Get Out the Shovel, Kids. We Be Hunting Easter Eggs

The warm winds of spring came blowing this morning and in an unusually inspired move, I threw on my running shoes and headed out for the first run of the season. I didn’t die, which is something! I knew it wouldn’t be pretty, but it also wasn’t as bad as I was expecting. I didn’t push too hard and I remained steady…everything else did too. Luckily for me, there was barely anybody out and about ( no, it’s not ‘oot and aboot’..fuck off) so I was virtually invisible! Invisibility is ever so useful (Gawd I’m turning British as I write this. “Evah so wonderful, Fletcha! Fletcha?!” ) I should have Potter’s cloak since I could use it for good and not evil…most of the time. Did I mention I’m planning WORLD DOMINATION through invisibility? No? Huh. Kinda explains ma absence from the world as of late, huh? Huh? I digress….
Anyways, now that I’ve rediscovered my running bug, the weather should cooperate…BECAUSE I SAID SO. It won’t I’m sure, but one can hope. A foot of snow, anybody? Yeah…should be inundating ma driveway by ohhh…SATURDAY MAYBE??!! Ugh.
Happy Easter, Damnit! Here’s some snow and happy shoveling! I hid the chocolate Easter eggs under the mountain of snow and ice, kids. Good luck finding them! Just think how overjoyed you’ll be when you dig through the snow with one of those plastic shovels you use at the beach, and find a practically frozen chocolate egg stuck to the pavement on the driveway. In a spirited display of Easter verve, the neighbour gets out the blow torch and melts that sucker until it’s no longer stuck and just a puddle of chocolate ooziness all over the clean semi-dry pavement. Yummmm….. Don’t get chocolate all over your mittens, kid. Somebody has to clean that shit up! Yay Easter!

These babies are going diving in the snow

These babies are going diving in the snow

Maybe I should hide eggs in the shed, too. Put some in the snow blower so when Hubby goes to use it, EGGS GO A’FLYIN’ !! It’ll be like the turkey toss from WKRP that went horribly awry, only with chocolate eggs flying through the air. The neighbours should watch out, lest they lose an eye from a bulleting Easter egg hurtling through space. “Pat! Duck! You almost got winged by that pretty purple Easter Egg!”


With any luck, her cat will eat it….
Ahhh….it’s all fun until somebody loses an eye.
Happy Easter and play safe with those eggs. No, you can’t borrow my blow torch…I’ll need it come Sunday morning. We’ll be making smores and singing Kumbaya in hopes Spring will return before June…

 

I Blame The Polar Vortex, The Black Hole and The Higgs Boson Particle For My Inability To Walk Without Falling…and Rob Ford

As I took my (hopefully) last and fateful fall in the driveway by way of black ice, ( I shall call it black ice ‘cause it was ice and the pavement is black and I didn’t see it with all that glaring ball of light shining in my eyes last week..something we have not seen most of these 5 mths of hell…otherwise known as winter) I began to laugh, only it hurt so much I had to stop and realized if H was looking out her window right at that exact moment, she would have caught me just gangling up from behind my car and looking to my right at the man and children pretending not to have seen my butt slam, only to almost slip again from all the laughter and hilarity going on…and then watch as my car door slammed the mirror on daughter’s car. A great start to an obviously even greater day!
My shoulder has been ripped in several locations due to my ever evolving ‘exercise journey’ that involved one too many downward dogs and pushups. I can only assume this from the overzealous amount of pain that has decided to envelop me, leaving me sobbing in pain a few nights as no sleeping position was comfortable. The dog kept rescuing socks from the laundry basket in hopes that these gifts would appease my crying. Gifts of socks are always appreciated, but at the witching hour of midnight, I could have done without. I managed to get a spot that was a lesser degree of pain from exquisite (doctors call pain ‘uncomfortable’ or ‘exquisite’…never ‘excruciating’…they’ve obviously never given birth sans pain relievers or epidurals..or torn muscles in their shoulders they never realized they had) and got a few hours rest. It still hurts. I need chocolate and alcohol. Maybe a sling. A new shoulder? A varying degrees of drugs – street or legal….oh, sorry “medication”….ugh.
I’ve been absent from the blogosphere as of late and have no reason whatsoever for my lack of presence than…ummm….wait a minute, I’m thinking… Laziness…hmm…yep, that about sums it up.

Lazeh..lazy…lazarona….lazarooni…lazalazalaxidaisical laziness.

Me. I’ll get a t-shirt with that emblazoned on the front.
Me: LAZALAZALAXIDAISICAL LAZINESS QUEEN.
BOW TO YOUR QUEEN.
WAIT. DON’T GET UP. STAY THERE. IT’S MORE COMFY AND STUFF. I KNOW YOU WANNA BOW, SO THAT COUNTS. MAKE ROOM, I’M COMIN’ OVER. IT’S EXHAUSTING BEING A QUEEN.
MY SHOULDER HURTS..… I NEED ICE.

NO, NOT FOR MY SHOULDER FOR MA DRINK! GEESH.

exhausted meme

 

Topless and Clueless in Dreamland

dream

Have you ever had one of those dreams where you are with your brother to go pick up your elderly mother because you have to take her to appointments and when you are on your way out of the door of the building, you all stop to check her mailbox, then you decide you have to pee so your brother says “okay, we’ll meet you in the car” and then you take off your jacket and when you do you’re suddenly topless so you hold a large envelope in front of your chest (obviously, the jacket has disappeared or disintegrated into the great beyond) and you think “no biggie” and walk around looking for a washroom totally topless without being arrested or looked upon strangely, then find a random toilet that is sitting without walls or the comfort of a stall in a large room that is occupied by children and by another woman, who can only be described as the daycare worker, so you decide that this facility is the best choice you currently have so you whip down your pants, (still topless with the envelope clutched between your teeth to hide your bare bosom…apparently peeing in front of children and daycare workers is not as hideous as a bare chest) and proceed to pee when suddenly one of the daycare workers appears and says “is everything okay down there?” pointing to your nether regions or vajajay and you say “of course” and you know she really just wants you to leave so she says “well, it may not be after this.  There’s stuff on the toilet paper” and you don’t want to give her the satisfaction of the growing fear that something has contaminated your vajayjay, so you nonchalantly finish your business, rise and on the way out say “Oh, well at least I have a vagina” (Best. Comeback. Ever.) and walk away with the envelope still masking your chest as you saunter out to catch the escalator that inevitably leads to a dark room?  And then you wake up and have to pee so you go to your bathroom and are grateful you have walls, a door and no daycare worker sneering and asking about the current status of your vajayjay?

Yeah, me neither.

I blame the polar/arctic/insane vortex for this.  Winter sucks.

The Double Dutch Tragedy of 1975

Falling, tripping and losing my balance has all led to my face kissing cement, parking barriers, random walls, rubber balls and softballs at some point in my life.  It’s not that I’m totally inept with the art of walking, it’s just that I’m too preoccupied with other variances occurring within my plane of vision to be particularly careful.

My experience with aptly titled ‘face plants’ started early on in my young life.  Ever the classic klutz, I managed to pull off some of the most infamous and awkward moments which invariably involved sports.  So, basically I suck at all sports.  Okay, and walking is tough, too.

To those of you who know me, my ineptitude for any and all sporting activities became glaringly obvious to you only after observing a phys ed class with me.  Or witnessing when I tried to play volleyball, or ever attempted to catch a basketball, or swing a bat, or throw a ball, or kick a soccer ball or stand on skates (both the roller kind…what?  I’m old enough…and ice)  Clearly, a painful experience for everyone.

My initial experience with falling causing any major bodily harm was probably a lot sooner than the one I am about to describe, however, since memories are only accessible to the human mind normally at or after the age of three,  I can only assume that the infamous Double Dutch Tragedy of 1975 was just one that I could remember out of a possible one hundred.

It was a hot summer day.  The sun was blazing down from a periwinkle sky and school had been out for a few weeks. The air was thick with humidity and the abundant energy of the pre-pubescent boys and girls anxious for fun, activity and the ring of the Dickie Dee truck. (those of you not familiar, Dickie Dee was most famous guy in the ‘hood bringing ice cream treats for every kid lucky enough to score a quarter)   The kids from my neighbourhood congregated in the parking lot where the cars were scant and enough room remained available for double dutch tournaments for the girls on one end and ball hockey games for the boys at the opposite end.  The townhouses we occupied were situated in a semi-circle, the parking at the centre, the houses facing the lot.  I somehow managed to participate in both these sports, albeit in the ill-fated ball hockey game as a bystander/participant/ball catcher-gone-horribly-awry, but that’s another story.

The skipping game of double dutch required skilled timing, lightening fast reflexes and athletic ability akin to an Olympic gymnast in order to pull off the tricks and jumps all the girls were doing. You can see how that drew me to this game.

The rope turners were usually either two girls who, sadly, were at the bottom of the pecking order and who were just tall enough to make sure the rope just skimmed the ground when it was turned, or jumpers who were out by missing a jump and forced to take a turn at the ropes.  A toddler old enough to stand and turn ropes would have made due, but for some reason the mothers refused to put them out in a parking lot with a bunch of over obsessed double dutch enthusiasts and pre-teen ball hockey boys.  Go figure.  The jumpers were usually the girls who were so consumed with getting all the tricks and quick jumpy moves just perfect, that they usually took most of the skipping time.  And then there were girls like me.  Oh, sure we could jump and maybe even do a one foot at a time jump, but as for turning or touching the ground whilst jumping, that was a near impossibility.  We were lucky we were given a chance to participate at all.

We had to watch out for the cranky rope turners.  These were girls who wanted to be the jumpers but were relegated to have their turn doing rope duty and none too pleased about it.  You didn’t want to risk taking a turn jumping in between the ropes of these girls.  The perpetual whipping from the one hundred mile an hour lines proved detrimental to anyone brave enough to step foot in between.  This is where the lightening fast reflexes came into play.  One had to be quick so as not to get one’s face whipped or feet pulled out from under by the cranky rope turners, who if they happened to catch one unsuspecting jumper, just smiled an evil sort of grin then dropped their ropes declaring it was their turn to jump.

We sorted out who was turning and who was jumping first by taking orders from the bossy ones, then assuming our rightful place at the turner position.  After an hour of turning, I wanted a chance to jump.  Since it was an exceptionally humid day, some of the jumpers were getting hot and tired, so they took the opportunity to cool down and let one of the lame younger turners take a jump.  Gleefully, I took my stance and waited for the girls to start turning.  The ropes whipped by my face, the breeze tickling my nose as I closed my eyes and launched into a perfect entrance.  I opened my eyes and was jumping.  I did it!  I survived the initial rope peeling and managed to get in between the wildly swinging lines.  I jumped and soared and was about to exit for the next jumper to have a turn when things went horribly wrong.  My foot became twisted in one of the ropes and instead of sailing elegantly out onto the side to watch the other jumper, I went crashing down onto the hard cement. I opened my eyes to hear the screams of the other girls coming to my rescue.  I attempted to get up, but felt an awful stinging in my knee.  I looked down at my raw red palms, then at the skin hanging from my knee as the blood trickled down and I began to cry.  As my face crumpled into shocked pain, I felt an awkward stinging from my chin and forehead.

That's what I would have been doing had my face not decided to go before my hands....

That’s what I would have been doing had my face not decided to go before my hands….

The girls saw the blood streaming from my face, my leg and my knee and immediately went into Florence Nightingale mode.  Somebody yelled for my mother, somebody else went knocking on some random neighbour’s door and one girl tried to soothe my pain by saying “Ewwww…you’re bleeding from your face!”  She’s now a Therapeutic Counselor for accident victims of double dutch tragedies.

I remember getting up, the blood streaming from my face and my knee and my mother running out to see what all the commotion was about.  One look at my bloodied and scraped face and the exclamation of “OH MY GOODNESS WHAT HAPPENED!”  sent all the girls running for the hills.  My mom snagged me from under the arm and I was taken inside.  A while later, after sponging off the stinging parts with warm washcloths then sending me into fits of throbbing pain with the hydrogen peroxide to ‘clean it out’  I managed to see my reflection. It wasn’t pretty.  I looked more like a monster from a horror movie than the freckled face jumper of a mere half an hour ago. The red patches of dried blood were quite the contrast to my usually pale face, and my chin was swollen and sore after the beating it took smacking the cement.  After the blood had dried, scabs formed in a line from my forehead, along the bridge of my nose and all down my chin.  My thigh and my knee were not great, either.  Essentially, I had flown from the inner sanctions of the whipping ropes and belly flopped directly onto the pavement that had been baked in one hundred degree heat.

 My older brothers were very helpful and supportive with their “Nice face” remarks and “Gee, that looks like it hurt. Are you sure you were just skipping?  It looks like you were attacked by a rabid dog”.  I kinda wish I was.  Older brothers are awesome, really.

 “Well, at least you don’t have to go to school looking like that”.

Thanks, Mom.

Sadly, there have been many more incidents involving possible head injuries, bruising and even stitches once…but no broken bones which is a miracle, really.  Maybe I’ll tell the Ball Hockey Incident next.  It’s a classic.

Expiration Dates

Based on my level of joy over the return of refrigerator operation in my kitchen yesterday, I’m thinking I will pee myself with over-the-top excitement at the prospect of finally having my fireplace fixed with actual heat emanating from it.  The downward spiral of malfunctioning household equipment started with an expired water heater (it expired all over my basement floor), then the blower in the fireplace refused to blow any heat (it was like it was on strike or something) and culminated in the all-out total short-out and horrible death scene from my fridge. After a few sparks flew, it finally said ‘fuck this’ and quit.  No ‘good bye’, no ‘see ya around’ , no ‘it’s been nice, but I’ve had it’ tirades, just a few sparky moments and total blackness.  Thanks, Fridge.  Nice knowin’ ya, too.

The speedy repairman only took 30mins to fix what was wrong, but it took 2 weeks for the replacement part to arrive at my doorstep.  I love efficiency!

 That should be it for the malfunctioning appliances for a while…I hope. I remain ever optimistic at the prospect of having everything in working order simultaneously without short-outs, leaks, weird grinding noises or agonizing deaths by electrical sensors for the next couple of days at least.  I hope I’m not TOO optimistic…come to think of it, I take all that back. I don’t want to entice the Universe into fucking with my car or D1’s car or have son spontaneously combust or have a random window pane randomly become loose and fly across the street and break on the neighbour’s cat (wait…).  That could happen…I’ll shut up now.

I’ve been ranting about son’s hockey fundraising, hockey practices…just hockey shit in general, for the past few months.  It bothers me.  Seriously, I have a disorder about hockey.  It’s kinda scary, really.  I know very few people who suffer from Hockeyphobiatitis, but I have that.  I know I do.  It’s like a tumor that seeps into your brain and every time somebody mentions the word ‘hockey’ one goes into spasms of sweary-filled tirades of ire and physical convulsions that rival a dance-off between Carlton (from Fresh Prince..old show) and Elaine from Seinfeld.  It’s like the Tourrette’s squirrel with more sweariness and less cuteness…

I’m lucky that only one of my children participates in that sport, otherwise, I would have to find a good therapist and invest shares in a vineyard somewhere so I could get a discount on my alcoholism…seriously.

The hockey season is coming to a close…by April, I’m hoping.  So until then, you won’t find me at a rink near you, but if you do, I’ll be the one with the bottle of booze wrapped in the paper bag while singing “Oh Canada” and yelling obscenities at the referees…at least, I think that’s what everybody else does.

MY KIDS LOVE ME….

 

Shit I Learned This Week

1.Just because one is approaching the dreaded 50 year old mark at an alarming rate, does not mean one has to look OLD.  “Jesus, I’m going to bed with Rosie O’Donnell”…yeah.

2.   The Sears Repairman is as nice as nice can be, but knows shit about fixing shit, promises a part that is not in stock and hasn’t been since hockey was invented, and really has no interest in returning phone calls.

3.   Working is a part of life and it may not be your dream job, but it’s a job and be thankful for it…and heat is optional.

4.   The bathroom scale likes to fuck with your head on a weekly basis.  It’s basically that asshole on the back of the bus who says mean things and throws spit wads at you so you can turn around and give him the finger…then you get caught for making ‘inappropriate’ gestures.

5.   Exercising is painful but needs to be done.  Just like cleaning the toilet or cleaning up the dog poop or fundraising for hockey so people won’t send a torch-lit-pitch-fork-carrying posse after your ass…although, that sounds like more fun to me.

6.   People generally want to be left alone…unless you have cake.

7.   Beer is the only way to get a man to do anything useful.

8.   There’s a place for everything and everything in its place…unless you forget where that place is and then shit gets lost forever.

9.   When a young adult who is living in your house laments she has no money, she really means “I don’t wanna spend my money on stuff you can buy for me if you were a nice mom and not a mean mom like we all know you really are”.

10.When the neighbour’s kid stays for supper and you invariably serve something only one level above canned soup and grilled cheese but it’s really a mish-mash of left overs you threw in a casserole dish and poured sauce and cheese over it, and he says “it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.” You know he’s lying but you love it anyways because the kid finally ate something at your house that didn’t involve stale chips and flat pop.  I hope his mother is reading this.  I ACTUALLY FED YOUR KID SOMETHING KINDA SORTA HEALTHY AND HE DIDN’T DIE!  THERE WAS BROCCOLI IN IT!   And then, when your kid gives you a kiss and the neighbour’s kid jokingly asks for one too and you give him one on the cheek…he gets all giddy and runs downstairs.  Best. Time. Ever.

11.Downton Abbey is the show that doesn’t mind killing off main characters, being controversial and throwing Dame Maggie Smith all the cool one liners only a badass British Grandmother with a couple of Oscars on her mantle can handle. In other words, it’s awesome.

Badass...

Badass…

12.The U.S. banned all the cool Super Bowl commercials from being shown on Canadian television stations.  Does that mean they can ban the Kardashians and Honey Boo Boo from showing up here, too?  Please??????

13.People still can’t explain Chandler Bing’s job.

14.I think most days at work when I’m asked a totally bizarre question, my reaction is close to resembling Jim from Taxi.

Ugh...my head hurts

Ugh…my head hurts

I HAVE NO SWEET CLUE!

I HAVE NO SWEET CLUE!

The Refrigerator Challenge

The Challenge:  To see if I can stuff all of the food from the big refrigerator/freezer currently taking up space in ma kitchen and put it in the smaller refrigerator/freezer residing in the basement that we use as a beer fridge.

Why?: The pretty refrigerator that is now a pretty upscale picture hanger, shorted the fuck out.  Not my fault by the way!!

The Story: One day, after a hard day at work, I decided that I would enjoy a nice cold beverage.  In order to achieve the desired cold temperature, ice was a necessity.  In retrieving said ice from the ice dispenser…crushed, not cubed, the refrigerator made a loud ‘pop’  sound, followed by sparks and a random shut down of all systems.  On the ‘mutha board’ of the fridge, the ominous green glow of the following statement made me rethink ma stance on a robot invasion:

U R SCRWD

Thanks, Fridge.

WTF?:  Exactly what I said.  In hopes of discovering the cause of such a dramatic ice dispensing event, I opened the ice dispenser.  Lo and behold, I noticed the two dangling wires…WIRES??!  Yes.  Dangling wires.  Not a good sign.   Further investigation provided the cause of the shorting out.  There was a white sensor-thingy wrapped tightly around the ice dispensing auger which can only suggest that the sensor thingy was also dangling and thus became entwined in the auger when the ice dispenser was engaged.

What now?:  The pretty fridge has since been unplugged and remains a menacing reminder of all things digital that can go horribly awry simply by using it.   All food has been removed and promptly stuffed in an alternate location.  If you’re looking for ketchup, its search and rescue time, kids ‘cause I have no sweet clue where it is in that beer container we call a fridge downstairs.  Oh, yeah.  And sooo happy to be running up and down the stairs to get milk every five fucking minutes.

As for the beer…good luck with that!!!  I think it’s stuffed behind the lettuce and the sour cream on the opposite side of the mayonnaise and inside the pop container that we emptied and filled with apples…cause, where else are we gonna put the apples???

First question at DH which I hosted on Sunday night:  Got any ice??

Barney awesome