Surrounded by Pricks

This morning my children informed me that I should go back to bed because I looked shitty terrible. Charming way to wake up isn't it? This is what a parent gets when they encourage their off spring to be open and honest. Critical reviews based on appearance while I'm serving them their daily nutritional requirements. (Fruitloops are considered nutritional, right?)

While the vain part of me would like to deny that I looked anything but a fresh faced daisy, I realized perhaps my kids had a point when I went to let the dog out and caught a glimpse of my image while walking past a mirror. I jumped at the sight of my hair sticking up in all directions and the purple luggage under my eyes. The best part was the pillow creases all down the side of my face which high lighted the path of dry spittle trailing down from the corner of my mouth.

Oh ya. Who's a sexy momma now?

Between my damn dog engaging in a repeat performance as the most incredibly annoying and small bladdered dog ever, and my lumpy mattress aggravating me into tossing and turning all night long to find an elusive comfortable spot, I didn't get a lot of sleep.

To make matters worse, I had nightmares whenever I did manage to drift off to the land of Nod. I kept reliving events that happened hours prior to me finally laying my head on my pillow.

Events, which included a porcupine, my friend's dog Kona and a pair of needle nose pliers. This was not my first run in with the neighbourhood association of porcupines. Before Fric arrived in our lives, Boo and I adopted a stray dog that developed a fondness for the sweet underbelly of porcupine (re: he was too stupid to stay away from the prickly beasts) and would often wander home with a mitt full of quills.

This was however, the first time I had ever had the nightmare pleasure of watching quills being removed from a dog's face. While explaining the process to my bloodthirsty curious children. Who didn't seem at all queasy or bothered in the way their mother was.





We lost track of quills after 100.

Thankfully, for Kona (and my queasy stomach,) the dog was in capable hands. With all the manly farmers I like to surround myself with there was no end of painkillers, sedatives, antibiotics and skilled hands to remove the sharp quills.





I'll never look at a pair of needle nose pliers the same way.

After over an hour of quill removal, Kona was prickle-free and ready for his next battle with his pointy opponents. I was in need of a stiff drink.

While I wish poor Kona had never encountered his little buddy, it did provide me with the opportunity to teach my children a valuable lesson of why we don't hug prickly animals. Who am I to pass up valuable teaching moments?

Yet, every time I closed my eyes last night, I saw blood and quills. Except the quills were in me. Being tugged out rather gleefully by my evil-eyed children. Just as they happily tugged on a quill located in my nose or my boob, I would wake up in a panic. It made for a really restful sleep.

Serves me right for acting like a paparazzi chasing Ms. Spears down a Hollywood freeway and taking pictures of the mangled mutt.







At one point (pun intended) I woke up calling Boo's name and tried to bury my face in his armpit like I normally do when I have a nightmare. Except when I opened my eyes I discovered my nose firmly planted in the nether regions of my damned dog. Not quite as comforting as the arms of a big strong man.

So I called my husband. Like any big baby rational wife would do. At 2:35 a.m.

"Hey darlin'. Why aren't you sleeping?" he asked in between barking out orders to somebody.

"I had a bad dream," I whined in a groggy, er, sexy husky voice.

"Was it about Bug?" he asked sympathetically.

"No. It was about a porcupine." I yawned while Nixon tried to bury his butt back into my nose.

"Oh." Suddenly his sympathy vanished. I proceeded to tell him what happened earlier and then told him my wild imaginings of his children and a porcupine all chasing me around while each wielding a pair of needle nose pliers to use on me.

"So you're telling me you miss me," he crooned.

"No. I'm telling you that tomorrow I'm tossing out any pliers I find in my house. And I moving to the city."

"You know, there is a sure-fire cure for nightmares," he offered.

"Really? What's that?"

"Well, you need to come on up and get some of my peckercillin . Served special just for you. Cures all that ails you."

Oddly enough, I passed on his thoughtful offer.

I'd already been poked enough in my dreams. I didn't need to be bothered by another prick.

There is no escape from me...I'm coming for you, T. Bwahahaha!

***Kona is happily licking his nut sack this morning, and will make a complete recovery. Unlike myself, who will be scarred for life.***

Losing My Shit

When I was nineteen I was the manager of a large multi-screened movie Cineplex. Before the doors were opened to the public and the staff had yet to trickle in, I would wander around the vast cavernous lobby and stroll up and down each theater and marvel that some middle aged man promoted me because I wore an insanely short skirt I was left in charge of this business. At nineteen. Somebody thought I was responsible enough to play God with the lives of the employees and trust me not to burn the place down.

Trippy. I like to think those days of micromanaging forty or more pimply faced teenagers gave me an insight and some skill into one day parenting my own little hormonal teens.

I used to marvel at the magnitude of responsibility I had somehow found weighing upon my shoulders. Then I had children and became a homeowner.

Now I'm wishing the only real responsibility I had was whether or not I remembered to order enough popcorn seed for the week.

Up until lately, I thought I had this responsibility thing down pat. The weight of twisting raising small children into productive members of society (read: Off the pole and out of the clink) never seemed a burden too heavy to bear.

Then my husband ran off to go and chase his dreams. Leaving the well-being and safety of not only his children but also his home to me, the chick who has trained her young and impressionable children to tell everyone their mom is an internet porn star.

Perhaps not the wisest choice on my husband's behalf. But I love the misguided vote of confidence he gave me.

Now I've got all the responsibility of being a grown up with out the safety net of another to catch me when I falter. Good times.

But I pride myself on being a self sufficient, independent woman. I don't need no stinking man. If I bury my car in a snow bank, I can shovel myself out. If my furnace stops working in the dead of the winter, I can call the furnace fixer people as well as the next guy.

So when I noticed that if one runs the water in my bathroom sink the toilet starts to burp and fart and overflow, I didn't panic.










All right, I panicked a little.

But then I phoned my husband only to get his facking voice mail got a grip. I could fix this. How hard could it be to unplug a toilet, I rationed. I'm the only one who uses this toilet and I know what goes down it. And the particular size of ahem, what is going down.

Easy peasy. This is why God invented the plunger. Not just so my brother could suction it to my stomach as a small child and lift me up off the ground, leaving me squealing with laughter and sporting a giant purple plunger hickey. Right?

So I rolled up my sleeves, made friends once again with a plunger and eyed my toilet.





Why have you forsaken me, my porcelain princess? Have I not worshipped on your altar and kept you clean for the past three years?

Picture me straddling my toilet and thrusting away at the plunger as though my very life depended on it, water splashing everywhere. This is what my son walked in on.

"Um, Mom? What are you doing?" he called from the safety of the bathroom door.

"Besides the obvious? Well, I thought I needed an upper body work out and the plunger looked lonely. Wanna grab some paper towels to mop up this water, please?" I responded as I continued to pump away at my blocked toilet.

(Side note: Ever notice what a disgusting sound the plunger makes? Kinda like a queef, but worse.)

"Not really," was his response. Not that I blame him. But seeing as I was indisposed at the moment, I shot him my mom look and he slunk off to do what he was asked.

Just then the clouds parted and a heavenly light from up above shined on my head, bathing me in a golden glow. With a sudden gurgle, the overflowing water receded from it's porcelain banks and flowed back into the ocean sewer line.

I couldn't believe it. I did it. I fixed my own plugged toilet. I could hear a chorus of angels singing heavenly praise from up above.





Victory! I don't need a man to plunge!

Just then Frac walked back in with the roll of toilet paper. "Victory, my sweet son. Just look what a little bit of hard work and effort can do," I crowed as I wiped the sweat off my brow.

"Um, Mom..."

"That's right, sugar. Whose your momma now?" I chuckled as I started wiping up the mess.

"Well you are, I guess. But is the water supposed to be coming up into the bathtub like that? And why is it brown?"

Suddenly that chorus of angels turns into the cackle of a thousand little sewer demons, laughing as an inch of brown water filled my bathtub and just sat there. Great. My very own cesspool. I always wanted one. In my ensuite bathroom. Meters from where I sleep. Lucky me.

"Damn it." Understatement of the year. (Granted the year is young, but wow, are we off to a fine start.)

"Want me to call Dad?" Frac offered. Apparently that snarl sound I made must have convinced him to back slowly away from me and he went to go hide in his room.

"What for? I fixed the toilet didn't I?" I called after him. "Just because I'm a woman doesn't mean I can't handle a little shit in the tub, kiddo," I muttered to myself, like a crazy woman.





My luck seems to be in the crapper as of late.

But face it; there is shitty water in my tub and no signs of draining any time soon. And my husband isn't home to clean it up while I pretend to be busy in another room.

I hate being a responsible grown up.

Doesn't this give a whole new meaning to "losing my shit?"

New Year's Posterity And How My Posterior will Never Be the Same

Since pushing three children out of my uterus, my new year's celebrations have been relatively tame. It's not as though I lost the urge to party like it's 1999 with every subsequent pregnancy. It's more I have no desire to try and find a sitter who would generally end up to be some drugged out tween with more body piercings than I have and then be forced to fork over hundreds of my husband's hard earned dollars all for the privilege of dancing on a few speakers and blowing into a noise maker at midnight and then whispering and and whimpering for an ice pack, dried toast and some facking tylenol, please, the next day.

(That is a lovely run on sentence. My grade nine teacher would be proud.)

Instead of paying for that misery, I thought to myself, how could I do that for less? What could be better? And more painful?

Hmmm....Something that includes the children, is cheap and fun. And includes alcoholic beverages. Cuz it's new year. (Like I need a reason to crack open the vino....)

In my lovely twisted brain, a mental image sprung forth, and our new year's party was born.

We're having a skating party.

Cuz nothing says "Happy New Year!" like falling on your ass while being circled by small children wearing knives on their feet as you are slightly inebriated.

Never mind the fact I haven't been on skates since I was ten. That would be 22 years ago for those of you doing the math.

Never mind the fact I don't own skates. I do own a pond. That's all I need.

(Well, common sense would help too...)

So the hubs bought me some skates shoveled off the pond to make way for the big night. Common sense told me I better at least try my skates on before having hordes of people descend to my house to witness my ass breaking so the family and I bundled up and trudged out to the pond.

My pond. Where the only cracks in the ice tend to be when my ass hits the surface.



Hence, why I say I live in the sticks. I'm surrounded by them.



It was painfully obvious the moment I stood up on my skates for the first time in two decades that this was a FACKING stupid idea. I figured that out the moment my ass hit the ground. Which was ONE second after I stood up.

My darling husband and my loving children never laughed so hard in their short little lives. Which are now going to be a whole lot shorter since they've wounded my ego. Heh. (I kid. Kinda.)

After slipping and sliding and begging for the ice to crack and swallow me whole, I finally managed to skate a short length. Except I forgot how to stop. So down I went again.

While my husband took pictures and cackled about how I've been brought down by my own stupidity and my children howled with laughter. AND NO ONE OFFERED TO HELP ME UP.

Ya. So they knew if they tried to pull me up I'd yank them right down into the gutter with me. Still, they could have at least pretended.

Look, I'm a dancing queen. Quick, snap the damn picture! I'm losing my balance!!

And no, I'm not sharing those photos with you. They've mysteriously been deleted. I don't know what happened.

Wink, wink.

After an hour of so, I finally found my skating legs which I feared had been lost in time along with my perky boobs and taut stomach muscles. I can once again skate. It's not pretty, but I can live with that.

I can now actually participate in my brilliant idea. At least until my ass becomes more bruised than my fragile ego. Then I'll stick to the snow banks and just serve booze. I mean, egg nog.

Two seconds later they were dragging my sorry carcass off the ice while I whimpered for mercy. Is it me, or is the ice harder than it was when we were little?

My guests are in for a spectacular show tonight. And I'm not talking about the fireworks I bought at the local gas station, either.

He he.

May your new year be filled with much love and joy. And decidedly less bruises than mine.