Kiss My Grits

When you wake up in the morning and discover no creamer for you coffee, it is a sure sign the Universe is telling you to crawl back in bed and try again the next day.

Since I listen to the Universe about as well as I obey my husband I poured my coffee and gave the Universe the finger. I'm hardcore like that.

You know what happens when you give the Universe the bird? It finger flicks you squarely in the forehead when you are least prepared for it.

I knew I was in for a long day when Jumby's diaper came off in the middle of the doctor's office while I was holding him against me and he let loose all down the front of my white tee shirt. There is nothing quite like having to wait for your son's urine to dry on your shirt to make it less see through to really kick start your day.

But the pee soaked shirt wasn't enough for that b!tch, the Universe. No, she had to deliver a torrential rain storm, complete with hail to knock out my Internet signal all afternoon and I'm pretty sure she was laughing as I went through withdrawal and twitched for hours.

I thought for sure my day couldn't get any worse when Frac accidentally slammed the car door shut on my thumb. Surely that had to be the equivalent of the Universe sticking her foot up my arse as I howled like an injured coyote and gave my very apologetic son the stink eye.

But still, the Universe was determined to teach me who was boss.

As the sun started to settle into the horizon, I was stung by a wasp. Twice. In my freshly shaven armpit. As I was trying to fold laundry.

There I was, still wearing the shirt Jumby had peed on earlier, with a swollen thumb, hopping around the kitchen clutching my armpit thinking I was about to die.

It was like the Universe had decided to not only teach me a lesson but kick me while I was down while horking a loogie into my hair..

Let me tell you, the next time I wake up and discover no creamer for my morning coffee on a Monday morning, my first instinct won't be to tell the Universe to kiss my grits.

It'll be to run back to my bed and call in sick until the new dawn breaks.

The Universe does not mess around on Mondays.

The upside to yesterday is that my week can only get better. *Twitch*

My Husband Should Practice What He Preaches

My husband thinks he is better than me.

Granted, in many ways he may indeed, be superior, but I keep telling him the fact he has a tighter arse and the ability to fart on command does not make him better. After all, he never produced human life from his nether regions nor made enough milk with his breasts to feed a third world nation.

I will always default to superior by nature of having a vagina. Sorry dudes, you lose.

Boo, however, doesn't look at life like that. He is more black and white. He figures since he can rebuild an engine, balance our checkbook, torch a steak on a barbecue and pee his name in a snow bank he wins at the great game of life.

For the most part, I allow him his delusions because, well, he feeds me. If it wasn't for him, I'd be foraging for berries out in the trees out back or standing on a street corner trying to exchange my well used wares for the spoiled remains of a stale sandwich a homeless guy wouldn't eat.

Never bite the hand that puts money in your bank account while you sit at home and mock him on the internet, is my motto.

Lately Boo's ego has been puffed up so big it threatens to carry him away like the Balloon Boy's hoax. And dammit, if it isn't all my fault.

In my defense, I'm a busy lady. I have a teen, a tween and Jumby. I've got dogs, cats, fish and a random bunny that was literally dropped on my doorstep. That's a lot of mouths to feed. That's a lot of laundry to fold, pee to clean up, and bums to chauffeur around to various games and appointments. I'm a mom, dude, which qualifies me for absolutely nothing but keeps these wheels turning from the time I drag my sorry arse out of bed until the moment I fall back onto my pillow and drool my way through the night to start the process all over again.

My husband? He feeds himself. Once again, I win.

There are days when I've got so much going on that I can't be expected to keep track of the toilet paper quantities let alone change the darn roll. I had one such day earlier this spring and my husband hasn't let me forget it. It was 6:30 pm on a school night, I had just spent the day shuttling the Jumbster from one appointment to the next and picking up Fric and Frac from an after school event and I was fried. It was going to be a cereal for dinner type of night and I felt no shame over that.

The only problem, I had Fric yelling that we had no milk, and Frac yelling that we had no toilet paper. The world as my children know it, was imploding around them and Jumby was bouncing in his wheelchair demanding to be fed. Except, I had apparently forgotten to pick up the liquid food he subsists on from the drug store.

With my children threatening to mutiny I realized I had exactly 27 minutes to drive 25 minutes to the pharmacy before it closed so I could pick up Jumby's food, toilet paper for Frac and milk for Fric. So I jumped back into the vehicle I had just spent my day in and raced into town while fervently wishing I was a tad more organized. A more efficient parent (like my husband insists he is) would have remembered to take care of all this earlier in the day when they were already in town.

Efficiency is for losers. That's my motto and I'm sticking with it.

Halfway to town I noticed some flashing blue and red lights in my rear view mirror. Since mine was the only vehicle on the stretch of highway at the time, I had a strong suspicion the cop riding my bumper wanted me to pull over.

Turns out, I was right. According to the very young and attractive RCMP officer who was standing beside my vehicle, I was speeding.  Since time was running out before the store closed and left my kids starving with soiled bottoms, I did the only thing I knew how to do.

I tried to wheedle my way out of the ticket. Mr. Copper was not having any of it. He was oblivious to my very obviously pushed out boobs, he didn't care that I was running late to feed my 'medically fragile' child, nor was he interested in hearing how very apologetic I was or my promises to never do it again if he would just let me off with a warning.

Heck, I even asked him "If I told you you had a cute arse would that make a difference?" as I leaned out my window and ogled his bottom.

Apparently it didn't make a difference because I was slapped with a 150 dollar ticket and shown no mercy.

That night, I made it to the pharmacy just as they were closing up and while I may have successfully scored toilet paper and liquid nourishment, I also acquired a lecture about personal responsibility, effective organization and the dreaded neener-neener from my holier than thou husband when one of my ratfink children tattletaled to their father about my ticket.

To make matters worse, I was once again pulled over for having a wee bit of a lead foot by the county cop a few weeks later. Only this time, since this cop is a personal friend, he let me go with a warning. (I didn't even have to tell him his arse looked nice. But if you are reading this Rick, it totally did.) I haven't sped since because dammit, it's just no fun when the cops make you feel like a criminal when they catch you.

I hadn't planned on telling my husband about the second incident and lucky for me Jumby can't talk. What I hadn't planned on though, was how our friend the cop would mention this to his mother who would mention it to Boo's mother who would then mention it to Boo. (Oh the joys of living in a rural community where everyone knows everything.)

My husband, once again went on and on about personal safety and blah blah blah. I tuned out a few minutes into his lecture and started daydreaming about tropical places and shirtless men.

Ever since then, every time I have to drive somewhere my husband takes the time to remind me of my tarnished driving record and how I should be more like him, what with his unblemished perfect record.

It's not annoying at all. Okay, it totally is. I'd like to take his perfect unblemished driving record and cram it up his...well, you get the idea.

And then magic happened.

I picked up the mail last night and noticed a very official letter from the justice department of the city my husband lives in when he's not living at home with his family.

Inside that very official envelope was my sweet revenge a 'notice of offense to the registered owner'. The registered owner being my husband. You know, the one with the perfect driving record who speeds even worse than I do but keeps horseshoes up his arse and has never been caught.

Turns out my husband, the one with the lead foot, was clocked at doing 68 km/h in a 50 zone. I've got the picture to prove it. (His hair looks awfully nice from behind, just so you know.)

I was going to gloat to him about this, but then I thought, nah, I'll take the high road.

I'll blog about it instead.

Sometimes being married is a lot of fun. This is one of those moments. Heh.

Somebody Tell Me What To Do

Like many Canadians who live in the sticks of the Great North, I tend to get a little stir crazy every spring. After spending half a year trapped inside my house strategically sitting next to a furnace vent so that warm air can blow up my ass and keep me warm, I am sick to death of my house and everything in it.

Including the face that has been staring back at me through the mirrors in my house.

Like the walls in my home, I really need a new paint job. Unlike my house, I can't escape the walls because everywhere I go, how I look follows.

Even as a small child, I got bored with how I looked. When I was five I convinced my brother to play barber with me and handed him a pair of scissors as I sat on a tiny wooden chair.

My mom was horrified but oddly enough, I was pleased as punch when I looked in the mirror and discovered my long tresses had been shorn and I now resembled the boy down the street I was crushing on.

Pink suspenders and a green and orange striped tee shirt. Either my mother wanted to punish me or it was the Eighties.

It took years for my hair to grow out since I'm cursed with baby fine wisps that doesn't seem to actually grow. And just when I had started to resemble a girl once more, one of my bestest girlfriends in grade school showed up at school with a pixie cut. It took about a nanosecond for me to decide I wanted my hair cut short too.

Of course, my friend was beautiful and well dressed and looked adorable with short hair. I was the type of girl that wore a red and white striped sweat shirt with matching stirrup pants made out of fleece and wore that darn outfit everyday until it was threadbare. Needless to say, I wasn't quite as cute as my well-put together friend and I learned a valuable lesson in the perils of succumbing to peer pressure.

It's amazing how much my ten year old self looks like my twelve year old son.

My hair grew out just in time for me to hit adolescence. Puberty was not kind to me, nor was the fashion trends at the time. Acid washed jeans? Bangs teased straight up and curled over? Frosted pink lipstick? Half pony tails? A dog wearing a diaper or a goat stuffed into a baptismal dress looks less awkward than I how I wandered around in my youth.

Remind me never to tease my children about how awkward they look. People in glass houses and all...

Thankfully, I survived puberty and discovered the value of mirrors along the way. But it wasn't long into adulthood that I was once again itching to change my look. And thus began a cycle I repeated during the entire decade of my twenties.

I'd cut my hair off, dye it, grow it out, dye it again and then repeat the entire cycle.

What can I say? Carrot Top inspired me.

I actually liked the brunette look...until the color fell out and my hair turned green.

My personal favourite: The Oreo Cookie look. My husband still teases me about this haircut.

This cut was referred to as the Oreo Killer. Or the marital saver.

I spent my entire twenties playing around with hair styles and colours and never once found a look I loved enough to trademark as my own. And then my son died. My hair was short and brown. I remember coming home from the funeral and looking into the mirror and not recognizing myself.

So I stopped messing with my hair and let it grow out. I was thirty years old and broken. My hair was the last of my concerns when my entire identity was buried alongside my almost five year old son.

Somethings never change. As I type this, my dog is on my shoulder.

Over the last five years, I've worn my hair up, down, curly, straight, in pig tails, in twists and stuffed under a ball cap, yet it always feels like it looks the same.  Looking back through the photos documenting my life, this is the longest I've ever sported the same hairstyle in my entire life.

My heart must be healing because I'm starting to twitch about my hair and eye the craft scissors in the junk drawer.

My husband emphatically prefers my hair long and naturally blonde. However, I'm less convinced his preference has less to do with my esthetics and more about the state of his bank account.

But after five years of the same hair style, I'm wondering, perhaps it is time for a change?

Photo courtesy of Mr. Lady

As I near my 35th birthday, perhaps it's time to let go of some of my baggage, starting with my hair.

Or maybe I need to accept the fact my youth is fleeting and the only thing I'm going to accomplish by cutting my hair off is pissing off my husband and scaring Jumby.

Long hair is a pain in the arse. Short hair highlights chin whiskers.

To cut or not to cut, that is my question.

What do you think? Care to share the worst hair cut decision you've ever made?