Sleeping Habits

I recently read a blog post by a friend which was basically about how he sleeps and the state of his bed. It's kind of inspired me to discuss this topic further as a lot of the time people tell me my sleeping habits are "not normal." 

So let's begin with simply stating "this is how I sleep". I need white noise to fall asleep, or I stay up too long thinking and thinking some more, so I sleep with my fan on. This serves two purposes as it creates white noise and also creates a cold atmosphere. I love the cold and cannot sleep when it's too hot, so my fan is pretty key in me getting a good nights rest. I also sleep with one pillow between my knees and my teddy bear all entrapped in my grasp. In the summer I will sleep with the window open and only a sheet on, as I am incapable of falling asleep if I don't feel some sort of material weight on my body. In the winter I sleep with a 5 or 6 year old quilt on. When it's really cold, I toss on a second quilt as the first has pretty much lost most of the stuffing that makes quilts warm. If you're wondering why, when it's cold, I just don't simply turn off the fan then you're not paying attention. 


I have never been someone who makes their bed. Ever. The only exception is when it's not MY bed. When staying at my Grandmothers house, the bed I sleep in get's made in the morning because it's not MY bed. When I lived with my father and stepmother the fact that I never made my bed was one of many issues between my step mother and I. She was the type of woman who was very concerned about appearances. "We're having guests over for dinner, go make your bed!" It never made sense to me. My room has always been a fairly private place to me as, until recently, it's been the only room in an entire house that was ever mine. It used to drive me nuts that when I wouldn't make my bed she would come in and do it for me. It even got to the point that if I didn't "straighten up" my desk, she would come in and do that too. Seriously. I never really saw her do it, but the evidence was enough. When I gave in for a little while, in hopes that she would stay out of my room, she would still come into it. It drove me nuts. I knew she had been in my room because she would always close my closet door, because apparently closet doors are not allowed to be left open. I am a very paranoid person, I have never been able to be in my room with the closet door closed. I always open it. Currently, my bedroom has two closets and neither of them have doors. It has seriously solved my problem.


So that's another part to me sleeping well, the closet needs to be open and the bedroom door closed. There are only 2 places I seem to be able to fall asleep without these rules being followed, one is my friend Clever's house and the other is my friend Ricki's house. I don't know why, but they are just two places I feel really safe. There is a 3rd place that I feel really safe, but the last time I slept there the closet had no doors anyways, so my rules were accidentally followed. 


As scandalous as it's probably going to seem, I'm going to talk about sleeping with someone else now. I don't sleep well with someone else in my bed, and I sleep even less well when in someone else's bed. This doesn't even have to be a scandalous or sexual thing, even spending the night sleeping next to a platonic friend is rough on my sleeping habits. My son seems to be the only person I can sleep beside without it affecting me. I flop about a lot in my sleep, except when Merric is laying in my bed next to me. I wake up frequently when someone else is in my bed because I feel like I'm not at ease, I can't be comfortable and relaxed. Even when sleeping I worry that I'll roll over and smack them with my arm or something. 


Camping is even worse. Sharing a tent with more than one person, I absolutely hate it. I love camping though. I used to have to share a tent with my brother, and I think that was the only time I've ever been able to share a tent with someone. Boys are gross, and my brother is no exception. They fart and burp and scratch themselves in their sleep, and since it was my brother I didn't feel obligated to hold in my burps, farts, or scratching needs. Because, let's face it, girls are gross too. 


So anyways, I think that covers most of everything. I intentionally left out in what state of clothing I sleep in, because I think that's more a private thing. Whether I sleep nude, in flannel pajama;s, or in a space suit, it's not really anyone's business. 

Bad Dreams/Nightmares

So last night I had a really terrifying, vivid and gory dream. Or maybe it was bad enough to be classified as a nightmare. I'm not really sure what the differences are, but I woke up from it shaking and started to cry. It was really rough. It was one of those dreams that seems so real that when you wake up and realize it was just a dream you're so relieved you just want to throw up. It's left me feeling very disturbed that my subconscious mind could come up with something like that. 


I don't want to go into many details, but it was so bad that I watched a very beloved friend be tortured with an ax. It was haunting. I still can't get the mental image out of my head. His screams were so real, his anguish and pain.. the blood. It was horrible. 


I have friends that believe dreams are trying to tell you something, that they're prophetic. I can't even begin to comprehend what that dream may have been trying to say. It was just so terrible. I've spent the entirety of my day trying to forget it, but it's still fresh in my mind. I kind of don't want to go to sleep tonight because of it. 


Please tell me I'm not the only who has disturbingly vivid and horrific dreams? I don't like feeling like I'm a sick freak for having had this dream. 

I've Been Searching

Finally I have found my soul mate! I am desperately and completely and hopelessly in love! Eggnog triple thick milk shake from McDonalds, you complete me! <3


Anyone who knows me well enough, should know of my complete and total addiction to Eggnog. If given the choice, I would live off cartons of the stuff all season. Sadly, that's terribly unhealthy. At least thats what people tell me. I prefer to believe they are just trying to get more Eggnog for themselves. 


After a quick doctors visit, my son, mother and I went to McDonalds. Merric had earned it. He was really brave during the doctors visit. While in line I discovered a sign, the most wondrous sign. A sign that made me wish I had my camera with me to capture the moment better. It declared to me that I could purchase (you must imagine my voice saying that as "purr" and "chase", it makes it sound better) a Triple Thick Milkshake flavoured of Eggnog. 


I am sipping at it right now and I am in a thick creamy heaven. Stop being a pervert. It's delicious. 

Pet Peeves (Part 1)

I hate being made to wait. 


But not the average "you have to wait to see the doctor", or "you have to wait ___ many days for [a special occasion]". I hate being told "maybe I'll come see you later". Then all night there is no word as to whether or not they are on their way. "I'll let you know before I head out if I'm going to come over or not" and then nothing all night. Nothing. No word or anything. 


I hate it. 


I wait until it's absolutely ridiculously late and then go to bed more than pissed off. And when I wake up? All I want to do is yell at them. Especially when they know how much I hate being made to wait. Then I feel bad for being so angry because "maybe they got hurt or in an accident". But then they pop online and all that rage comes back and all I want to do is rip them a new one. 


But it never works. The trend continues and they constantly treat me like not even second string, but third string. The bench warmer. "If I've got nothing better to do, maybe I'll come see you." 


You know what? Don't even bother.

Text Based Fun

So it's time to take a break from being serious or advertising my brother. I'd like to take some time to talk about the joys of my life.


Recently my brother started posting a blog. Like I mentioned then, he is the funniest person I know. Makes me laugh like nobody else to ever exist ever. Ever. He is the only person in the known universe that can make me laugh by pointing out a flaw or insecurity of mine.The only. I have had boyfriends in the past notice this about my relationship with my brother and attempt to replicate it. This, of course, ends in a premature termination of our relationship because I don't take that crap from no one. Except my brother. But he does it with nothing but love and humour, and I know he does it with love but when someone else does it it stings. 


Anyways, we've been being ridiculous in his comments section in the style of a text based adventure game. It made me realize that more than anything I go through cycles of loving these types of games. I find them to be the best thing ever and then eventually forget about them and lose interest. It's possibly because I don't have much experience with good genuine text based adventure games. My experience is literally limited to the 3 you can find in the games section of the website HomestarRunner.com. They are as follows;

Dungeon Man which is quite literally over before you even get into it. 
Peasant Quest which is a combination text and graphic game.

Dungeon Man 3 which completely discards the reality that you should have a 2nd to a game before a 3rd. 


I'm very interested in finding other actual text based games, but really wouldn't know where to start. Can anyone help me with this?

I should have a big purple hat

And on that hat there should be a big lime green feather. This hat should also have a big matching fur jacket. And I should start carrying a cane! Why? Because I'm a mothering flipping pimp, people. Let the pimping begin!

Not to offend anyone, but my brother is the most hilarious person I know. He finally has decided that he's ready to start posting a blog. This link is your gateway to the awesome that is that blog.

You should be all about clicking that link. Right now! If you haven't yet, I hate your face. Has that persuaded you to click the link? No? Well it should have!

Dreams

I've been having a lot of dreams involving my old dog, Shmeg. They are so realistic that I don't want to wake up, but when I do I get depressed because I remember.


Just a note, that this blog post is probably going to get fairly emotional fairly quickly.


Shmeg was a dog we got when I was about 7. At the time we already had a cat, that was brought into the house when I was about 1. 

She was not happy with us and showed us by peeing on my moms down duvet.

Shmeg quickly became my best friend. When my parents marriage started to fall apart, he would come find me as soon as the yelling started. He would snuggle with me until it ended, and sometimes even a little after. Our house was a strict "no dogs on the furniture" house, but when my parents weren't around I would bring Shmeg up on the couch, or on my bed, with me to cuddle. 

We spent a lot of time snuggled up on my bed, especially when I was sick.

Anyone who hasn't ever had a close relationship with an animal can't understand how much I miss him. There will never be a dog to replace Shmeg, and I don't ever want there to be. He had this look to him where it made him look like he was smiling all the time. It made me happy.

And even when he wasn't "smiling", he was looking deep and contemplative. Like there was some deep meaningful thoughts on his mind. I try to focus more on the time we spent cuddled up on my bed, or the couch, usually watching t.v or movies when I wasn't feeling well. He went for runs with me and was the first animal to ever respond so obediently to me. Later we would get another dog, and you would really have to be forceful with your voice to get his attention, but Shmeg listened. Shmeg always listened to me. The way Shmeg died seemed fitting, what with all the time we spent curled up together when I wasn't feeling well. But I'm getting ahead of myself.


Our cat started to go crazy, literally developing dementia. She stopped cleaning herself, wouldn't let us near her to brush her, and was literally the kind of cat that would rather rip open your throat than let you bath her, or shave her. When she was at the tipe old age of about 15 we had to put her down. She had finally hit the point where she didn't know what anything was, not even her food. This was the first time we'd ever raised two animals together and were very unaware that when you put one down, you need to bring the other along. So that it can sniff the body and know that it's dead. Otherwise you end up with an animal with abandonment issues. 


Until we put P.C (our cat) down, Shmeg had loved other cat's. He always wanted to play with them, like he'd play with P.C. After we put P.C down is when we discovered that the animal left alive will develop emotional issues. For months it was a fight to get Shmeg to eat, or do anything. He would lay about lazily, depressed. He also started snapping at other cats. He would see one and go absolutely ape-shit. He wanted nothing more than to rip them apart, luckily we were the type of pet owners that only let the dog's off leash in safe area's, like off leash parks. 


My mom bought Shmeg a puppy, thinking it would help him with his depression. Well, that was her excuse. The truth is, since I was born she's wanted another Wolf-dog. She finally had a reason to buy one. 


Shmeg was about 9 years old when he started to develop health issues. The vet we were at at the time told us it was typical hip dysplasia that almost all German Shepards develop with old age. They were not the best vet office, and after other issues with them we sought out a new vet. The new vet informed us that we had been treating the wrong issue. He could tell just by watching Shmeg walk that he didn't have hip dysplasia, his spine was fusing together. I still cannot explain the anger and rage I feel towards our old vet. They wasted time we could have been spending treating the real problem. Instead, by the time we got him to the new vet and were told the real problem, it was too late. He had already lost a lot of muscle mass in his hind legs, and there was no fixing him.


He lived a couple months longer on pain killers, until he literally couldn't get up anymore. Once he started soiling his bed, we knew it was time. He was no longer living a good or happy life, he was suffering. My mother had taken P.C to be put down and was more than adamant that she couldn't do it again. Choking back tears, I told her I wanted to be the one with Shmeg anyways. He was my best friend. Like I said, at this point he couldn't stand up by himself. I had to pick him up and carry him to the car, then from the car to the vet's office. He was about 90 lbs and the heaviest thing I'd ever carried that long, but I didn't want to ever put him down, literally.


I will always remember sitting on the cold floor of the vet's office as they tried to sedate him 3 times before it took. Once it took, he laid there lazily, his head on my lap, looking up at me with that smile of his. He finally let the sedative take him, and he laid there peacefully on my lap, shallowly breathing. The vet came once more and it was finished. My best friend was gone. I sat there with him on my lap, on the cold floor. I didn't want to leave. The nurse came in, I could barely breathe I was crying so hard. But I had to let him go. They needed the room, and my son was starting to make a major fuss in the waiting room with my mother. 

I didn't want to leave him, much like my Uncle Ian only a few years before. I just didn't want to leave. Leaving made it real. The dream's I've been having lately have all been happy. We're snuggling and running and spending time with each other like we did when he was still alive. But I always wake up, look for him in a daze, and then realize he's gone and remember the feeling of his lifeless body in my arms.

Snoooooooooow!

Of course it snows again the very day that my mother and I are starting on the heroic adventure of gutting my house and pretty much cleaning it from top to bottom. Even the cobwebs in the basement will be lemon-y fresh. All I really want to do today is frolick around with my son in the falling snow. 


Oh well, let's just hope that it continues to snow so by the weekend I can make you all a super awesome snowmen. Snowmen are great! The only thing better than a snowman is the many hilarious ways Calvin and Hobbes make snow-creatures. My favourite is definitely the snow sharks. 

For those of you that can't read the text;
Hobbes is asking "Snow sharks?" And Calvin is replying "That guy's a goner"
I couldn't make the image any larger without completely throwing off the layout.

Hoarding

It's a serious disorder and I just want to say right now, that I am by no means belittling anything about it with this post. I just needed to talk a bit about it and how my mother does not understand what it actually means. 

Hoarding is a general term for the accumulation of food or other items. The term is used to describe both animal and human behavior. It is a normal stage of behavior in children
Hoarding as a human behavior falls in to two main categories. One type of hoarding is triggered as a response to perceived or predicted shortages of specific goods. Compulsive hoarding, on the other hand, is a mental disorder marked by an obsessive need to acquire and keep things, even if the items are worthless, hazardous, or unsanitary. The compulsive collection and ownership of pets is known as animal hoarding. Compulsive hoarding is thought to fall along the spectrum of obsessive-compulsive disorders. [source]

Compulsive hoarding (or pathological hoarding or disposophobia)^[1] is the excessive acquisition of possessions(and failure to use or discard them), even if the items are worthless, hazardous, or unsanitary. Compulsive hoarding impairs mobility and interferes with basic activities, including cooking, cleaning, showering, and sleeping. A person who engages in compulsive hoarding is commonly said to be a "pack rat", in reference to that animal's characteristic hoarding.

It is not clear whether compulsive hoarding is an isolated disorder, or rather a symptom of another condition, such asobsessive-compulsive disorder.^{[2] [source]}

To really make you understand what I'm about to talk about, I should mention some stuff first. Less than a year ago my mother moved out of the house I was born and raised in, a 3 level townhouse, with 2 bathrooms, 3 bedrooms, a backyard, shed and an entire basement. She moved from this, to a 2 bedroom trailer on an acreage with her boyfriend. When she left, she left a lot of her crap here too. It was part of our agreement. I would live here, rent it from her, but she would keep the stuff she couldn't take out there, because of lack of space, here. I was fine with it and for the most part left everything where it originally was. I guess this was out of respect and because I had just grown up with them being where they were. I had a roommate move in and she absolutely hated where most of my mother's stuff was, so she moved it all. I think that's beside the point though. 

Anyways, I don't have much stuff. I really don't. I've never lived anywhere but a single bedroom. So, most of the stuff in my house is my mothers. Oh, except for a bit in the corner of the basement, that's from a woman my mother practically begged to let stay here with me until she got her own place and the woman left one weekend in like July or August, saying that they were moving to Calgary (a city about 3 hours away) and that they'd be back the next weekend to pick up their crap. I haven't heard a single word from them since then. I have tried texting and calling the only number I have for this woman multiple times. So her stuff takes up about 1/4 of my basement. 

So today on the phone my mother accuses me of being a "hoarder". It's not the first time she's said it and I always find it so amusing and aggravating. If I were to put a percentage on how much of the stuff in my house is actually her's it would be about 45%. Then 10% is the crap from the vanishing woman and her daughter, and the rest is mine and my son's. Also, aside from the fact that only about 45% of the stuff in my house is actually mine, it's all stuff I do actually need. Toys for my son, my furniture, appliances, cleaning products, stuff I actually use on a regular basis. It is literally mind boggling to try to figure out how, in any informed human beings mind, I am to be considered a "hoarder" or "pack rat". 

If anything, I am merely disorganized or possibly even just lazy. Okay, very likely both disorganized and lazy. I live in a state of semi-chaos. At least the area's I frequent the most do. My computer desk, and my bedroom. I can only kind of see where she is coming from. My kitchen/dining room (because my house is not big enough for these area's to be separate) does have a stack of newspapers and cardboard boxes to be recycled. But honestly, the only reason they haven't been put out is because they need to be contained in the blue bag, and I don't have the money to afford the blue bag's. I can barely afford regular garbage bags. And even then, it's not that bad. They're not dirty or anything. They are mostly moving boxes and newspapers. They're even neatly stacked in an organized pile. 

I just really don't understand my mother. 

Thought Provoking

"Pretty much anything I say is probably trite, but I put forth a different perspective: Our 'mind and soul' is more like the flesh that contains it, not fragile and static like a china doll or a robot (tho Astro Boy's rocket boots were pretty awesome). Chips and cracks are more like scrapes and bruises. Breaks are still breaks, though (they just suck that much, they keep the name).

Like flesh, the wounds *really* hurt and it doesn't just "go away" as you will it. It takes time and sometimes it needs some therapy to help it heal. Sometimes there's scars (or a limp).

I think we are always - all of us and everyday - a work in progress."  - My dear friend Maskwa

This was a comment he left on my last post. The post about how I'm broken and feeling a bit at a loss. It really stopped me and made me think. I've been convinced I've been looking at myself the right way. Seeing myself as broken, damaged goods, and Maskwa gave me an alternate view. I just wanted to thank him for that. It's been helping me review myself better. 

I've decided to believe that we're all incomplete. Every one of us. Every day brings the chance for progress and also the chance for destruction. I'm not alone in feeling that my inadequacies make me less worthy of humanity, we are all inadequate. Every single one of us is not fit to be deemed "complete". We all have things we struggle with, parts of our selves that we hate. A lot of us project that onto others, seeing our flaws in them and hating them for it. For reminding us, even subconsciously, of our failings. I'll admit it, I do that daily. You probably don't want to admit it, but you do it too. We all do, because we're all the same. We're all suffering, struggling, fighting for or against something. 

We all have issues, whether they are obvious or not. But that's what makes us great, isn't it? The fact that despite our failings, our inabilities, our inadequacies we manage to soldier forward. We continue on in a hope to find these issues and fix them. Better ourselves. Perfect ourselves. Be complete. But will we ever be "complete"? 

Just something to think about. Thank you again, Maskwa, you've given me a lot of self reflecting and thinking to do. I'm determined to figure out why I am so damn focused on seeing myself as broken and not at all fixable. 

I'm not emo, I've just been thinking.

I would just like to start this out with an apology. I don't want to be a bummer, or a Debby-downer, but sometimes things need to get a bit serious. This is one of those times. Take this as a warning, if you don't want to read the inner most workings of my emotional mind, then just skip this post all together. 

I am broken. I’ve always been broken.

It’s an odd sensation, realizing you’re broken when you thought you were whole. Or at least, whole enough. But there is no fixing me. Pieces of me died. Looking back it feels like they died at big huge moments and though a couple of them did, most of them slowly withered. Years of neglect and complacency from important people in my life made me hard. Made me think I was hard. Made me try to be hard, cold, in control. But I’m not. I’m alone, lonely. There is no fixing me, because I’ve been broken so long they no longer make my spare parts. There’s no going back and changing who I have become, there is only tweaking who I am and who I will be.

I break down when I think of the words my mother said not too long ago. They made me realize that I’m obviously broken. That I’m not hiding my cracks, flaws, and missing pieces as well as I thought I was. She said “I know a part of you died the day your Uncle passed away. A part of you died that day and I can see it.” I had thought I was dealing well enough. Hiding my pain well enough. I didn't want it to be on display because my pain doesn't matter. Not when my mother lost her oldest brother. Not when my grandmother lost her first born child. At the time I didn't realize how badly my grandmother was hurting. Now, I can only imagine her pain. I look at my son, almost 3 years old already, and I try to imagine what I would do. How would my life play out, if I lost him. I have to stop because I start to have a panic attack as though tomorrow he is going to be gone and my life will be even more empty.

I know it probably sounds sad to you, that my son makes my life at least semi-complete. He is the reason I get out of bed in the morning, the reason I even bother. Without him, I'd probably be gone. Not necessarily dead, just gone. He saved my life and as much as I hated his father for the pain and the struggle he created in my life, I love him a little for giving me the one thing I needed to save my life. I already know what someone who is reading this is thinking, and no it's not healthy to have that much importance on my son. Yes I realize exactly what the next thing out of your head is going to be, you're going to tell me that my savoir should have been a more all powerful being. Higher power. But who's to say it wasn't. Who's to say my son didn't come along at just the right time to save my life and pull me out of a very poor life style choice. I'll be honest, my life still isn't too great but I do what I can. I do what I have to. For my son. For the reason I am still around.

The more I think about it, the more I can see exactly where I am broken and why. And the more I see it, the more I worry I won't ever be fixed. And the more I worry I won't ever be fixed, the more I fear I will always be alone. Just my little man and me. Never to find a man to marry me, to love me, to treat my son as his own. I almost had it once, or did I? That's the thing about humanity, if it's not right here in front of us we can't tell if it's really there at all.

I think I've had enough for tonight. I think I'm going to go back upstairs, because this whole train of thought started as I watched Sweet November up in my bedroom with my son fast asleep beside me on my arm. I think I'm going to go back upstairs, curl up into a ball and see where to go from here. I may cry like a little girl, but I feel more like I'm going to find some peace. Writing usually finds me peace.

Is it really that time again?

Did we not already go through this last month, Uterus? Come on. Grow up already.


I thought I had some pretty awesome things to say today, but I think I was wrong. All I can think about is cussing out my lady parts. Which I'm sure male readers don't want to read. 


I've been thinking about taking up guitar again. Last Sunday, at church, some mother figures were praying over me and one said to me that I have a song inside me. It was interesting to think about. For as long as I can remember I've wanted to take vocal lessons to train my voice better and have wanted to pick my guitar up again. The problem with my guitar is that, currently, I need a new string. For comedic sake let's just say it's the G string. I need a new G string. (Doesn't that sound funny? Get it? Like the underwear..?) I also need to get a tuner. 


Another thing I want to do is start jogging. But I literally do not own running shows. I also have ridiculous asthma, but I still want to try. I think the last time I went for a jog was before I was even pregnant with Merric and my dog Shmeg was still alive. Well I know it was when Shmeg was still alive because I took him with me and we ran through the field together. It was like something out of a teen-fiction novel. Just a girl and her dog jogging through a field in the middle of the night. Or the start of the night. I think it was about 9 pm. Call that what you want.


I recently tried out a Pilate's DvD I've had around forever. Sweet Jesus am I out of shape. Halfway through I had to turn it off because I felt like I was going to hurl. For anyone who doesn't know Pilate's is basically yoga but with more positions focused on the core. Since getting sliced open, my core is incredibly weak. It sickens and saddens me.


This turned out a lot more emo-ish than I wanted. To make up for it I'll have to leave you with something awesome.... but I've got nothing. 

Snow, of course.

What's the one thing that can make even the ugliest of backyards look beautiful? 

Snow, of course.

Seriously, I love snow. And yes, that's a picture of my actual backyard. Well, only a portion of it. I don't care enough about it, obviously. But I care about snow. 


There isn't enough I can say about how much I love snow. I even love the bite of cold air when you know in less than 5 minutes any uncovered skin will be getting frost bite. The way your nostrils seem to stick together due to the sheer coldness of the air literally freezing your boogers. I love that feeling. 


The only thing I don't like about snow and what brings it, winter, is the wetness. When the snow melts in your front hall and, because you walk around without socks, you step in a puddle. Gah, hate that. But everything else is perfectly fine. 


Any of you reading this that have only rarely experienced snow, I'm sorry. Your life is truly missing out on one of the greatest things. That thing is the wonder of frozen flakes of water. 


For those of you that don't care to read about my love affair with snow, well then we're going to have some issues. You see, I love snow and I live in Canada. Born and raised, which means that I was born for this season. So prepare yourselves, because I'm about to start having blogs all with one common denominator; snow!






P.S, Love Like Winter by AFI is pretty much my anthem this time of year.

Burt Reynolds

It's a little disturbing to realize that there is in fact a celebrity out there whose appearance epitomizes your taste in men. It's even more disturbing when you realize that he kind of looks like your father. 

Apparently, I do not have a single photo of my
father that would show you what I'm talking about. 

I'm curious if other people have had this epiphany yet, and if so who their celebrity "type" is.


Mine? Mine is Burt Reynolds.

I'm not even kidding. This is the sexiest photo in the world. 

Jigsaw MANIA!

I am almost a pro jigsaw puzzler. It's almost an addiction.

I don't know if I can consider my self a master at it until I've actually finished a "real" jigsaw puzzle. I only do them online right now. Focusing so hard on tiny pieces of a picture against a bright white screen makes my brain hurt.

For my birthday, I think people should buy me puzzles. With pieces in the thousands. That would be pretty much the most awesome thing ever.

Breakfast for Dinner!

It's not a new fangled innovation to the world, but ever since I was little mom would randomly surprise us with "breakfast for dinner". I was totally craving pancakes, so I decided I'd introduce my son to the wonders of this "tradition". 

I make the coolest pancakes ever. 

Seriously. The coolest.

I'm feeling all kinds of self satisfaction for making the worlds coolest pancakes for my son. He just freaking loves them. It's like his world was blown the moment I showed him that pancakes can be colourful!




PS: To those of you who underestimate the excitement my son had at such great and colourful pancakes, behold!

My New Best Friend

I'm pretty sure, at this very moment in time, that there is nothing more awesome in my life than this blanket. 

I was going to post a picture

of the blanket, but I am too

lazy to take a picture of it, 

also I couldn't find one of it

online. So all you get is this 

awkward paragraph that is 

trying so very hard to be the

same general shape of what

would be a picture of my new

best friend, my giant blanket.

Okay, so it's not a giant blanket, but shush. It is, however, a Spongebob Squarepants blanket. In fact, there are only two blankets in my entire house that are not Spongebob Squarepants themed. This isn't my fault though.

Well it kinda is. 

My stepmother is terrible at actually knowing people. I say this because of every Christmas I've ever had to spend with her. I remember the first year, she bought me a metric ton of candy. I'm "borderline diabetic", which means that if I get too fat, or my diet starts to mimic that of a 5 year old child unsupervised and with an unlimited supply of sugar, I will very easily become a full blown diabetic. 

My stepmother is a diabetic so you would think she'd be a little more sympathetic to the reason why I FUCKING HATED THAT CHRISTMAS. It was like the ultimate "I don't care enough to actually get to know you" slap to the face. Every year after has been equally awful. One year I got a television and dvd player for Christmas. You're probably thinking "that's F-ing sweet, man!" Except that the part I'm leaving out is that they were both coloured to LOOK LIKE SPONGEBOB SQUAREPANTS. Seriously. I'm not really complaining about that, but I was quiet literally 14 or 15 at the time. Basic normal TV and DvD player would have been fine since they were getting me one anyways. Just saying.

Along with that I got an entire bed spread, sheets and pillow cases, blankets and pillows, that were all Spongebob themed. This is why I have 3 Spongebob blankets. One is basically just a tiny chunk of fabric probably meant to keep small dogs, or children, warm. One is a quilt, and the last is my new best friend. 

It's normally WAY too heavy for me, someone who is normally over heating even in the winter, but today it's perfection. I've been having cold chills all day and this blanket has maintained me and my perfect temperature as long as I've had it wrapped around me. 

I have made a huge mistake.

Sometimes our lives are full of little mistakes that seem like a bad idea at the time, sometimes we make genuinely terrible mistakes that are life altering, and sometimes there are little mistakes that feel like they're life altering mistakes. 


Today I made the last one.




What did I possible do? I over spiced my rice/chicken concoction. 


Like hardcore.


I don't know what I was thinking when I was spicing it up, but after one bite, my whole world is on fire.


Now, to put things in perspective, I love spicy food. Indian food is like multiple orgasms in my mouth. I would probably murder someone for a mediocre vindaloo. Seriously. Man-freaking-slaughter.


So when I tell you that this food is too spicy, I'm not exaggerating. And yet I'm so dirt poor right now that I'm eating it anyways. Shoveling it down and quickly dosing with copious amounts of water. 


I hope this doesn't kill me. It's so hot, I feel like it could in fact murder me. 

Asthma

I have had asthma for as long as I can remember, and then some. When I was still an infant I had some breathing issues, in that I would stop doing it. I actually died twice because of it. Luckily my mother is a superhero. She heard the lack of sound, from when I stopped breathing, with her super powered "mom ears" and rushed me to the hospital. After they got me back to life and breathing again, I decided to make them try once more and stopped breathing again. 

Ever since then my asthma has been a constant companion for me. From when I joined the "running team" in elementary, to when we had to do "track and field" in gym class. It was always there and was always humiliating me. 

I'm a bit of a larger girl right now, and have never been "normal" or even "skinny" sized. So I was essentially the stereotype of "fat people". Because of my asthma, anytime I did anything overexerting to my respiratory system, I ended up a mass of wheezing and coughing and at the worst of times; panicking. 

The ability to breathe properly is something a lot of people take for granted. 

Ass Backwards

So, in case it's not obvious from my blog title, I live in the Land of Can's, also known as Canadia, or to you "normal" folk simply Canada. 


This weekend was our ass-backwards Thanksgiving weekend. At least that's how my beloved American friends refer to it. So normally we spend time with family, but for undisclosed reasons my mother "could not afford to do it this year". Luckily I had already planned a "Second Thanksgiving" with friends. 


It was a super good idea, up until it came time to cook it. There were 10 adults, and my son, that ended up eating dinner. It was explained before hand to anyone coming that we expected them to help pay for it since we (myself and the friend whose house we hosted it at) couldn't afford to throw money away on a dinner for such a large group of people. One person was fantastic, helped by buying something we forgot. But other's were less awesome. Some didn't bring anything, 3 split the cost of 2 pies (when we already had enough pie). It was frustrating. 


But it got worse when the end of the night came and everyone was leaving and saying goodbye. Why would that make it worse? Well we have to go back a little first.


Our dinner consisted of;
Turkey
Ham
Stuffing with ground pork in it
Potatoes
Gravy
Cranberry sauce


The guy whose house we were at cooked the Turkey. The friend who was fantastic and bought things we forgot (which was stuffing and something for people to snack on while cooked) made the stuffing. The ham was pre-cooked and just needed heating. The potatoes were the most work. 


I make special fantastic potatoes. And because I love you more than the friends who have tried it and asked me how to make it, because YOU read my blog, I shall give you the recipe.


Potatoes, cut into chunks
Onions, diced
Garlic, minced
Margarine
"Italian" seasoning


Throw it all into a roasting pan, mix it up and throw it in the oven at 350 F. Every 10 minutes take it out and stir it, adding more margarine to keep it moist. Cook for 50 minutes, then mash. 


So while I made the potatoes, I also made the gravy. We "slow cooked" the gravy, which is fancy talk for "the entire time I cooked the potatoes, the gravy was on the stove needing to be whisked every 4-5 minutes." 


Before it was even time to eat, the arches in my feet had fallen. By the end of the night, my ankles were so bad I couldn't sleep until I tossed back a bunch of pain killers.  


So now we skip forward again, to when everyone was leaving. They all kept saying goodbye and thanks to my friend for "everything". Literally. The common phrase was "Hey, I had a great night, thanks [friends name here] for everything, man. It was delicious." ANNNND then they walked out the door. 


I didn't expect them to assume I paid for over half of everything, which I did. But I expected them to appreciate all the time I spent in the kitchen making food. THAT they could at least see ALL night. I'm a little upset at my friend for not saying something like "hey, it wasn't all me" or giving me at least SOME freaking credit. But no. 


I think next time I'll just stay home alone with my kid and not even bother. 

Screw you too, Uterus.

You know, I really don't deserve this. What did I ever do to you to piss you off so bad? Is it my fault that every month you primp and fuss getting yourself ready to nurture into this world a child, and when one doesn't come along you throw a tantrum and toss all your hard work out the door? No. If I could talk to you and tell you "there will be no baby this month", you wouldn't have to do all that work. And then you wouldn't throw such a painful tantrum when you discover that I wasn't lying. 


I'm not normally a very productive member of society, but when you throw these fits I become even less productive. 


You know, I have things to do. I can't stay curled up in a ball in my recliner while dealing with your childish temper tantrum's all week. Grow up and get over yourself. 

Kites. Just Kites.

Today was one of the windiest day's I can remember. Which isn't really saying much since I can't even remember when my period was, and that's on a typical 28 day cycle. (Sorry to anyone grossed out by the natural actions of the female body.) 

So I may or may not have mentioned, I am a mother. And the only person that loves my son as much as I do is my mother. However, my son is fickle. The only person he loves MORE than me, is my mother. They are seen below snuggling at a Boston Pizza.

See that look he's giving me? 

That's the look of a child saying "yeah, I love her more. What of it?"

So today my mother stops by after work with a surprise for my darling 2 and a half year old son. 

A kite. 

We spent a good 2 hours out in a field watching this kite soar into the sky, only to nose dive seconds later. I, of course, was on "kite retrieval duty". So it was my job to run around this field looking elegant and fantastic chasing after a child's kite. 

My ever evil child felt that this was not humiliation enough for mommy. No, no. I needed to look more silly. So he, with the help of my mother, started trying to get the kite to nosedive on purpose and attack me. 

Yup. I got attacked by a kite today. 

What did you do?