Reason 872 Why I Should Never Have Told Him I Have a Blog

In an attempt to discreetly pen this post without coming off as a ho-bag, I sat with The Donor the other night, bouncing some ideas I had for it off of him.  He listened for a while, and then put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Honey, I think you've just crossed the line."  I said, "I know, I know, I just don't know how to blog this properly" and he replied, "No, honey, with me.  You just crossed MY line."

My husband has a line.  I finally crossed it.  It did not feel awesome.

So, yeah, I'm just going to giggle in this guy's general direction today and leave it at that.


If that was too vague for you, my husband says GOOD and Drop It Already and That's My WIFE You're Talking About, and I say click here.

Handled Delicately

My sister in law and I have a deal.  She handles the drug talks and I handle the sex talks with all four of our kids.  Why?  Because she, um, well, did the drugs and I did, um, err, everything else*.

So when the phone rang six years ago and she was dry heaving into the line because my nephew had "an accident" the night before, I was totally ready to field that call.  I knew exactly what I wanted to say to him, I wasn't nervous about it, I was ready.  He was 11, it was time.   It was my job, my part of the bargain, and I was prepared.   Turns out, he wasn't, and his step-father eventually had to handle it.

But isn't it funny how when it's not your kid, it's just no big deal.

And now I have entered the dangerously deep waters of blogging, where there are things I am not at liberty to discuss anymore.  All this time, my kids experiences have also been my experiences.  Their stories are my stories.  Our lives have been intertwined the way children's and parent's lives are supposed to be.  But now I have this kid who is just about 11 years old, and his life is just that.  HIS.  Some things are just not mine to share anymore.

Unless, of course, it involves the laundry, which is my job.  Then he's just screwed.

He was asleep on the couch when I came down the other day.  When he woke, I casually asked why and he casually replied that he'd had an accident.  I nonchalantly reminded him that I peed in his dad's bed once when we were dating, that it happens to the best of us, and we both had a good laugh over the whole thing.  As I walked into the kitchen I mumbled over my shoulder, "Don't worry, dude; I'll have your sheets washed before you get ho...."

And that's about when I started dry heaving.

After all, he will be turning 11 soon.  He is getting zits.  He does smell like the bottom of a horse's foot.  It's time, right?  Not right.  Not time for my baby, nuh uh.  So, I'm grinding the coffee beans thinking, "Oh god, what do I DO here?  Do I go look?  Do I even know what I'm looking for?  Do I ask him?  Do I smell his sheets?  ARGH."  While the coffee got to brewing he came in the kitchen for a glass of water, and I, not brave enough to risk the mental image that would be burned into my brain for eternity, put on my therapy grin and just asked him.

"So, are you sure it was pee?"


"Dude, you're almost 11.  It could not be pee.  Your cousin thought it was pee the first time, too."


"So, you're certain that it's pee?"


I asked his father to check things out for me, because yeah, eww.  Also, no.  Either I forgot to check back in with his father or his father forgot to check in the first place, but after a few hours spent in astonishingly impressive denial I had to go do some laundry downstairs.  Whatever, I grab the basket and I get almost all the way down when I see sheets all over the floor.

This cannot still be happening.  God save me from this, please.  PLEASE.

I gave God the length of time it took me to switch loads, but little did I know that God can hold a grudge for a really long time.  The sheets remained crumpled on the floor, and I was left to view the carnage.  Alone.

I lifted, with a lightsaber.  I poked, with a shoe.  I sniffed, from a distance.  I looked, through one squinted eye.  Friends, the jury is still out.  I just don't know what exactly I was looking for, you know?  And I am more than happy to call it peepee and get on with my fake plastic life anyway.  Now pass the Reader's Digest and let's get on with it.

Not entirely true.  I'm kind of a prude, actually.  Don't tell anyone.

Double Whammy

Hello, and welcome to National Write a Bunch of Ridiculous Crap For Other People on the Internet Day!  Or N-W-A-BORC-FOPO-TID, as it's more commonly known.  To me.  Intoxicated.  Bygones.

I had this really funny post written about the really funny post I wrote for Work It Mom, but now that would be too much reading.  Because I also have a really funny post going up at Sarcastic Mom today.  And those two posts may just be the two most unembellished, autobiographical posts I've ever written.  I don't think I exaggerated so much as once in either post.  Which is really, really saying something for me.

If I were you, I'd go eat some cookies.  You're looking thin.  If I was someone else entirely, I'd go read those posts.  One's about sex, and the other one is about, um, errr, sex.  In Nashville.

Someday I'll get my own blog, I swear.

You Will Be Assimilated. Resistance is Futile.

We are not Canadians.  We have to get on our hands and knees and beg re-apply annually to live here.  Someday, they're going to get wise to us and throw our asses out.  Because of this, because we know it's coming eventually, we hold on to our Americanismness with clenched, white knuckles.  We celebrate the FOURTH of July, it's currently 41 degrees outdoors, not 4.  You know, American.

When nameless Canadian friends who live mere minutes from me but fear getting outed as a closet geek *ahemzoeyjane* say things like "You will be assimilated," we just laugh and go right on with our Yank ways until one day, we're on the phone with an American friend and we try to say that we're pr-ah-cessing something and then we stop, stutter, backtrack and say pr-oh-cessing something...."

Oh, fuck, we're totally Canadian, eh.

Since we're now all a bunch of hosers, we've decided to apply for Permanent Residency.  That means we get to live here for 5 whole years before I have to start flashing immigration officers we have to re-apply again.  That means that it doesn't matter where we work, because my husband's job will not be the only reason we're allowed to be here.  That means that I will not have to answer 5,000 questions every time I have to cross the border into or out of America.

That means we're making a commitment for the first time in our adult lives.  And it's scaring the crap out of us.  It's like buying a house, except instead of "house" it's a "whole freaking country."  Which still won't let us vote.  Bygones.

We've been talking about what that entails, becoming permanent residents with capital letters, and aside from the shitty things (re-importing the cars, etc) we have to start thinking about some medical business.

If we're going to try to get 5 unconditional years here, there's a chance they'll say Hell No and then not renew us when we're up next.  This kind of puts the pressure on us to get some things done that are covered under our MSP (the dreaded socialist health care...oooooo) before they get the chance to kick us to the curb.  And by "things", naturally I mean "balls."

We've officially decided that we're not having any more kids.  We've officially decided that The Donor drew the short end of the stick on this one, mainly because now he'll know when we get a dude for a mailman.  We've had several long, drawn out discussions about whether or not we're really really sure we're done, and in the end I said that I was done making babies and he said "Good, because I'm so done with you making babies."

No ladies, he's not available, thanks for asking.

Maybe we'll foster a child someday when we have a bigger house, but daddy's getting the old snip-snip.  Soon.  Before he chickens out soon.

We were talking about it last night and he was saying how he was nervous (naturally), how he didn't think he could make the appointment.  I tried to make it all about me reassure him by reminding him that someone's ass once came out of my vagina and a few minutes on ice was nothing compared to that pain, and of course he countered with "You're not going to make me feel bad about that; you were built for it.  My boys weren't built for razor blades."

And no, he doesn't have any brothers either, girls.  Sorry.

Then he mentioned that he was afraid of something else, too, and I asked what.  He said he was afraid that he would lose the, um, desire, after the procedure.  That he'd be afraid to test out the re-vamped tool kit.  You know, like Peter Griffin did in that Family Guy episode.  I kindly reminded him that I gained 105 pounds carrying the seed of his over-zealous loins, that I incurred the wrath of the Frankenvulva pushing his son's big, beautiful, perfectly round head out, that I was afraid to sit down for two months after our son was born, and that if he wanted to know about losing your will to fuck, I could tell him all about it.

13 years later, I can still take his breath away.   It's a beautiful thing, really.  But he's still getting the damn vasectomy.

I Never Want to See The Letters H-T-M or L Again.

The Bloggess, Lilbd and me.  TRASHED.

None of the rest matters anymore, but damn I love this picture.

It's Sunday, January 12th, which means that in 24 hours the polls close for voting on the 2008 Weblogs Awards and the nominations end for the 2009 Bloggies.  Which are kind of big deals, insofar as blogging goes.  I'm not going to win a damn thing, because this blog makes no sense (I know this; I'm okay with this; I make no sense, either; who uses four semicolons in one sentence?) so I could not mention it, because I am a petty bitch* or I could drink the Kool-Aid and mention it, and now you all will know that I actually do give a rat's ass about web awards.

Run on sentences just feel good sometimes.

Without further ado, awards.  People who I think should win them.

2008 Weblogs:  "The Weblog Awards are the world's largest blog competition with over 545,000 votes cast in 2007 edition and nearly two million votes cast in all editions since 2003."  This is not small potatoes.  I don't care about most of the categories, but some I certainly do. Here they are, and the finalists I'm voting for, with tragic bias.  (Click the link to vote, if you're into that sort of thing.)

  • Best New Blog: Blog Nosh.

  • Best Humour Blog: The Bloggess.  Why?  Because.

  • Best Comic Strip: XKCD.  It'll change your life.

  • Best Parenting Blog: Looky, Daddy.  I think I may have had a crush on him in 7th grade.

  • Best Pet Blog: Fuck You, Penguin.  Also, life altering.  Especially if you smoka da weed.  Which I don't.  Still.

  • Best Diarist: Velveteen Mind.  Disclaimer: I work for her.  And I have a crush on her.  Shut up.

  • Best Canadian Blog: Attack of the Redneck Mommy.  Every other nominee is a political blogger, and none of them will show me their rack.

  • Best Large Blog: Protein Wisdom.  So long as he's not too drunk.  Which he usually is.

  • Best Up And Coming Blog: If Mom Says It's Okay.  We totally KNOW her!  She's Tara in the comments!  Eeeek!

Voting ends TOMORROW.  Just sayin'.

2009 Bloggies: This is still nomination time, and the most nominated blogs move on to the finals.  Why do we care?  This is the award who's winners get announced at SXSW, which is not at all little thing.  It's huge, come on.  Since it's still nomination time, I could go on ALL day, but I'll narrow it down to who I'd nominate if I had only one valid email address, and couldn't repeat anyone.

Still here?  Today's the last day.  Go forth and rock the vote!

*and, according to a tag left by one anonymous Stumble user, a self-absorbed-cunt, which leaves me in a precarious juxtaposition: I can leave it and let anyone who stumbles upon it think, Wow, that chick's a self-absorbed-cunt, or I can go in and rate my own post in order to remove that tag, thereby making myself, you guessed it, a self-absorbed-cunt.  Decisions, decisions....