The Awful Truth

Watching my children navigate the hallways of school has brought me back to my own days of algebra and bra snapping. (Or in my case, lack of bra snapping.) I love watching them suffer through the math tests and science quizzes. Er, I mean, nothing pleases me more as a mother than watching my children adeptly handle all that their teachers require of them. Yes, that's better. He he. There is one major difference between my children and me as a school-aged child. They are decidedly cool, where I was the definition of geek. I was a runt; small and slow to hit puberty, and when I did, I was stuck in the ugly duckling phase while everyone else had already morphed into beautiful swans. I was always out of sync with my peers. I marched to the rhythm of my own invisible drum. Sadly, my drum banged at a different beat than all the others.

My kids, however, rock. And I proudly proclaim this. I have no shame. I beam with pride. Somehow, I managed to give birth to two of the cool kids. They're smart, beautiful and hip. They've escaped (for now) the geek gene that runs unfettered in their blood line.

And when the day comes, (as I fear it may) when they falter and transform into the nerds their parents were, I will be there to prop them up and cheer them on. But until that day (or rather if that day) comes along, I will just marvel at how swan-like they are. And wonder why I never could manage it while stuck in the pit of hell known as public school.

How I longed to be able to stand up to my classmates and tell them they had it wrong, I wasn't a geek, that I was really a rocking gal stuck in some lame pimpled, flat chested body. Just because I didn't have hooters or the skill to rim my eyes with the coolest shades of teal green did not mean that I didn't have a cool streak.

Alas, my voice went unheard. For fear of being shoved into the nearest open locker. But now, as a grown up, the only zits I have are on my back which nobody sees. And I can fake boobs with the best of them, thanks in part to chicken cutletty things and Victoria Secret. Now I will be heard. Even if it's only by my dog. I no longer fear being shoved into a locker.

When Mama Tulip and Mrs. Chicky asked for volunteers to be interviewed, I waved my hand, bounced up and down and cried "Pick me! Pick me!" Cuz dammit, you all need to know the coolness that is me.

Feel free to click away at any time.

Would you ever leave Alberta for another province, or are you gonna live there forever n' ever?

Mama Tulip, two years ago I would have answered that I was free to roll where ever the wind blows me. But now with my Bug planted in the ground I feel connected to my Alberta soil more than ever. I just couldn't bear to leave my boy behind permanently. So I would leave the land of prosperity for a short time, but my chains would always yank me back.

If you could live anywhere else in the world - excluding that God
forsaken place you're living in now - where would that be and why?

Well, Mrs. Chicky, presuming I could exhume my poor Bug (and that thought creeps me out to no end) to take him with us, I'd pick Costa Rica. I have a thing for toucans. And warm temperatures.

Name a song that takes you back to your childhood.

That, Tulip, is easy. My folks were country folks and always had the radio on the farm station. I hear Dolly sing this and I think of my childhood kitchen and the sound of my mom's sewing machine rumbling with the radio on in the background.

I'm sorry, from now on you can only eat one food item for the rest of your life. But you get to pick what type of food that will be. What will you pick?

Mrs. Chicky, that's a tough one. But I'd have to say pizza. I love my cheesy goodness. Oh, how I love my cheesy goodness. (And being stuck out in the middle of no where means I never get to eat my cheesy goodness until it's a congealed and rubbery mess....Shudder.)

Name a staple in your wardrobe.

Well, Mama T, I would love to say underwear, but alas, I'm not wearing any. (Was that an over share?) I'm going to go with my love of sweaters. I love a soft, pretty sweater that fits just right and keeps me warm. Because I really hate being cold. Especially black sweaters. V-neck, turtle neck, angora and cashmere. I love them all.

As a kid what did you want to be when you grew up?

Easy. In fifth grade I loudly proclaimed my wish to be a long haul truck driver like my Grandfather. When the fits of laughter subsided and my teacher finished chastising me about the importance of setting loftier goals and not wasting the gift of my brain, I awkwardly changed my mind and told them I was just joking, I really wanted to be a brain surgeon. My teacher nodded and patted me on the head and told me what a smarter choice that was.

I still think being a truck driver would be cool. And I still think that teacher is an ass.

Which piercing was more painful -- your nipples or your nose?

Tulip, I gotta tell you...hands down the nose. But the nipples bruised a beautiful shade of blue. That look rocked. Blue nips with silver hoops. I should have taken pics.


***Please note above graphic is not in any way, shape or form the opinion of author of this blog. Nor is it a personal preference in the boudoir or at least one that I am choosing to comment on. If my husband sees this post and decides to get some funny ideas, may I direct you to the nearest Hot Asian Chick.***

Finish this sentence - "Girls with tattoos ____________."

...have rocks for brains. That's what my father kept telling me, anyways, Mrs. Chicky. Personally, I think girls with tats get more action. We're a tad wilder in the bedroom. Everybody knows that....

What's your middle name? Is there a story behind that name?

Now, Tulip, that is foul play. I don't tell anyone my middle name. (Except Sillychick whom I have threatened with death to keep it on the downlow.) I will share that it is a family name,and it starts with E and ends with E.

(And Boo, if you ever want to get me naked again, you will keep your mouth shut and your fingers away from that keyboard.)


Having read that, aren't you all just a little surprised I was ever stuffed in a locker? I mean, seriously, am I cool or what?

If anyone is brave (or dumb) enough to want to be interviewed by me, just ask nicely in the comments. Make sure I have your email. This way my husband can't say I never used that degree in journalism. You'd be doing me a favour.

Wink, wink.