October 30, 2007

I love Halloween. By love, I mean, who invented it? Who came up with the tradition to take huge, orange vegetables and cut the tops of them off, scoop out the enormous amounts of stringy shit and seeds and then attempt to be ‘artistic’ on the surface of them? Huh? Who? I’d like to slap thank them hard.

I decided that my 2 youngest children needed five pumpkins as opposed to just one each. Who buys 5 pumpkins? Someone who seemed to forget just from last Halloween how absolutely fun it is to carve pumpkins. Wow. She sounds like a moron.

By the time I was done carving the said 5 pumpkins, my hands looked like I got into Lindsay Lohan’s medicine cabinet. No, no, no, not like all white n’ powdery and stuff, but orange. My hands honestly looked like I’d had a bad fight with a huge bottle of self tanner. I was day-glowing. They’re still slightly ‘tanned’ today even after showering. Not the most attractive look.

As for the pumpkins, I might take pictures of them tomorrow night when they are all lit up and glowing and share them with you because I know ya’ll (my tribute to Britney) be waiting for them. I have nothing else to say, so I’m going to go eat a pumpkin.

October 27, 2007

Don’t panic kids, I don’t think I really killed Barney, however, if you looked inside my washer you may have a different opinion about that:

Seems washing a fluffy, fuzzy, furry rug is not recommended because your washer will tear the shit out of it. It did come out of the dryer looking relatively nice. It was at least clean.

It’s Saturday afternoon and I’m absolutely not dressed looking so stylish, Vogue will probably be calling any minute now. I have cleaned my house, ran the dishwasher, talked to a friend (who I’m worried about…she called me the President of worry…sweet huh?), fed my kids, gave the cat 90 seconds of undivided attention, made beds, put laundry away and have given serious thought to making cookies. You know, because we all need bigger asses. Right now, it’s just an idea I’m rolling around in my head and it does require some effort, and quite frankly I’m not sure I have any effort to give today. I’m tired. Whiney I know.

I laughed at my husband last night because as we were all out at one of our favourite restaurants torturing the waitress having a nice meal, his cell phone rang. It was however, a wrong number unbeknownst to us for the 10 seconds he was on it. I hear, “Hello? Oh. No, okay, sure, thank you!” I ask him who’s calling him at 8pm on a Friday night on his business number?

Oh it was a wrong number.

Oh. Then why did you thank the person like they had just given you money or want a job done?

I always thank people who call and it’s a wrong number.

Oh. Umm. Why?

I’m not entirely sure.

Oh. crazy much?

I suppose, maybe that one day one of those wrong numbers could possibly turn into a potential customer, so hey, why not thank them for being so dumb, dialing a wrong number? Like who does that? I’ve never dialed the wrong number. Now my fingers have, those lazy bitches, not watching what they’re doing, but not me personally. See how that works? I’m on the ball at all times. Sharp.

‘Member how I was telling you about my new Crockpot/slowcooker? If you don’t, scroll down, it’s somewhere on here but I’m too lazy to go find the damn post and link it. It ain’t that far back. As I was saying, I’ve now cooked 3 meals in that thing and my family is happy that the cramps and vomiting have now stopped from my past cooking ‘incidents’. See how nicely life works out? Ya. Speaking of food, I must go eat something other than vodka apples. Have a great weekend and all that jazz.

October 23, 2007

For the last few days, we’ve been telling our youngest children that ‘daddy’s new worker, Bubba, is coming for a visit’. Who we were referring to, was our oldest son moving back here for the next few months to work. However, we wanted to surprise the kids, so we didn’t tell them, instead, made up a fictional dude named Bubba.

I had it all planned out, bought my son fake black mustache and sideburns, gave my husband (who was picking him up from the airport) a black hat to give him so he could cover his red hair as that would be a dead giveaway for the kids and told him (son) not to wear a familiar jacket or shirt etc. I envisioned ‘Bubba’ coming in (and I was videotaping it) and we’d make a whole production out of it, the kids would ask Bubba questions (and Bubba was a hick from somewhere) and it would be this funny, fabulous video, so funny infact, that we’d send it in to America’s Funniest Home Videos and win the $10,000 grand prize. Perhaps a bit of a stretch in my overactive imagination but hell, one can fantasize right? Right.

Husband and Bubba arrive, I have the video camera all poised and ready to go, signal them to come in and my daughter runs to the door because all evening she’d been peppering me with ‘Bubba’ questions. “Where’s he from? Why is he a hick? Does he have yucky teeth? Is he married? Does he have a car? A girlfriend? Is he cute or ugly”? Oh the questions kept coming. She runs to the door excitedly and in walks Bubba, wearing his familiar hat, red hair sticking out, familiar orange hoody, familiar jeans and workboots and although he did put on the fake mustache and sideburns it was not enough with every single freakin’ thing else looking much the same as when he left half a year ago. Therefore, immediately, my child says, ummm you’re not Bubba, you’re Sean. Well duh.

Was it too much to ask for husband and son to put the getup on as instructed? No, it was not. So, it was basically a half assed effort and of course he was instantly recognized. Then, then, then to top it off, my youngest son wasn’t even in the room, which I thought he was. No. He was on the toilet, so my oldest runs up (ah not even going for the pun there) and peeks in and surprises the crap (ah ahem, er, nevermind) out of my youngest boy, who just stares at him in shock. It was a priceless moment for sure, however, it’s not one that I’m going to share with the world, since my child might not appreciate the fact that his mother is videotaping this wonderous event, you know, with the whole toilet issue thing happening.

Next time some child of mine or any other relative, is coming for a visit/stay, and I want to make it some big surprise, I’m going to make sure I’m the one who goes to pick up said person so I can dress them appropriately for the whole, you know, SURPRISE factor and fantastic video capture moment. Geez. If you want something done right, such as shocking the shit outta your family, let the crazy bitch woman do it.

October 18, 2007

I worked sooo hard today. What did I do you ask? Let me tell you. I spent about, approximately, sorta, perhaps, kinda FIVE HOURS 20 minutes on the phone with my wench Angie and we SHOPPED browsed on Ebay. And, and, and, get this…..I witnessed her Ebay virginity being taken. How awesome is that? I walked her through the transaction like a proud mother bird watching her baby bird fall from the tree. Wait, not fall, fly. Ya fly. That’s what I meant. No, seriously, she did fine. And by fine, I mean she should step away from the Ebay. I’m kidding. She really did suck at the whole Ebay thing. Joking. She’s not to be trusted with a mouse and a monitor and an Ebay account. Again, I’m teasing. It’s called sarcasm. Try it sometime, you might just like it. I recommend it with a bowl of cereal. Nothin’ says fun like Shredded Wheat and a side of sarcasm. Yum. Ha. Where’s my medication you ask? Ya, I think I forgot to take it. Note to self: Find it.

Anyway, after doing all that shopping shopping shopping work, we decided we should get off the phone because 20 minutes was a long time. Nine am to 2pm, IS twenty minutes right? Right. Thought so. Calculating time is my forte. I should be a timesmith along with the wordsmith that I am. Ooh double threat. Shaaaazam!

Well apparently that’s normal and not shocking at all. Why? Because my kids thought nothing of their big brother, hiding in the downstairs bedroom in the closet after being away for 6 months. I shot a short video of the scenerio (less than 2 mins incase you were worried that’d it be some asine, long winded boring piece of crap home video but I can assure you, you will wish you had a bag of popcorn to fully enjoy the full one minute and 50 seconds…yawn) and you can see it HERE.

You can hear the insanity in my voice, wondering why my children didn’t think it was the least bit odd that Matt was IN. THE. CLOSET. As in HIDING. ‘Oh you’ve been away for 6 months but ya, of course you’d be hiding in the bedroom closet’. Sounds logical to me. They quickly moved on to regular chit chat, wanting him to see our new cat. You remember her, she’s a Ninja. They wanted to know how long he was going to be living here. Ryan wants to know if it’s forever. Ummm I love my children and having them here obviously, but let’s not get crazy. Forever is a very, very long time. So no, he won’t be living here forever. Let’s not use the word forever. For awhile is more appropriate. Just sayin’.

There you have it, he arrived safe and sound is back to work. Now stay tuned because I will have yet another video (get that popcorn poppin’), this time of my 20 year old who is coming back. I’m not even shitting you. However, he’s not staying as long. He’ll be leaving in March to go back east. It’ll be fun though, having all 4 kids home, wreaking havoc and causing chaos in our home. I mean who doesn’t just absolutely love chaos? Chaos is practically my middle name. Right after crazy.

October 17, 2007

I remember (sorta) giving birth to my first son. Hey, I was outta it for the most part. Back in the day, they gave you Demerol and it made me quesy and stoned.

Anyway, I was watching my soap opera yesterday, er, I mean I just happened to see this particular soap for the last 24 years and in one scene one of the main characters was giving birth. I had to laugh because her hair and makeup were perfectly done. I mean who does that? Who dolls themselves up before giving birth? Fine, I curled my hair and did my makeup moments after my water broke before heading to the hospital but give me a break. I was 19 and had no earthly idea that it would all be for nothing and I’d end up looking like a mostly drowned sewer rat. They didn’t teach that in Lamaze class.

As I was saying, in this particular scene, the ‘mom to be’ is looking like a model (albeit a plastic one…this bitch has had more work done than should be humanly allowed) and she’s not even sweating, even with pretend sweat and she’s letting her man hover over her like an annoying slobbering puppy and telling her how to push. Oh? You’re going to tell your wife (sure she’s your tv wife, but still) how to push an eight pound bowling ball out of her cooch? Pretty presumptious. Why can’t soaps portray childbirth as it really is? Woman is all sweaty and bitchy (although I was an angel, so I guess it could happen the tv way….blink blink blink), woman doesn’t want SO touching her, mauling her, talking to her, breathing around her, yells that it’s all ‘his’ fault for putting her in this pain, threatens to cut off his penis, swears she’s going to punch him in the balls just as soon as his spawn falls out of her birth canal, you know, all the sappy kinda stuff. Just once I’d like to see that on tv. Maybe someday that will happen.

Why am I discussing childbirth? Do I have a secret? Am I pregnant? Am I? Oh yes, I’m pregnant. With the pizza I ate too much of. Oink oink. And no I’m never watching this soap opera again except for right now and every day from here on out until I die because soap operas are dumb.

Remember when I talked about needing to get the bedroom downstairs in my home painted? No? Holy. You’ve got the attention span of a chihuahua. Anyway, no time to be petty on my part, I’ve things to discuss that are of great importance. Really.

I did it. I got the painting done. And with little incident. Unlike the time I painted this room. I did of course get some paint where I really didn’t want to. On my pants, in my hair, on my arms, on the blinds, on the floor, on the tv, on the dvd player and on the cat (don’t ask). Other than that, it went pretty smoothly. I really should become a professional painter. Home owners would love to see me coming with a can of paint and a brush. Roll your eyes here because I am.

Today my youngest children are going to be totally freaked out. Our 19 year is coming back to live with us and we’ve not told them. So we are dressing him up to disguise him and giving him a bag of potatoes to ‘pretend’ he’s selling door to door. You know, often we get potato sellers ringing our doorbell. However, I’m sure my kids won’t know that usually that doesnt happen. I’m of course video taping it and will show you the results pending the entertainment value. If the video sucks, I’ll just make something exciting up and tell you the video camera ‘broke’ unfortunately.

Oh, forgot to mention my trip to the grocery store. I swear I’m jinxed. I was standing in line at customer service and there was one other woman ahead of me returning something. Another lady comes up beside me and shoves her receipt in my face, literally and starts talking to me in Chinese and although I do not know one single word of the Chinese language, I’m quite certain she was swearing. I’m unclear why she was hollering at me about her purchase because I don’t work at the grocery store, either as a checkout chick or in customer service. She kept throwing her arms up in disgust and pointing to her receipt and pleading with me (I think) to help her. I shrugged my shoulders in a display of ‘I don’t know how to help you’ but she apparently didn’t care or wasn’t paying attention to my flailing limbs. She continually pointed to an item on her receipt and would then look at me with angry eyes. I thought for sure she was going to poke mine out. She was shooting lazer beams of pissed off-ness at me and I was sorta scared. I was hoping the lady ahead of me would hurry up so I could ask the clerk to hold me. I mean save me. Finally, it was my turn to go to the counter and angry woman beside me, followed me up to the counter. The cashier looked at us and asked me if we were together? Ummm, well we’ve spent a lovely 2 minutes in angry and frightened (on my part) togetherness but now I must move on. Not happy lady is still flipping her receipt all around in an attempt to be noticed. I quickly explained why I was at customer service so the cashier could shoot wait on upset lady because I thought for sure she was going to humanly combust at any moment. After another tortuous minute, I was done and on my way, far, far away from the scowling crazy person.

That about sums up my life over the last few days. I’m just about in a coma too, so get over it. What else exciting do you have to read? Nada. You can thank me for making your day just a little bit brighter. Call me Ms. Ray of Sunshine.

October 12, 2007

While shopping last weekend with my husband at Costco, I spied a crockpot. I looked at it and it says you can cook a meal in 3 easy steps. Sounds like my kind of contraption.

Honey, look at this. It’s a crockpot. I could make fabulous meals for us, you know, without sending any one of us to the emergency room with severe diarreah.

Ya. I don’t think so. Crockpots are for chefs. And you, are certainly no chef.

For chefs? Are you insane? What would be the point in making something like that for chefs? They all ready know how to cook.

It’s for people who know how to cook. So I don’t think we should waste the money.

Are you even listening to yourself? That makes no sense. If someone is a great cook why would they need a device that you throw food into and turn on? I mean how much easier could it be? Toss some meat in there, throw a few veggies and a bit of water and boom, gourmet meal!

You just throw bloody meat in with raw vegetables and it just cooks? Wouldn’t we get some kind of poisoning from the blood touching the veggies?

Ummm so? I mean that would be better than getting the trots that I may give you if I just winged it and cooked in a regular oven.

I guess so.

So we now have a crockpot, which I later learned is actually the brand name and it’s technically a slowcooker. I prefer to call it my new best friend. I prepared my first meal in it a couple of days ago. That bitch made a stupid old round roast into a tender, yummy piece of meat. Now if I could get it to do the laundry, I’d have sex with it. Did I say that out loud? I meant, I’d hug it. Yes, I’d hug my Crockpot slowcooker.

I did want to mention to anyone who is thinking about purchasing a Crockpot/slowcooker/miracle worker/best friend that it comes with some warnings, which I thought we should discuss, you know, so you can be protected. I’m nothing if at least not helpful.

1. Do not touch hot surfaces. I’m not sure if they are only referring to the slowcooker or just any hot surface in general. Either way, excellent advice.

2. Use an oven mitt when handling hot surfaces. Another piece of information that I never would have thought of all on my own. I normally just put my bare skin on extremely hot surfaces and see if I can withstand the heat. I sometimes get third degree burns but that’s the price you pay to learn your lesson.

3. To prevent electric shock, do not plug the slowcooker in water or any other liquid. I normally plug things in an outlet designed for plugs and thankfully they wrote this warning because I was going to bring the slowcooker in the shower with me. Cook and clean all at once.

4. Do not use outdoors. I was a bit upset about this one because I was going to bring it with me next time we go on a family hike and plug it in a big, sturdy tree and let our meal cook while we’re hoofin’ it up a mountain. Kinda spoiled the fun there but oh well, such is life.

5. Do not let children play in the CrockPot slowcooker. Right. I know my children were counting on getting in there and whoppin’ it up but mommy is gonna have to be mean and just put her foot down. Such a drag. I guess they’ll have to stick with their, umm, playroom.

There you have it. Solid, informative advice when cooking with a slowcooker. Don’t say I never gave you anything.

October 8, 2007

It’s Thanksgiving here in Canada. Get with it mmkay? We had our turkey dinner at the wench’s house and she cooks a mean bird. Everyone ate too much but that didn’t stop us from eating more later with several desserts to choose from. People never learn. Anyway, on the topic of dead meat and other such things, let me tell you what I found on Saturday.

My husband brought home a big freezer, which was given to him and all that was needed, was for it to be cleaned up. So he begged me to clean the filthy thing I graciously offered to clean it so he could put his meat in it. See? Told you this was going to be about all sorts of meat stories.

As I’m cleaning the free deep freezer, I could smell something weird. We have 2 kitchens in our house because who doesn’t need two kitchens to clean? I mean, sweet right? Butter my ass and call me Judy. No wait, that’s not right. Smack my loaf and butter my bisquit? I forget. Whatever. I’m downstairs in our other kitchen, cleaning this freezer and this smell keeps assaulting my sense of well being, making me slightly nauseous. I stick my head way into the deep freeze and while it’s a bit musty smelling, it’s not rank. I’m thinking perhaps my kids spilled something in the garbage can and it’s a bit smelly. But there’s nothing in the garbage can except some stale chips and a couple of paper towels. Hmmm.

I get back to cleaning the freezer and there a few icepacks in there, so I wash them off and since they were in perfect condition, decided I’d keep them and walked over to the fridge, open the top freezer and was about to put them in when the horrendous smell smacked me upside the head. I pick up an open box of Mr Freezies. Remember, this is in the FREEZER. Where things are supposed to be FROZEN. As in not thawed. I peeked into the box of Mr Freezies and sorry to say Mr Freezie ain’t frozen, he’s quite limp. The whole box is liquid. I scan over to the huge box of chicken fingers and reach inside to pull them out and they aren’t frozen. They’re soggy. Not good. As I’m trying not to pass out from the smell, I reach in and grab a bag. Not sure what’s in it, however, it was not pretty in either looks or odor. It was our pork ribs. Another bag held what was once fairly expensive pork loin. Yet another bag yielded a huge tray of chicken wings. Oh and let’s not forget the $30 worth of strawberries we picked, that I was planning on making jam with seriously, you think I was going to get around to making homemade jam? Sure.. There are piles of sticky Mr. Freezie, ah, juice, ahem, and the icecube trays no longer hold ice. Oh I had cookie dough in there that is able to be thawed and then refrozen but it was now tainted with rotten pork/chicken smell. Yum.

I opened the fridge to see what the freezer control was set at, and low and behold, instead of 8, where it’s recommended, it was at 2. I stood there scratching my head, wondering just who might have messed with the controls. Probably not my husband since he rarely goes down there and I’m pretty certain he’s busy, oh, running his own business, that he’s not got the time to ruin the meat he forked money out for. Oh, oh, oh, see that? See? ‘Meat’ he ‘forked’ money out for. You eat ‘meat’ with a ‘fork’. There’s that amazing word magic I have going on. Revel in it. Basque in it. Deep breath. I know it’s hard being around such word greatness. Snap out of it now, you’ve got more reading to do.

I am quite sure it wasn’t me who turned down the freezer because as appealing as cleaning smelly, rotting meat sounds, I just have other things I’d rather clean. That leaves a 7 year old who could care less about frigging with controls on motorized/mechanical things and an eleven year old, who loves seeing just how things work and playing with buttons, moving them, seeing what button does what when turned this way or that way. Hard to decide isn’t it? Right. Needless to say I had to clean up all that disgusting, rotting meat and sanitize the whole refriderator. What better way to spend a Saturday afternoon? Ya, Happy Thanksgiving.

October 2, 2007

…woodwork! What? Who? My craziness in my demented mind fans. Duh. I was nominated for an Oscar for my oustanding performance concerning this. Fine, it’s not an Oscar but it’s damn close in my book. It’s a Perfect Post Award. Hotfessional nominated me. And by hot, she means hot. Smokin’. Smokin’ hot. See that? I put two random words together and got a catch phrase. It’s going to be all the rave, you just watch and see. They don’t call me Captain Trendsetter for no reason. So thank you Hottie, Hotster, HottieMcHottie from Hot town for nominating me and making me feel even more delusional that I normally am special. Also nods, and by nods, I mean wicked nods to Kimberly at Petroville and Lindsey at Suburban Turmoil for the chance to be awarded the button. Which I need to get the button so I think I have to push someone’s button to get the button. Or maybe they just email it to me. Or hand deliver it on a silver platter. Ya, that’s more like it. It’s amazing how my fan base has grown from one to two 500 to 5000. Wowza. Impressive.

*Edit* I got my button. I had to push lots of buttons to get it but I worked it and got it. I get things done. Done. See how much of a rebel I am? I posted that cute little button TWICE. Oh you gonna stop me? I didn’t think so.