Oct
30
The World According to the Peevish Kitty
Oct
29
In the words of the immortal philosopher Aristotle… thank doG it’s Friday.
Okay, Aristotle didn’t say that. It might have been Emmanuel Kant. Or maybe even Nietsche. Anyway, the point stands: It’s been a tiring week, and I, for one, and glad to see the weekend.
And with Friday comes our weekly baring of the soul, our confession to the masses. So, without further ado, I confess…
Oct
27
Today’s drama is brought to you by Meryl Streep, a purple Dora chair, and Rougemont Apple Juice.
(Scene: A playroom somewhere in Suburbiaville)
That Baby: MOAR TEETEE!
Me: What do you want to watch?
That Baby: (surveys DVD collection thoughtfully) Mommy Me Me.
Me: Mamma Mia?
That Baby: Awight!! (she settles into her comfy purple chair)
Me: Okay. Mamma Mia it is. (puts DVD in) Here’s your juice. (hands her a sippy cup containing two ice cubes and some apple juice)
That Baby takes a long swig of apple juice, then sets the cup down on the floor beside her chair. She looks at me, fixes me in a VRY SRS BZNS look, and then points her finger up at my face.
That Baby: Buh bye.
~ FIN ~
Oct
26
Tuesdays are good for randomness. After the crazy-go-nuts-ness of Monday, Tuesday is just a matter of wrapping your head around the fact that you are still putting one foot in front of the other on the way to Friday.
Oct
25
There are times when I can hardly recognize myself. I cannot believe how much of a total puddle-of-goo Mom I have become. I am shocked at how much I can blather on about my child. I am amazed that I can continually look at her and be caught breathless at how beautiful she is.
I used to mock Those Moms. Now I am one. Resistance is futile.
Stinkerbelle can get laughing, and has the most incredibly infectious belly laugh. It comes from way deep down inside, and when it gets going, people can’t resist laughing along. It is, according to most bystanders, A Great Laugh. And no matter how often I hear it, and see the joy in her face, and the twinkle in those big laughing eyes, I am still knocked out by it.
I catch myself marvelling at the sheer beauty of the kid. She and I will sit together in the morning, she on the bottom step and me on the floor in our foyer, as I put on her socks and shoes to go somewhere, and she will chatter on about what she wants to do or what we are going to do or whatever. And I will hear that sweet baby voice and look up into the prettiest little face, earnestly trying to tell me her story, and I find my nose getting that little prickly feeling as my eyes well up.
She almost never cries. She is so laid back, so easy going, so completely happy so often, that when she cries and those big tears form and her mouth forms that sad, soundless, heartbroken O — well, if ever I was heartbroken in my life by a man, the pain I feel at looking at my crying child is infinitely worse.
I realize anew, every day, how absolutely and completely we love this child.
And I could tell anyone, everyone about it. Easy peasy.
But then…
Just when I am blissing out all hearts-and-flowers-and-rainbow-unicorns-and-fairy-farts about The Wonder of That Baby, I look up and she’s marching in circles with a pumpkin bucket on her head and walks into the wall, or she’s spinning until she is so dizzy she does a Chaplin-esque drunken stagger past me and collapses in a heap, or I hear her holler “OH HAAAAALP!” from somewhere in the middle of a mess of something in the other room.
If it’s possible, I love THAT kid even more.
She cracks me up. She makes me smile.
Resistance is futile.
Oct
22
It’s Friday. Welcome to the minutiae that is my life.
I confess…
Oct
20
What the hell happened to Tuesday? Where was I? Are there any other days of the week I’m missing?
Sheesh.
Oct
18
So. I am in my kitchen, making tea.
My daughter is sitting in her purple Dora chair in the playroom behind me, watching “Annie” on DVD. (Yes. I let my child watch “Annie”, with its cast of all-singing, all-dancing orphans. Don’t you judge me. I’ll accept my “Bad Adoptive Parent of the Year” award later. Besides, it’s the Broadway version, with a black female lead and an interracial cast and it rocks. So there.)
So. As I said, I am making tea.
Behind me, the familiar strains of that old chestnut of musicals, “Tomorrow”, begin.
Suddenly, I hear:
**PLONK! PLONK!!**
“Woah woah!”
**PLONK PLONK! PLONK! PLONK!**
“Woooooooaaaaahhhh!”
My daughter is singing along, in her way, to “Tomorrow”. Very soulfully, I might add. And playing her tuneless little yellow hippy dippy guitar, as well.
I rush for the camera. Too late!
The scene changes and suddenly, she’s stomping about the room and waving her arms rather rhythmically along to a big dance number.
A budding musical theatre star! I’m so proud.
I can’t wait until she can begin to support her old parents in the manner to which we would like to become accustomed.
Oct
15
It’s Friday, and not a moment too soon, let me tell you. I am ready for the weekend LIKE WHOA.
I confess…
Oct
13
Okay, my peeps. Join me in banging my head on my desk in frustration. Put your forehead to your keyboard in a worldwide show of “OMGWTFBBQ”-level frustration at the sheer pointless everyday stupidity of the world and, more pointedly, the people therein. But just so you know, the stupidity is not limited to people. Oh no. I feel a forehead-smackingly peevishness at inanimate objects too.
I’m fair. I’m an equal-opportunity forehead-smacker.
So far this week, there has been many a moment of WTF to be witnessed. It’s been, like, The Perfect Storm of annoying around here. And it began on Thanksgiving.
On Sunday, we ate our delicious Thanksgiving dinner, complete with turkey and loads of pie. On Monday, I said to myself, “Self? Let’s make turkey soup out of the carcass.†So that morning, I got the turkey bits and pieces and put them in a big pot, with water and onions and peppercorns and all kinds of herby goodness. I boiled the fuck out of that sucker for four hours. FOUR. HOURS. And then I strained the broth off into one pot in the sink, and spent another hour or so picking the meat off the bones. And burning my fingers.
And just as I was finishing up, and dumping the bones and skin and onions and whathaveyou into the garbage — just as I was pushing the last of the peppercorns into the garbage and getting ready to pack all the broth and meat up to make soup this week — a plastic cup, containing various and sundry pot scrubbers, which sits on the side of the sink, decides to do a half-gainer off the edge of the sink and into my pot of broth.
Pot scrubbers. SCUZZY, NASTY pot scrubbers. In my lovingly prepared pot of soon-to-be soup.
To say that I lost my shit would, indeed, be an understatement. But, thanks to MORE PIE and some tasty wine, I got over it.
And then came Tuesday. This is where the stupid people in our story really begin to take centre stage in the Festival of That-Guy-Needs-A-Smack-Up-The-Bracket.
The thing is? I can’t tell you about it.
Something happened, here on our street yesterday evening, that has both BDH and I periodically shaking our heads and saying, “But… whuh??” Something so colossally stupid, it defies any logical sort of explanation from any of the parties involved. I cannot tell you, for it is something for which police had to be called, if only to referee the stupid taking place. But since there may come a time when the stupid is actually quantified and examined and assessed in a court of law, no doubt by legal professionals who will also be shaking their heads in a collective show of “You’re KIDDING, right?”, I am not at liberty to share the blindingly moronic details with you.
But take something really stupid you have observed, multiply it by about 10, subtract any sort of good judgement or logic or common sense on the part of the participants, make it a public spectacle, and you’re probably pretty close.
I can say, it involves the Mayor. If you have been a reader for any period of time here, you will know that the Mayor is capable of vast quantities of annoyingly stupid behaviour. So there, my friends, is a yardstick by which to measure last evening’s little melodrama.
So that was yesterday.
The festival of Stupid continues today, however. As I was working in the attic, there was a ring-a-ling on my doorbell, and a BANGBANGBANG on the door. Now, given the Dance of Dumb that occurred out on the street last night, there was NO WAY I was going to go answer my door. Who KNOWS what kind of stupid awaited me?
But after five minutes or so, I headed downstairs to dump the dregs of my tea. I checked out the window and saw a note in our mailbox and fluttering in the breeze, and a Purolator truck in front of my house. There had been a delivery! I opened the door as it pulled away, and began to turn around in the drive across the street. I walked out on my porch to flag him down as he went by. At which point, he turned, looked at me and my open door and the delivery slip that he had JUST written that was in my hand… and smiled and DROVE AWAY.
So now, I have to go clear across town to pick up the package. Which I suppose is my fault really, but honestly — would it have killed him to stop and just drop the damn thing off? He’s probably got paperwork and timetables and procedures that say he can’t. I’m okay with that, I guess… it’s the assoholic smile he gave me as he drove off. It’s the NANNY NANNY BOO BOO look he gave me, the HAHA SUCKS TO BE YOU look, that kind of pisses me off.
At least he didn’t wave.
Needless to say, tomorrow looms. But the good thing is, for part of the day at least, I will, in fact be sitting at a desk — so if any head smacking is required, I will be totally ready.
Oct
8
It’s Friday and thanks to Tova‘s meme, it is Confession Friday!
I confess…
Oct
5
Tuesday again? Holy hell, where did the week go?
Oct
1
I am stealing this idea from the ever-awesome Tova over at Who Let This Happen? and doing my own Confession Friday.
Like I haven’t been the poster child for “oversharing” already. Meh.
I confess…