Nuggets of Gold. Or something.

So I'm falling behind on everything. Work. Parenting. Housework.

Although, to be fair, I'm always falling behind on the housework, mostly because I hate doing it so much. I keep dreaming of one day having a maid which leads me to dreaming of having enough money to employ a maid which then leads to me dreaming that hey, if I've got enough money to hire a maid I must have enough money to do actual fun stuff. Like pay someone to shave my legs and hire a circus trainer with a pack of elephants who would then come put on a show on my front lawn.

Because who doesn't want a herd of dancing elephants to call their own?

All of which leads to more day dreaming and less actual house cleaning and well, I've gone full circle and it's all my imaginary maid's fault.

Which is why even if I had money to hire a maid I'd likely not do it.

Because I'd never get anything done.

And I'd probably end up with a metric shit tonne of elephant poop on my grass and what exactly does one need that much fertilizer for?

My point is, I have been busy.

Busy going to craft shows with my mother and my sister and sometimes my daughter because she likes to join in the adult fun and I'm teaching her how to silently mock what passes as craft show art all the while instilling manners and lessons about making eye contact and never laughing at anyone's beloved retail items to their faces even if they are the most hideous things you've ever seen for the low low price of 19.99, not including tax.



Every year my sister makes me try on this type of hat thingy and every year I want to buy it and every year my mother steals my wallet and tells me I must have more money than brains if I am seriously considering buying it. Which I was. And still am. Next year, I promise.

Craft shows are awesome fun I tell you.

Then there have been the requisite Christmas concerts and pageants that are mandatory for all people who decided it would be a good idea to raise small children for fun. And as my father is learning, after having done his time in the audience of umpteen children's Christmas concerts, you can never escape the concert hell. Because after your kids are grown then you have to go see their children perform. It's a vicious unending circle of bad carols, grumpy adults and stupid costumes.

Candy canes. The new devil horns.

Of course, Jumby wasn't the only one required to wear something stupid this holiday season. His big brother had to get in on the act too. And I'm sure Frac will be thrilled beyond reason to know I'm sharing his holiday pain with y'all.

 He is very bitter his sister did not have to wear a dorky costume for her part in the church pageant.

Of course the holiday season means every movement you make, including surreptitiously picking your nose when you think no one is looking, will be well documented by the plethora of iPhones, digital cameras and video cameras everyone seems to carry with them everywhere at this time of year.

Which means if you don't take the time or spend the money you will have to live forever with those photos of you with your finger up your nose while sporting horrible roots.

And that would be a damn travesty.

 The only good roots are the ones you can slice up and put in a stew.

My husband is of course, beyond thrilled to have one more added expense during this time of year. He doesn't seem to understand that my vanity? It's priceless.

 This is what I think about Scrooge and his budget.

Of course, as my husband likes to constantly tell me, a fool and his money will soon be parted. Or rather a fool and her husband's hard earned money would be more accurate in this case.

I finally finished all of my Christmas shopping this week. Better late than never. The only thing left uncrossed on my list is the gift for my adorable in-laws who have everything and more. So I lovingly informed my husband that if he wanted his parents to have a Christmas gift from us, he could figure out what to buy them.

Heads up Mom and Dad in-law, since your son is buying your gift you can expect either a can of tuna or a set of steak knives. Since that's what he's bought for me Christmases past.

Beggars can't be choosers, yo.

Of course, purchasing all the gifts is only half of the battle.

One still has to wrap them.

This small mountain of gifts, including the sheepskin rug for Jumbster (it's okay, he can't read so I'm pretty sure I'm not spoiling his Christmas by writing this) is currently sitting on my living room floor waiting to be wrapped.

 Nixon is scared. And trying to control his urge not to mark his territory on the mountain.

One small problem? How exactly does one wrap a sheep skin rug when one does not have a box big enough to contain it?

First world problems, I have them.

By the time I'm done wrapping all this, I'm going to need one of these:

Single malt whiskey. Where have you been all my life? 

 Of course, my daughter has musical theatre rehearsal tonight, my son has a basketball game in a different town and my youngest will need me sober enough to push him up our snow covered driveway when he gets off the bus so I'm only going to be dreaming of my whiskey induced happiness instead of actually making it a reality.

In the mean time, the kids and I made y'all a video for Neil Kramer's Blogger Christmahanukwanzaakah Online Holiday Concert!

We sound horrible, but we perform with heart. Or so I like to tell myself.

If you are all in the mood for a little merry holiday spirit, you should wander on over and check out the entire concert. There are some gems of gold over there. Mine, not included.



Now please excuse me. Those presents aren't going to wrap themselves, no matter how hard I wish they would.

Some Wish Lists Are Better Left Unwritten

For years I prided myself on being a hyper-organized neat freak. I'm not talking about the years of early adulthood. The ones where I had my first apartment, or even the ones during my first few years of marriage. No, those years were mostly dedicated to surviving. It was all about scraping together enough money to pay our utility bills, rent and tuition.

Those years were ugly. And well documented with hundreds of pictures of bad hair. My house was in a constant state of disarray, my babies were lucky if they were clothed and I couldn't see past the mess I was living in.

But slowly, I pulled myself and my household out of the gutter, got a better hairstyle and managed to find a way to survive the early parent, young marriage years.

And I became the uber wife, super mom prodigy I like to mock nowadays.

For about seven years, I had my shit together. I did my Christmas shopping in the off season when I found sales and I carried a list with me where ever I went. There was none of this wandering the grocery store aisles while hungry, randomly filling my cart with whatever I hoped we needed because I forgot to make a list before leaving home, like I shop now.

No, come December first every year, the gifts were all purchased and lovingly wrapped in carefully coordinated wrapping papers and strategically placed bows. I'd laugh at all the suckers who ran around at the last minute trying to score good deals as they purchased their holiday gifts and goodies.

I was obnoxious, really. But I was obnoxious with a ridiculously clean house and a stick up my arse most of the time too.

Ya. I was a total jackass.

And then things changed. I don't know if I grew up a little more or if what had seemed so important to me before no longer was a priority once my son died. But suddenly, I'm satisfied if the inside of the toilet bowl isn't brown and there is at least a path to navigate in between the dog fur, the dust bunnies and the kids discarded socks.

Oh how the mighty has fallen.

And once again, I am sorely unprepared for Christmas. I've picked up a couple presents for a few people but the reality is, if I don't get my arse moving soon, there isn't going to be much under the Christmas tree for anybody. I'm woefully ill prepared for the holiday season. There has been no Christmas baking, no gift wrapping, nothing.

I'm just lucky I managed to throw a couple of loads of laundry into the wash and sweep the floor before falling down in exhaustion. The idea of Christmas is completely wearing me out. I don't know how real grown up people with real jobs do all this. Because I'm completely faking it.

Oh ya, I'm a holiday faker. But at least I managed to get my Christmas tree up. Small victories.

Between Jumby's complex needs, boys basketball, girls basketball, club volleyball, musical theatre, broken in-laws, an absent husband and blogging, I don't have much time to do anything but drive, write and scatter some dry cereal around for the ferals to eat. I used to think I was busy when I had two toddlers and a baby. Apparently I didn't know what busy meant.

So when my husband called to ask me what I wanted for Christmas, I blanked. Apparently he didn't like my suggestions in the post I wrote for him. He's got some personal rule against buying me dead stuffed animals or pots I will never use.

When I couldn't come up with anything he deemed reasonable he was hard pressed to believe I haven't spent time crafting a very long wish list like I have in years past. (Because the best way to ensure you get what you want for Christmas, I've learned, is to write down very specific items including locations in which he can purchase said goodies. Works like a charm every year I tell ya.)

Without my Christmas wish list I've apparently spiralled my husband into the depths of Christmas misery alongside me.

Welcome to the club sweetie.

So I got to thinking. What do I really want for Christmas?

The list? It's not pretty.

I'd like a set of boobs that don't flap around like tube socks. But I don't want to have them surgically altered. I want them magically fixed. It's less painful that way.

Speaking of boobs, I'd like the none whiskered variety. Because nipple hair? It's not attractive on any one. Especially on a 36 year old woman. And I'm tired of plucking.

I'd like the waist I had back when I was 20. Before children. You remember the one. It was narrow enough both of your hands could fit around it and touch. I miss that waist.

I'd like a butt. I miss having one. And I'm too lazy to exercise to get one. I hear they make padded underwear. Sounds fantastic to me.

I want legs I never have to shave again. And toe nails that never grow. Because the current set I own of each require me to bend over to trim and shave and to let's be honest, I'm too lazy for that type of maintenance.

I want a car that fuels itself and never needs an oil change.

Children who don't require feeding. Or driving. I'm so tired of driving.

I want floors that don't have a rip in the linoleum or scratches in the laminate.

How about some extra cupboards so I can store the zombie head cookie jar I'm coveting?

I want socks that never get dirty and never need folding. Shirts that make me look like I'm actually trim and fit and pants I can button up with out sucking in my gut and then having a lovely roll of muffin top hanging over the edge.

I'd like a self-cleaning refrigerator.

My best friend to move back to Canada. Preferably next door.

How about a job for Boo that doesn't require him living under a different roof?

I'd like my back pain to be cured, my dad's rheumatoid arthritis to go away and for Jumby to be able to sit independently.

But what I really, really want for Christmas?

I'd like someone to come and finish all my Christmas shopping for me and then wrap everything so I won't have to. Because at this rate, I'm seriously considering wrapping up potatoes and frozen bags of peas in old newspaper for everyone and calling it a day.

Happy shopping Boo. I hope you have better luck with your Christmas shopping than I am mine.

 

Ice Kills

I like to think I'm a patriotic Canadian what with my unabashed love of the beaver, my fondness for our long winter months and my ability to rock any and all sweaters, even those garishly ugly Cosby type sweater vests and the insanely ugly Christmas sweaters with the blinking Rudolph noses smack in the middle of your chest.

But lately, I'm starting to rethink my love of all things winter related as I get progressively older and my bones start to become as frail as a baby bird's.

I'm starting to think winter is trying to kill me.

And I'm not just talking about the winter roads and my poor driving skills although it's a well documented fact I drive as well as a blind person hopped up on crack as soon as the snow starts to fly. There is a reason my husband saves all year long so that he can put heavy duty steel studded winter tires on my vehicle. It's because he's had to haul my arse and our car out of a snow bank one too many times and apparently he doesn't consider this a fun winter time activity we can all partake in.

It's the ice. It's everywhere. For some reason it just won't stay on the roads like it's supposed to so grouchy underpaid government contractors can drive up and down sanding and salting the ribbons of pavement through out this beautiful province.

I swear I hear the ice patches taunting me as I walk across them. It's like they're just waiting to howl with delight as I howl in pain when I land on my arse.

I'm pretty sure the iceberg that sank the Titanic got the last laugh. I'm just saying.

I've been extremely cautious with our winter conditions for a few years ago, ever since I decided in a moment of clear brilliance to wear a pair of slippers outside as I packed my precious little doggie in my arms so he could go potty. You see my dog is a princess and doesn't want to go outside to do his bidness if the temperature drops. His paws are sensitive.

I realized, as my feet slipped out from under neath me on some hidden ice and my dog struggled in my arms and I was hurtling my way to the very hard ground that perhaps I had made the wrong choice in footwear. Two surgeries later and a relentless back ache and it's been confirmed. Even my princess dog looks at me like I am a dumbass.

But recently, my sister-in-law slipped on some ice herself. And instead of busting her back like I did, she shattered her elbow. The difference between her and I? She was at least wearing proper shoes.

2 pins and some chicken wire later and Aunt Dandy will one day have a working bionic arm. I however, may never recover.

I'm so paranoid about going outside now I've started looking at having industrial sized rolls of bubble wrap sent to my house so I can wrap myself and my kids in it every time we need to wander beyond the warmth of our house.

My husband likes to remind me that wearing proper shoes would probably be sufficient to keep me safe. However, now that his sister is all hobbled like a busted up arthritic geriatric person with more metal inside her arm than the bionic woman herself, I can rightfully point out that his theory has been proven false.

Bubble wrap would indeed be safer.

So imagine my excitement when I found a giant parcel with my name on it waiting for me at home. I was convinced that my husband had listened to my concerns, heard my arguments and provided his family with a life time supply of bubble wrap to see us through the Canadian winters.

I gleefully tore up on my package to find the ugliest, biggest pair of winter boots a person could ever hope to not own. And sadly they weren't packaged in bubble wrap.

Maybe they wouldn't be so bad if they were yellow. And not as tall as my youngest son.

My husband? Well he insists, that much like bad tasting medicine, these are the boots I need to swallow, I mean wear.

I'll forsake fashion for warmth any time, but these? These may be my limit. Don't tell my kids though, because I'm totally making them wear the pair their father sent for them. Hypocrisy for the win.

It's going to be fine though. Because I am a clever girl, even if I do like to wear my slippers outside in the snow and ice.

I found me some ice cleats. That I can slip on over my slippers.

It's like I blinked and turned into a fuddy duddy without even knowing it.

Because somehow, wearing steal studded slippers out in public is totally more cool than wearing industrial sized winter boots.

I'll save the boots for when he's home though. So he can enjoy watching me tromp about in them and see just how sexy they are.

In the meantime, winter may be winning the war, but I at least totally won this little battle.

As long as I remember to wear my studded slippers when I go out in public.

Shhh. Don't judge me.