like the face of a judging cat?
That's all I have for today, but it felt great to get something out. I've been suffering from this blogging constipation for way too long. I'm leaving you with one of my favorite Christmas songs ... that I can sing off the top of my head and do the running man to
And I'm impatiently waiting for it to be over. I haven't quit blogging like I've pretty much quit soccer, I just don't have any new blog material because, aside from getting ready for Christmas, I don't do a whole hell of a lot. Just wait to see what types of blogs I come up with when I finally have a working computer at home. Maybe I'll start doing product reviews, or become a TV critic. One thing that's a given project is setting up a profile on Plenty of Fish and blogging about those experiences. Or I can set up a Rub n Tug in my garage. I've been told I'm really good at hand jobs and I kinda need the money. Fun times are coming ... I can feel it. But first, this year has to end.
And even before that, I have some black berry pics for Mobile Upload Monday ... enjoy.
This appeared on my phone the other day when I took it out of the holster ... took a minute to realize what it is, but it's clearly my sisters boyfriends bald spot ...
Let's just call him Trichotillomannia Tyler.
This guy smokes outside my building. He thinks he's pretty slick with his cell phone wedged under his earmuffs. Hey ... it's a Canadian blue tooth!
My cat. Watching TV for five minutes
Let's see what she's watching .... Of course .... Bugs Bunny and Tweety
And last but not least, a discovery that Sydnerella and I made at the Antique Mall where we then chased each other around making scary growly noises.
Today is my fucking anniversary. Literally. I became a woman Thursday, November 25, 1993. Oh wait. Don't we become women when we start to bleed? That was March 6, 1993. Yes I was a late bloomer. Quick to get in the sack though.
This is the boy whose virginity I scammed ....
Yes, that is lip gloss. And yes, those are New Kids on the Block earrings. He let me dress him up like that mainly to deceive my mom in to believing he was a homo so she'd let us hang out in my room with the door shut. It worked. I think to this day, she believed he was gay. WAS. He has two kids now.
He was my first love. And even though I was whoring around by age 15, I'm lucky that I can (a) remember his name and (b) remember it as something special, with someone I don't regret. Well, as special as it can get without actually finishing. Ahhh, pointless teenage sex. We never dated in the four years we hungout, but there was always something stirring between us. And it used to piss his girlfriends the fuck off. These weren't make-believe feelings caused by bullshit he was feeding me so I'd show him my boobies. We slow-danced in my bedroom with tears in our eyes because he was moving away. Okay, maybe there were no tears, but it was real dammit. We're still waiting for the right time to get together for the real deal as a matter of fact. Our chances at a long happy life together were cut down considerably though when he moved across the country, got married, and had kids. Years will go by without a word, then we drop back into a routine of phone calls, e-mails, and it's like nothing's changed. A lot has of course ... He's traded his hyper-colour t-shirts in for army fatigues. And his chevy nova in for an airplane. And I've gone from laying on my back for three minutes to crazy sex maniac that demands at least an hour. That might be a stretch, but certainly, things have changed.
And for your listening pleasure, the song that I repeatedly cried to after My First Love moved away ....
And utter hatred (now that I've gone back and re-read what a hateful angry bitch I sound like ...)
This actually started out as a comment I was just about to leave at So ... What Else in reply to her blog about hating winter (go read her, she's very funny). I got way too carried away in that little comment box and decided it wasn't really my place to use such profanities on someone else's blog. In case you're wondering ... I am ok with most profanities. As a matter of fact, I don't know how I'd survive without being able to say Fuck when I need blow off some steam. How do some people not need to say that word? Must be nice to be so fucking happy.
Back to the snow. The goddam blasted snow whore. I fucking hate winter. I live dog-sledding distance to the North Pole where it usually snows from September to May. I hate letting my car run for ten minutes to thaw it out. I hate it more because I hate my car. I am lucky enough to have a garage. A garage that is on a slant and pools all the snow that falls off my car to the walls and make them mold. Good job dumb asses. But when I can't use my garage, like when I am work five days a week, my car sits on the street. Collecting inches of snow and freezing up like a popsicle, but worse because popsicles are nummy. In the winter, my evenings go something like this after work (because I am not Oprah rich and can not afford an indoor parking spot in my building):
-put on boots that have been drying under desk for 8 hours
-put on jacket & scarf
-put on gloves last because when I have to pull my hair out of my scarf, it gets static as shit if it's touched by the gloves
-shuffle down to the lobby doors like a big fat sumo wrestler sweating like a fucking pig because the building heat is turned way up
-step outside and almost get knocked over from the hurricane strength blizzard
-walk slowly and carefully because vision is compromised by scarves and eye lashes that have froze together
(at this point, I'm walking in either deep snow that may or may not be on the road, or on a slick sidewalk)
-huddle in a circle for 30 minutes at the bus stop with several other poor bastards who also are not Oprah rich, missing bus after bus after bus because more people seem to take the bus than drive in the snow. Idiots.
-try to keep my balance standing on the bus with 15 pounds of extra clothes on, on a slick floor, while sweating like a whore in church (like that? I've never used that phrase before but it fits here) again because of the 15 pounds of extra clothes.
-possibly get stuck trying to climb a small hill because buses are not snow buses in Calgary, although they should be, and most definitely get stuck behind some sort of incident on the road (cars that wont move on the ice rink we call our roads, etc)
-finally. reach. car.
-carefully, carefully open the door so the foot of snow on top doesn't fall onto the drivers seat. Most likely it will so I drop more fuck bombs at this point. loudly.
-reach over mound of snow on seat to start car, which sounds like a cat puking up a hairball because it's frozen fucking solid.
-CRANK THAT HEAT
-get snow brush. Yell Fuck again when footing is lost and I'm now UNDER the car.
-get up, use snow brush to wipe off
-brush car off. Never look directly AT the car when brushing because that big gust of wind will only come at that second
-fuck. fuck. fuck.
-shuffle around the car brushing for ... oohhh .... three minutes, get myself up from under the car two more times, then hop in
-make phone calls, have a cigarette, play some games on the phone, listen to music, watch the fucking chaos on the roads build.
-Finally, after 10 minutes, the car is warm enough to move.
-once out of the nice snow hole dug by spinning tires, sit at traffic light for three cycles each because only 1-3 cars can get enough traction to move at intersections.
-there are about 15 sets of lights between where I leave my car and house. You do the math.
All the while, heat absolutely cranked to keep snow and ice from building on the windows even though I can't fucking breath and am wearing a big puffy winter coat, long-johns under my already too tight pants and a pair of winter boots. fabulous attire for sitting in a car for 90 minutes. And the fun doesn't end there people. Once I get home, I have to shovel my way out of my garage and to the house. And shovelling is not easy like they make it look like on TV. I pull muscles in my hands most people don't know they have shovelling. No lie, one year, I sprained my thumb shovelling. Stupid whore snow.
Sydneralla was born "at risk". So when a psychologist told me last year that she was at risk, I wasn't surprised. I was worried more about early experimentation with drugs or alcohol, given that her dad, all 4 of her grandparents, most of her aunts and uncles, and a handful of extended family are alcoholics or recovering addicts. My plan in that event was to throw her in rehab the first time I ever caught her doing any of the sort. Or even a young pregnancy because her mom had a tendency to be a bit of a slut. My plan with that was to take her right to the controversial clinic that makes pregnancies disappear, then move her to small town Saskatchewan where my faux husband now lives far away from us. I knew all the risks when she was born. And since then, all I've really tried to do was make sure none of that happened. What never crossed my mind over the last decade was that she was also at risk for depression. Biological depression to be exact. I have to admit I felt a little relieved when they told me biological versus situational depression. What that meant to me is that I'm not the piece of shit parent that I sometimes feel like I am. Albeit far from perfect, but at least my daughter can look me in the eye and tell me that I have given her a good life. When I was suffering with my depression as an adolescent, it was probably situational. It was never treated, it just kinda went away. I did however get knocked up at 17, so having a tiny person to care for kinda made the sadness over my shitty circumstances up until then seem a little less important. And given that my tiny little person was absolutely perfect in every way, it was a little easier to coast through the last 13 years. Easier, not easy. In no way, shape or form has my role as a mother been easy. As any mother reading this will know, it doesn't matter what the circumstances are, being a parent is fucking hard. I know what my flaws are, I know the mistakes that I have made, and I know there are probably many more to come, but I again, I can't help but feel some relief. My 13 year old is physically healthy, smart in a way that I kinda wish she wasn't, funny as hell, has never had sex, has never tried drugs, and has never been drunk. Yes, she's now on Prozac, but she wants to enjoy the good life she admits she has. And embrace the fabulous person that she knows she is. She wants to make good choices and grow up to be successful. And with any luck, a 6 month round of happy pills and regular talk therapy will send her up that path. The good sunny happy path. And if nothing else, at least she's taking pills that are pretty much guaranteed to kill sex drive. And that alone makes me happy.
Weird thought that came to me when I left the hospital yesterday afternoon and saw an Amish couple coming in. They were obviously there to see their sick child. Amish people tend to stick out in general, but I don't know why it surprised me to see them at the childrens hospital. Of course Amish kids get sick too and where else would their parents take them?
I was just leaving to pick some clothes up for Sydnerella. Her nurse told me she could have her clothes back yesterday after I had made the 25 minute drive to the hospital with clean undies, tooth brush, face wash (that they later took away), and some new socks. The kids in that unit aren't allowed their own clothes for the first 24 hours. And when they are allowed their own things, they are checked thoroughly. No cell phones, no iPods, no razors, no belts, no hand sanitizer, no mouth wash. I stayed long enough to play some cards - crazy eights with 55 cards made up of two decks, take a walk with her to the cafeteria for some fries, and talk to the psychiatrist that will be dealing with Sydneralla. It was about a three hour round-trip. It's a big city. It was rush hour. And I had to stop for a bite to eat. Alone. I'm waging war against my city and every damn parking company, so parking costs haven't been an issue. Sleeping and eating have been. I am lucky, though, to live at least this close the childrens hospital and not in a small town three hours away, to own a vehicle and afford the gas and all the eating out. And I'm also very lucky that I wasn't leaving the hospital after a final good bye. The childrens hospital is a sad place. Kids from all walks of life. With a million different stories. Some will never go home. I would have never imagined in the last 13 years that I have been a parent, that one day, I'd be checking my child into the psych ward. Or what's printed on the doors in the basement hallway - Mental Health Unit.
For most people, Mondays suck. After a weekend away from the office, who really wants to get back to the grind? (Besides me?) Mondays usually suck because the shittiest things that can happen during a week will always happen on the Monday. And this morning, this is what pissed everyone off and confused people on the roads .... SNOW!
But this is Calgary. And in Calgary, it snows just in time for our kids to dress up in costumes that are made big enough to fit over snow pants and waddle through the streets collecting candy from strangers. Or in my neighborhood, where most of the residents are new to Canada, dress up in just their snow pants and waddle through the streets following the kids that are collecting candy from strangers. They almost got the hang of it.
Overall, I don't mind Mondays, today especially. I decided to take part in this ....
Which means as long as we sport this sticker each day this week, we're allowed to wear jeans in the office. I made my $10 contribution to the United Way, $7 of which will probably go directly into the pocket of the CEO of United Way. I'm not a fan of being forced into donating to charities at the office, but as long as I'm comfortable in jeans all week, that's all that really matters.
My company is always doing fun things for it's employees ... I mean look at what they recently gave us ....
They told us they're business card holders. I personally think they look like roach clips. Others seem to agree.
Well, a few things I've been up to over the past few months ... a whole lot of nothing really ... looks a little like this ...
So I'm just trying to write a blog out of things that have amused me enough to take a picture because I really haven't been up to much. Actually, I did throw a bag of clothes, chips, pop, beef jerky, a stack of Friends trivia cards, and Sydnerella in the car on October 1st and drove five hours to see my sister and her handful o' boys. Aside from my visual issues, it was a nice drive ... visual being the fucking sun. In my eyes. For two damn hours. When it wasn't here ....
it was here ...
And when it wasn't there, it was here ....
Yes, I was bitchy as shit over the sun and maybe even referred to it as a whore in my head. But I had to chuckle when we passed this ....
Actually, I didn't chuckle until I started to pronounce it outloud then stopped at 'Aurel' ... Sydnerella looked confused when I snapped the pic then pointed at a duck on the other side of the car...
Eventually, we got to the tiny oil & gas town in central Alberta where we got to hang with my sister, nephews, dog, and two cats in a one floor, one bedroom portion of the house they decided to build but haven't yet finished. Did I mention she has a handful of kids? I'm telling ya ... people reading this from families where kids out number parents ... well, let's just say that I'd pray for you if I were a person that prayed.
And now, some more random crap ...
Never cook when you're mad ...
Teach your kids to take proper phone messages ...
And always keep something like this on hand so you can righfully punch your kids when they piss you off ...
Also, I bought this big bitch for $13 the other day ...
$13 because it was too big to fit on the scale at the grocery store so they estimated how much it would cost. I believe it to be roughly 40 pounds, judging by how hard it was to get from the car into the house, so I figured that to be a good deal. That's a 2-litre pop bottle beside it to show the sheer magnitude of that beast. And for you Americans reading this, I think 2 litres is about 1/2 a gallon ....
I play soccer on a co-ed team. As an over-weight, out of shape smoker, just showing up for the first practice last year was a challenge. I sat in my car for 30 minutes (smoking and probably eating chips) before I decided I've got nothing to lose (except maybe my front teeth) and in I went. Over the next several months, I rolled both my ankles, knocked knees with a butchy girl causing an immediate inability to stand and a seething pain around my knee cap, been knocked to the ground, lost my vision, taken balls in the mouth (not the good way I can assure you), and once, I even punched myself in the face. It was a rough year, but I keep going back. And it's changed me a little. For example, I yell more when kids try to knock my kid down, and I yell at her to knock em down back, then yell again when she gets a whistle. And I have a little more sympathy for the midget wimps that take a knee every time the ball or another player comes in contact with them. And the ones that look like their gonna fall over but still keep playing. And I get mad at the parents now who scream at their kids to try harder after 40 minutes of play ... you get on the field and see how many seconds you last .... bitches.
Aside from just getting injured during game play, and because I stay mainly on defense, I've also made a few great saves, and I mean great. When my cocky English goalie (who I heart ... not in THAT way because I also heart his wife ...) took the ball up the field to try to score, he was outplayed and a player from the opposing team was coming right at me ... with the ball. Given that I have a nicely rounded ass that real men tend to dig, I did the first thing that came to my mind ... I turned around and bent over! I was more expecting him to stop to check out the goods, but was immediately let down when I felt the ball at full force hit my ass. It stung, not gonna lie ... like my frontal box area stung once when I got in the way again of the ball. But I accepted the cheers from my team as the ball bounced away from our net. Great save buddy, our goalie yelled .. I rock! Or more like my ass rocks.
My most epic save, though not as classy, was during an outdoor game in July. I was getting back when the ball was coming at us from my right, I pivoted (as I normally do more than I actually run), then lost sight of the ball after a pass. I continued going back anyway, pivoted quick to the left when ... BAM!!! Lights out. I heard birds chirping. Then saw stars twinkling. I took a second to decide what to do, then my body took over. I was down. Quickly threw my pony-tail back in that had been whipped out of my head though because T-Bone was at the game and I had to look good no matter what just happened. I knew something hurt, but didn't know what the fuck just happened. I then heard my favorite cocky English goalie screaming Great Save Buddy. I had saved it with the side of my head. The person who kicked? A big mean boy with a heavy hard foot. The distance from his foot to my face? About 15 feet. Sun.of.a.whore! Three days ladies and gentlemen, three days, I suffered loudly in whiplash-style pain.
So last night I was back on the field after almost three months off. We changed the name of our team to something that isn't so obviously a bunch of old out of shape farts, and now we're mean. Our black & red instead of silver & white seemed to help and we won 7-4. My pumping adrenaline kept me awake for a lot longer than I needed to be, and just as I suspected, it was hard getting out of bed this morning. Not so much because I was tired (which I am ... ever. so. tired.) but because it is almost physically impossible to move certain muscles. From my back to my abs, to my groin, to my ass cheeks, to my thighs, calfs, and everything attached ... yes, my ass cheeks are sore.
I know some of you think I am just that sick that I may write a whole post about my nether-regions, but I will be honest ... I don't like the word pussy for anything but laughing about my cat being a pussy.
Let me introduce you to Rusty ...
Aka Rustykins. Aka Rusty-bo-busty. Aka Rustyfarian. Aka Rust the Crust. Aka Crusty Rusty. And to Sydnerella, aka Fat Pig or Fat Worm.
And Rusty's not a pussy like she backs down from fights. She's an outdoor pussy because I don't like my floors being pissed on. She's been in andwon her share of cat-fights. I usually judge the winner by who has the biggest clumps of fur in their paws and the least amount of blood on their faces. Rusty also has a good 6 pounds on most cats, I'm surprised the neighbour cats even bother anymore. While they're sneaking up on her trying to attack, she's sneaking up on the jack rabbits that run around the block. She may be old, but she's solid. Rusty is very beloved in our house, she may even come before me and Sydnerella. As stinky nasty as she's been over the years, I love her to bits and pieces. So much so that when T-Bone crushed up Advil in her milk because her hips looked sore, I forked over the grand it cost to pump her stomach, flush her organs, keep her at the emergency vet for 48 hours because in case you didn't gather, Advil is poisonous to cats. That almost cost me my relationship with T-Bone back then because I actually paid instead of taking her home and letting him shoot her. Fucker. But he coughed up a ticket to an Olympic hockey game shortly after so we called it even. I haven't blogged in awhile, haven't really had much to say, but I've been spending so much time on my couch with Rusty, I am more recently realizing how much I love my geriatric ol' girl that has a rough time going up and down the stairs, but had absolutely no problem stomping on my chest this morning because she refuses to eat from her dish if it's not at least an inch full. She also had no problem chasing me around my bedroom last week swatting at the water dripping down my legs when I got out of the shower. I was calling for Sydnerella to help, but I'm pretty thankful now that she didn't seem to care that I was getting attacked to save her from seeing her naked fat-ass mom standing in the middle of the bed hitting Crusty with a towel while she swatted and tried to climb on the bed to gnaw on my legs. Bitch. Rusty ... not Sydney. Our relationship is love-hate like that. For example, she knew I hated it when she used to piss down my vents, but she also know I love it when she cuddles in my hair, purrs, and drools. I know she hates when I put her own whiskers up her nose or hold her tail when she's trying to walk away from me, but I also know she loves it when I let her lick my plates after dinner. See ... Love-hate. My intent of today's blog was to post one of a few videos I've taken on my blackberry of Rustykins eating, but I'm blackberry-retarded and can't for the life of me figure out how to get a damn video on the computer. So, you get this entire blog post of my pussy. And how I love her so.
And also when I grow into a crazy cat women, I'll be able to read back and see when it all started ....
Oooh, and it's my lucky day because it's Tuesday. It's been forever since I played along with Rachel and Mr. Daddy at Once Upon a Miracle for True Story Tuesday. Here's my contribution. For more true stories, click on the box below
Speaking of shit .... I just want five minutes to myself in the washroom at work, just 5 minutes, is that too much to ask?
So, I started writing posts a while back in pink, with a label on them "chubby busting" because I was going to get thin dammit. That was March 25, today is September 21 (see how far behind I am in actually hitting "publish"?). I typed up just 4 chubby busting posts, haven't lost a farkin pound, and have seriously considered posting this on kijiji ... evil bitch
I decided it might be time a few weeks ago when I caught myself walking around the love seat with a jacket in hand, fully intending on putting it on the handle ... just like it used to sit in my old house .... as a coat rack. Also, since I've been on my couch the better part of the last 28 36 days, I decided that I needed a change in scenery. Not like, needed to go far from my couch or anything crazy like that ... I mean I needed to change my living room around. Which I did, and now there is certainly no room for that stupid elliptical trainer. Actually, the real reason the living room needed to be switched up was because the cushions were flattening & wearing out on one end on the couch and I was sportin a new cow-lick from where my head's been laying for extended periods of time. Got a little worried there that I might get a bald spot similar to the ones that babies get before they learn how to roll over. And since I changed the living room around, not only are my couch cushions and hair getting evened out, I was able to clearly see and admit to myself that I will never get on that elliptical trainer ever again. That was an insightful and productive day. Or maybe not so much because I started typing this up last week and haven't decided yet if the elliptical is really getting the boot or if I was just having a moment .... However, I am terrified of answering the door one day to the producers of Hoarders: Buried Alive with Sydnerella beside them crying about how she wants her momma and her home back. And even though I have been on my couch most of my free time since T-Bone isn't taking it up anymore, when I'm feeling particularly useless and antsy, I figure doing even one new thing will take my mind elsewhere. A little bit of shopping (or like last night ... a whole lotta shopping) for new, bigger sized clothes since chubby busting has failed, and making the rooms in my house a little easier to be in. I even made enough changes in my bedroom recently that I've finally been able to sleep in my bed .... not yet able to move T-Bone's housecoat off his side of the bed still, but I'm workin on it. I also should report that my car no longer looks like this ...
But like this ... thanks Cuz ...
In addition, I also started my course at the university (where I was outted as an expert in my department because I really should have taken these courses years ago), have managed my way through two three cases of beer by myself in a few weeks, have visited with people from my past since Jackie's funeral because life is too damn short to keep your friends at a distance, bought frames for some rubber-ducky pics that Sydnerella wants to hang (that are still sitting on the kitchen table from about a week ago), tried to change an LED light in my kitchen causing it to break, which brought me to Rona not once but twice because I keep picturing in my mind what it will take to fix the damn thing, and without the help of anyone, I swear to christ I'll fix that fucking light. And my lawn has even been mowed ... by my faux-husband of course, who has also since left me .... I'm not sure how much of this crappy, blah, mindless down time I am alloted, but I do see quite a bit more in my future ... here n there. Over-all, I'm not doing that bad. Even when my mind lands on Jackie. I have such happy and hilarious memories of her, it's easy to smile on the outside when I think of her. I should also add, that over time, I may randomly delete some of these blogs depending how pitiful they end up sounding. And of course will delete them if T-Bone magically cures himself from his bullshit and we end up back together. I will not, however, delete them if we just start sleeping together again. Which I would not be opposed to because I really don't care for this dry spell, regardless of the circumstances. And regardless of discovering my InfraTech Pro Body Massager long forgotten in a moving box.
(Sept 28 update) - Judgey Judgersons, hit the little X in the corner of the screen now!!
And speaking of sleeping with T-Bone, he seduced me Sunday. And I let him. I know I probably shouldn't have been at his house to begin with, just like I probably shouldn't have been with him a few days before, but I really really didn't think we'd end up doing the nasty in his living room while we drank coffee, smoked cigarettes, and watched the Crazies. I didn't expect it sooo much so that my legs were soft and fluffy with three weeks of growth ladies n gentlemen and I haven't seen my bush-whacker in .... uh, a really long time. We totally did it 80's style. Twice. And it really wasn't so much a seduction as it was ... "come lay here so I can reach your boobs". 15 minutes later I was back in my car driving home, with a pretty big smile, feeling pretty damn satisfied. And I don't even care. I don't regret it, I'm not making excuses for it, I'm not ashamed (sawwy Silly Sally - I LIED!). It was fanfuckingtastic. Both times. What of it?
Mid-2006 was the start of an almost year long man-craze I went on after I was completely over my baby-daddy. I was faithful to him for almost 10 years ... so I was on a mission. Have fun, score lots. And did I ever. It started with my still faux-husband, cruised over a three month rebound-boy who was as unattractive as pooh, past a few random hook ups and dates, and even covered a two-month relationship I was having with a fantastic guy that I clicked with ... hard. He was good in my mind and in my heart. He drove an Escalade and took me to hockey games. He wanted to get serious before I was ready, so I quickly let him go, but I still think fondly of him when I hear Pour Some Sugar On Me. We weren't sleeping together though because I just couldn't let go of the hot 22 year old that I had given exclusive rights to my lady-bits. From January to May 2007, I had flowers delivered to me at work six times. SIX. The receptionist and most of the women on my floor were jealous. I was having fun and I thought I was just getting warmed up. Until one unplanned day in April 2007. I was dragged to a party by my sister where there was a handful of single boys. One of whom spent a little more time talking to me than the rest and who I thought was kinda cute. When the night was at it's close and although not drunk, but not steady enough to drive, my sister, Silly Sally, announced in the middle of the living room that her sister couldn't drive and that someone had to make sure I had a place to sleep. She looked around, then pointed at Travis, who was in the middle of poker hand. He folded his cards, probably an Ace-high flush, and found us a spare room. We laid in the bed until 7am. Talking, laughing, kissing, talking, and laughing. And we did that a few more nights over the following six weeks until I decided he had waited long enough ... hell ... I had waited long enough. We had been holed up in his bedroom for three days, had some heavy make out sessions, and I hadn't scored in .... well, a long time. So we had the schnoo-schnoo. And I was hooked. So hooked that when I fell in love with him in the weeks that followed, I didn't even notice. If felt good, felt great, I had no idea what it was. As summer ended, we packed it in. I was a little blue, but happy to have had such a wonderful time with him, to meet so many great people, to have made so many great memories. At the end of that September, I got an unexpected 2am booty call from Travis, which then turned into our relationship. His exact words to me one month ago today when he left me on the couch were "I was looking left, and you hit me with a right!" Only that time, September 2007, I admitted to myself that I loved him and probably should be careful. The year that followed was sticky. Fabulous. Hard. Easy. Crazy. Fun. Complicated. I was in love with someone who was obviously in love with me, but also obviously pretty messed up. I took it in stride because I had a pre-teen to raise and a full time job anyway. I told myself I didn't have enough time for a full-time relationship and decided I wasn't willing to let him go to start a search for something that everyone was telling me I sooo deserved, that I still argue may not even exist. We dropped the L-bomb a year after we met, then broke up shortly after. We found our way back together within weeks, maybe a month, mostly because I was too fabulous for him to let go of, and we decided to give it a real shot. We had been exclusive, loved each other, enjoyed each other. We had fun together, never fought and didn't need to be together every waking minute. I didn't need him to be my knight in shining armour. I was financially stable, raising my own child, buying my own house, I had built my own life. He had a perfect little spot in it, and I had a perfect spot in his. I began to appreciate our time apart - when he was on Travis-time, which then led to an even stronger appreciation for the time we spent together. We became a solid part of each others lives, each others circle of friends, and families. And against the current, started making our impossible relationship work. I sometimes wished he was my future husband, step-dad (or Pappa Travis he used to joke) to my child. But most times, I was just happy to accept what was right in front of me because it was really great. He made me so happy, smile so big, and laugh so goddam hard, that when I thought of my life without him, I'd cringe. I couldn't imagine it, I still can't. But, in the back of my mind and certainly not all the time, I had thoughts about walking away ... I started wondering sometimes what my life would be like if we weren't together, if we had let whatever this was die long ago. Where would I be? What type of man would be by my side? Would there be a man? Hell ... would there be more kids? (ok, I even made myself shudder a little at that thought .... ). It's September 2010 and I'm facing what maybe I should have already. Maybe. But then I wouldn't have so many good times to look back on, wouldn't have had the pleasure and experiences with this man that doesn't even know how wonderful he is. The rotten, gut-wrenching shit I'm faced with now is that I love him. I love him and I probably have to let him go. And if this magic he's trying to find, or whatever he thinks he needs to take away his troubles and bring him back to me never comes, I'll have to be okay with that. Correction, I will be ok with that. One day. Far off in the future. My mind is telling me this. And thank god for my mind, because my heart is telling me to go all crazy bitch and beg him to come back.
How can I start my own meme? I think this is a great idea now that we are living in a time where there's a camera built in to pretty much every electronic device we carry around. Before I had my crackberry, I never thought of taking random pics of shit while I go about my day. My old cell phone is full of pictures of Trooper, Kid Rock, and Rod Stewart from their concerts, and a bunch of my cat. I love my cat. But as I scrolled through my pics Saturday evening to show a screaming two year old in attempt to shut him up, I realized just how much fun I've had with my blackberry camera. Aside from finding several pics that a screaming two year old snotty pizza crusted lip kissed of my cat (I love my cat AND my 13 year old), hermit crabs, ducks, geese, monkeys, I found enough pics that I've taken to keep myself thoroughly entertained. In the last few weeks, it's been hard to feel even close to happy, but I smiled at these pics big and it's time to show them to the world ... or to my 57 followers. Heart you all.
Huh?
Phew! What a relief ...
Bad pic, but still makes me laugh. Phil Helmuth throwing yet another tantrum after getting knocked out of the WSOP by "the worst poker player in history"
Another bad pic, but it's Green Peace here to save us and our province. The sign reads "Separate Oil and State" and what you also can't see are the people that are blowing in the wind under the sign in harnesses and shorts on one of the coldest days of summer trying to hold the sign steady. I feel no guilt for working in oil and gas, as I already learnt, God is not mad at me
Huh?
I love my cat
My daughter didn't get her fabulous skin tone and ability to tan vs burn from me. I am jealous, it's sad. This was after a week of camping
When you find yourself driving behind this on a Monday when you are still an hour from work, it's pretty much guaranteed you're going to have a shitty day
After 14 vodka cokes, when your shoes fall apart, it doesn't really matter (note: this is not me ... I am taking the pics, silly)
After 14 vodka cokes, it also doesn't matter what you're pulling out of your purse and how many people are staring. Even the couple with the 10 year old kid beside us. We found them INSIDE the restaurant shortly after this, and all the falling, and all the girl/girl kissing, and all the penis talk, fuck bombs, C bombs. But seriously, a patio in downtown Calgary on one of the only sunny days of summer? Leave the kids at home people ... this is ADULT time
My cat loves Tim Hortons Chili. I love my cat
Uber-bad pic, but my point is that mothers are always right. Snotty 13 year old girls that are throwing a fucking fit because they can't find their DS anywhere and their mothers lost it, even though they were told repeatedly to look under all couches, beds, futons are always wrong. The pic is supposed to be of the DS that was lost forever at the most important time of Sydnerella's life, that *I* found sitting right under her futon where there was absolutely nothing concealing it after she swore up and down she looked EVERYWHERE so *I* must have lost it. The is evidence that I am always right ... sucka
Purple camo courier. Matching hat, pants, and BELLY SHIRT. Yes, this is a dude
Just a pic of Synderella and I coming to the finish line of the Mothers Day run and walk
And I had to save the best for last ....
Fucking creepy dude that stares at you when you pee at the pub where my soccer team drinks. I didn't even notice him until AFTER I peed. Turned around to flush and was face to face with buddy. Eee so icky, and yet I couldn't stop staring ..
So that was fun, I'll keep my eyes peeled and crackberry ready for more and try to make this a regular Monday blog. If anyone reading this knows how I can make a meme, all education is appreciated ....
Because I can't think of enough crap to make regular blog posts lately, I'll keep it as a work in progress until I am ready. Just some random shit that could probably be summarized and tweeted about, but I have no followers. I'm not witty enough or can't make the funny shit I see sound funny quickly, and the last 18 days worth of tweets are enough to make me wanna slash my wrists, or better yet, the wrists of someone I really really dislike.
A female co-worker came into my office with a bottle of juice, she's my age and about half my body-mass, and asked me to open her bottle for her, and she passes two men on her way to mine (flattered?). This is the same co-worker who came into my office a while back and asked if I could go show her where the power button on her computer was....
I just got an e-mail from a partner confirming a cheque swap. We are meeting in my usual place for cheque swaps with partners ... Tim Hortons. Because I've never met these people, we always e-mail a quick description of what we are wearing so we aren't going up to random people demanding cash. Mr. Ma, who I am on my way to meet now, tells me he is wearing a stripeS shirt and has black/brown short hairS. (Just a few short hairs?)
One of my favorite bloggers has been blog-jacked, as well as what looks like several others. It's so bizarre, you just have to read it for yourself to believe it, and to get a good laugh really. The blog-jacked is Aunt Becky and I'm linking you to her post about it so you can also go to the blog-jacker and see if you want, really will make you feel better about yourself if you've ever questioned your own sanity. You know you are crazy when ....
My daughter has multiple personality disorder. There is "Sydney" and then there is "Sydney". The first Sydney has an almost angelic voice with a sweet look on her face and a fabulous sense of humour. The second Sydney has a scary monster voice and looks as if she wants to rip the heads of kittens. I am choosing to believe that Sweet Sydney is my daughter, and Scary Sydney is her alter, but who knows ....
There is a lady (and I'm using that term loosely) in my office who enjoys pooping. I know how odd and random that must sound, but imagine what was going through my mind the first time I heard her in the stall directly beside me making erotic noises with each push. If I didn't hear the result hitting the water, I would have fully believed she was gettin herself off in there. I know, I'm sorry ... she's yucky and I have a hard time looking at her.
My mom's out of the hospital after 10 days. She does have emphysema, but did not require an oxygen tank. She's to pop a handful of pills a day, puff on a few inhalers, and she's good to go. Mr. Sister says she'll be hiking in no time. My hope is that she can just manage to walk around Wal-Mart at a normal persons pace. I have smoked roughly 378 packs of cigarettes since August 22. I know I have to quit, but I am terrified of the outcome. Let's see.... This ....
or this ...
Speaking of which, I've been watching a friend shed her chub since her break-up. I'm fat (not epic fat or anything, don't worry yet ..) and bloaty and need new clothes. I'm on my couch all the time, and I have a beer with clamato juice and chips every night before I fall asleep. I even sleep on my couch. I haven't slept in my bed in weeks, T-Bone's housecoat is still where he left it on his side of the bed the last time he took a shower at my house (if you're judging me, please fuck off just a little bit). I don't know what my kid thinks about this, but my cat is thrilled. She can get her face right up to mine while whining for me to let her out to pee at 4am. I love her.
My daughter tries to forbid me to wear my new skinny jeans. Of course, I don't call them skinnies. I call them my new pair of jeans that I scored for $25 that almost completely hides my muffin top (die muffin top bitch). She tells me I'm too old to wear them! The fuck?! Now I do understand that kids generally think their parents just old farts, but I'm 31 for fucksakes. I am this close <-----> to borrowing her Mariana's Trench t-shirt, throwing on her big clunky DC skate shoes, and meeting her at her locker after school with my bangs hanging in my face ... I bet her friends would think I'm hip. No?
Survivor starts in less than a week. Yay, more couch time. I'm usually excited to join my office Survivor pool, but am feeling a little hesitant to join this time. The big hyper guy at work that organizes it is a sucker for the spoilers. No not only does he calculate everyones points, he also has an idea beforehand how the show will go. He usually wins his own pool. I've come in second place once, but I would rather not even have the chance to win at all if it means I have to listen to his spoilers. I'm a die-hard fan, hard core. I almost cut a bitch last season when she posted the winner on her facebook before I had watched the show.
