No More Living in Squalor!

I work full time Monday to Friday, and since my evenings during the week are filled with hockey practices, piano lessons, and Survivor: Heroes vs. Villains, Sunday is usually the day I do most of my housework. I tell myself I will do the housework on Saturday, but I usually spend most of Saturday in my jammies watching television. This morning, Aydan had his last hockey game of the season at 8:30. When we got home, I looked around my house and realized that it was dirty. Like, really dirty. So I wrote out a list of chores and put everyone to work. Even my dog was more than happy to help clean up the filth he'd been forced to live in for a week.

That's my dog Scooter. He's part Dachshund, part Chihuahua and in his own mind, part Pitbull.

After a few hours of cleaning, I was starting to feel really good about myself and my now less filthy living environment. Then I looked at the carpet in Aydan's now tidy bedroom and *poof* happiness gone.

Our vacuum broke about six months ago. Since the entire main floor of our house is hardwood, we didn't worry about it at first. Then I realized how dirty light beige carpet can get in two weeks. The problem was that I insisted on spending a lot of money on a really good vacuum. I did my research and decided I wanted a Dyson. Adam was a little harder to persuade than I anticipated once he saw the price of the Dysons. But after looking at the above carpet, he agreed that we needed to get the vacuum and gave into my demands. So off we went to get my new vacuum.

We ended up going to the mall to check out The Bay and Sears which are at opposite ends. I parked somewhat near the doors to The Bay, fairly certain we'd get a better price there. Turns out, they don't sell vacuums. So we walked all the way to the other end of the mall to Sears and had a mild debate over whether the ball technology and pet hair attachments were worth the $200 price difference in models. I sulked; Adam caved. I have a killer pout. After emptying the contents of my husband's bank account, I then made him carry a giant Dyson vacuum box through the mall, across the parking lot to the car. Did I mention I have a killer pout?

After all that carrying, I decided he had earned the privilege of putting the vacuum together while I supervised. (And took pictures of him) I'm happy to say that Aydan probably could have put the vacuum together it was so easy!

Isn't he doing a super duper job?

I was going to take a picture of the completely full canister after I had finished with all the carpets, but realized that picture would make my mother cringe in embarrassment. Also, I don't really want to admit just how dirty the carpets were. It was gross. Instead, Adam took a picture of me looking blissfully happy while I sucked up all the dirt from the carpet.

I put that vacuum to good work in Aydan's room. His carpet is finally beige again. Except for the spots that have been stained with Orange Crush and that one spot that Scooter peed on when he was a puppy.

Children Have the Best Timing...

Back in the 1980's when I was growing up, I remember my mother feeding me breakfast, and then sending me outside to play. It didn't matter to her that we were the only house on our entire street and that there wasn't a single child within a 3 mile radius for me to play with. If I came back inside, I was immediately ushered out again and threatened with a spanking should my bottom cross the threshold again before she called for me. On good days, I was also given a cookie on my way out. I don't remember ever finding this remotely traumatizing, but then, I am in therapy right now.

Us parents nowadays, we don't have it nearly as easy. Gone are the days of mothers' threatening their naughty children with "The Wooden Spoon", and don't even think of giving your defiant little hellions a smack on the ass with one! It's also become harder and harder to send your kids outside for any considerable length of time. Having my son in the house spreading his mess around makes it nearly impossible for me to get anything accomplished. I don't get the hours of uninterrupted bliss my mother got while I was outside playing.

So, you can imagine my excitement when I saw my son's friends outside playing street hockey. My joy only grew when my son ran downstairs, grabbed his goalie pads, put on his boots and dashed outside to join them. With the house suddenly kid free, I had an overwhelming desire to make the most of it...and so did my husband.

If dressing in a hurry were an olympic sport, I'm pretty sure there'd be plenty of parents in line for the gold medal. The sound of crying and winter boots stomping up the front stairs had us dressed and rushing downstairs in record breaking time. Thankfully, he was far too agitated to notice my flushed cheeks or inside out Matthew Good t-shirt. As a mother, you feel badly when your child is hurt and crying...usually. I can't really say I felt that bad for him today. Yes, I'm sure a small rubber puck hitting you in the nose hurts, but the fact that his nose wasn't broken or even bleeding was just disappointing. It probably would have been more motherly of me to give him a hug and tell him it would stop hurting soon, but that's not what I did. Instead, I lifted his face, inspected his blood-free nose and blurted out "You're not even bleeding!" To stop him crying, I handed him a glass of Coke, told him to drink it and go back outside.

I'm thinking of writing a book on parenting.

Proof God Has A Sense of Humour

Tonight, I sat with my hubby and watched the Olympic opening ceremonies. I'm not really super into sports, but something about the Olympics just makes me all patriotic and weird. I think because the Olympics represent the feeling of unity I was taught to believe in back in elementary school. You know, before I found out how corrupt governments and the United Nations really were. Sigh...those were the days.

Anyway, we're watching the introduction by the first nations' people and the giant drum and I'm in the middle of a political rant that's going something like this:

"...and it's great that the rest of the world gets to see the beautiful culture and spirit of....Oooh! I wonder which country has the cutest athletes?!"

Good bye political rant, hello cute boys with muscles! I'm sure I was about to make a great diplomatic point about culture, but those cute boys have a way of turning my brain to mush. Now, if my husband were to lose his train of thought because of the possibility of pretty girls, I would go into a three day sulk about how he doesn't really love me. But I'm a woman, and I'm allowed to have double standards.

There I am, happily oogling the male contributors to the 2010 winter Olympics and silently ranking each country based on their level of hotness, when I burst into tears. The team from Georgia has entered the stadium and I'm reminded of the tragedy that will forever mark the Vancouver Olympics. My husband, being used to my bi-polar like mood swings, reaches over and gently pats my leg. He doesn't ask why I'm crying. Either because he already knows (HA) or because he's accepted the fact that us women, we're crazy, and he'll never understand what goes through my head. I once spent half an hour sitting on my kitchen floor sobbing because I really wanted a Bounty Bar and I didn't want to drive all the way to the convenience store to get it. In the end, to shut me up, hubby went and bought me SIX, yes SIX Bounty Bars. Early in our marriage, whenever I was sitting and crying, my husband would quietly ask what was wrong. After I explained why I was crying, he would sit next to me looking utterly bewildered, patting my head, and wondering what it was he should be doing. Since he never really grasped why I was crying in the first place, he'd eventually get frustrated and leave me alone.

I think the reason God made men and women so different is because watching the interaction that takes place while a women is having an emotional breakdown over something that a man finds totally insignificant (like the need for chocolate) provides hours of entertainment. I remember being a little girl and my mother explaining the story of creation to me. She told me that Adam was created first, in God's image. Adam must have been too chatty, because God got tired of listening to him and he created Eve. I think maybe God's got a bit of a sadistic sense of humour.

Best Brownies EVER!!

Tonight, while my son was at his hockey game with my husband I got to do something that used to provide me with hours of continuous bliss. I got out my measuring cups, a big bowl, a wooden spoon, and started baking.

I know that since I love to bake, and I have a child, I should have spent the last 8 years building fond baking memories with my son. Well, I didn't. Baking was something I enjoyed doing during my limited free time as a teenager to relax. Once my son was old enough to stand on a stool to help, I tried to be "that mom". The one who has an entire photo album filled with pictures of her and her kids laughing with flour smeared on their cheeks and batter on their fingers. The problem was that I had no patience waiting for Aydan to learn to crack an egg properly, and I sure as hell did not find it relaxing cleaning it up after he smashed said egg into the counter. It drove me nuts watching him spoon flour into the measuring cup while spilling it EVERYWHERE. So, baking sessions with Aydan usually ended with both of us in tears in seperate rooms and the kitchen looking like a disaster zone.

Tonight, since I was all alone, I decided to bake up my favourite treats that I haven't made since some time last July. They're surprisingly easy to make, but look like they've taken hours of work. I use them to impress the other Mormon women at my church who really do spend hours every day in their kitchens.

Don't they look delicious?

Anyone who would like to try making them can use this recipe!

1/2 cup butter

2 oz white baking chocolate square (chopped)

2 eggs

2/3 cups sugar

1 tsp vanilla

1 cup all purpose flour

1/3 cup ground almonds (or 1/2 cup chopped)

1/2 tsp baking powder

dash salt

1 cup fresh raspberries (not frozen)

4 oz melted white chocolate squares

Line 8x8 metal pan with foil. Grease foil and set aside.

Melt butter and chocolate in saucepan until smooth. Remove from heat and add eggs, sugar & vanilla. Mix with a wooden spoon. Add flour, almonds, baking powder, and salt.

Spread batter in the prepared pan and sprinkle with raspberries.

Bake at 350 for 30 to 35 minutes until golden. Cool completely in pan on a wire rack. Using foil, lift brownies from pan.

Cut into bars and drizzle with melted white chocolate.

They certainly got the seal of approval from my little hockey superstar!

What Not to Do to the New Guy At Work

I have a very heightened sense of smell. I can pick up on smells that no one else around me does. If I smell something particularly potent, I can taste what I'm smelling in the back of my throat. Perhaps I'm crazy and half the time, this is all in my head, but I'm pretty sure, at least some of the time, I'm not crazy. I choose to believe that God granted me this awesome power of smell to make up for the fact that he completely forgot to give me any kind of co-ordination or athletic ability AT ALL.

Because of my heightened sense of smell, I've always found men who wear nice cologne or use good soap (for most, it's the smell of their pit stick), very attractive. I love cologne's on men. An ugly man wearing a nice aftershave will instantly become somewhat decent looking in my eyes. I also hug people I don't really know because I want to get a stronger whiff of whatever scent their wearing. Usually, this doesn't seem to bother people. Or at least, I've never noticed anyone get totally offended at my invasion of their personal space. Until now.

There is a new guy in my office. He started about the same time that I did three weeks ago. He's very nice, but he has the perpetual look of being disgruntled because of the set of his eyebrows. He's also very sarcastic, and for the first week I worked with him, I was constantly apologizing to him which I'm sure he found quite amusing. Last week, I was standing next to him talking to another girl we work with. When I turned my head to look at him, I realized that he smelled absolutely delicious. So, I leaned in closer and sniffed him. Now, maybe he thought I was sniffing because he smelled bad, or maybe when I leaned in and inhaled, I took too long. Or maybe having people lean in to sniff you is something that doesn't happen to the average person. Either way, my co-worker immediately jerked his body as far from me as possible and asked what I was doing. I told him that he smelled very nice and asked what cologne he was wearing. (Axe body spray) He answered in a forced polite voice and went back to his desk. Since my little sniffing incident, he has done everything in his power to avoid standing next to me or being in my general vicinity.

My feelings are truly hurt by this. It's not like I grabbed his crotch or shoved my tongue in his mouth. I don't see what the big deal is. Why would he even wear body spray if he didn't want people to appreciate how good he smelled? I have no idea how to handle this situation. I feel bad that I made him so uncomfortable, but I can't help myself. I've inherited my mother's inability to function within civilized society. Does this mean that in another 40 years, I'll be that crazy cat lady that the neighborhood kids dare each other to go talk to?

Good Seat, Bad Seat

Saturday night I took my little boy to see the Calgary Hitmen play. He was very excited, especially since our tickets were for 2 rows away from the ice surface. I was pretty excited too, I'm not going to lie. I have loved going to hockey games since I was a little girl watching my older brother play. I played too, but I lack basic co-ordination skills, so I find it much more intriguing to watch people who possess real athletic skill.

During the twenty minute trip to the saddledome, my son berated me with a constant stream of requests for various "hockey game snacks". Following each request with, "Grampy always buys those for me when he takes me to hockey games." Even though I have lived here now for 4 years, I still have trouble remembering where I need to go, what turns I need to make, and what lane I need to be in. So at every pause where I suspect he is waiting on some form of verbal cue that I'm listening, I smile and say "Mm, hmm." Point of advice for anyone who will have children someday, never EVER agree to anything while you are distracted.

Immediately upon entering the Saddledome, my son ushers me to the concession stand and tells the sweet old lady working there that he will have a large coke, a regular popcorn, a bag of salt & vinegar chips, and a package of mini donuts. After which he waves in my general direction and says "And whatever she wants." I decided that instead of having him announce to the entire building that I never listen to him, we would share.

So, with my arms loaded with various over priced snacks, we make our way precariously down the stairs to our seats. I am concentrating so hard on not falling down, running into the person in front of me, or dropping everything into some one's lap, that I don't realize there is already someone sitting there and I almost sit on them. Embarrassed, I agree to trade seats with them so that they can sit closer to their friends in the next row. At first, this deal seems to be working out great. The game starts, I begin trying to stuff as much of the junk food into my mouth as possible in the hope that my son will not get the opportunity to eat so much he pukes. 7 minutes into the first period, the people in the seats beside me arrive.

The smell of booze. It was so strong, I was sure it was seeping into my bloodstream just from being near it. The gentleman emanating this odour sat quietly beside me. He didn't look as drunk as he smelled, so I figured I would just breathe through my mouth and ignore him. Then, as I turned my head, another smell hit me. Vomit. Who in their right mind goes out in public smelling like vomit? The smell lingered the entire game. Although, the smell of the booze was strong enough I was only catching whiffs of the vomit smell and by the end of the game, I'm pretty sure I was drunk.

I am still deciding whether I would call them good seats or bad seats.

Blogging on the advice of my therapist...

I'm going to therapy at the advice of my family doctor to help me learn better coping skills for dealing with stress. Ones that don't involve stomach uclers or bulimia. Apparently, internalizing how you're feeling usually ends badly. Who knew? I think the reason I lack coping skills is because nothing ever really used to stress me out.

The problem I am now facing in therapy is that I don't say anything. I grew up in a small city in New Brunswick. I lived there until I was 24. Anyone who has ever lived in a small town for any length of time could tell you that you don't have to tell anyone your business there. They already know. I once found out I was getting dumped by the kid who worked at the gas station by my house. When I went to pay for my gas, instead of "Have a nice day", he said "I'm really sorry about you and Craig, that stinks". Even though I've now lived in Calgary for almost 4 years, I'm still learning proper big city etiquette. For example, you cannot expect the people in front of you to hold the door. If you do, you will have the painful experience of having a glass door smash into your nose.

So, needless to say, I'm not really sure what it is I'm supposed to be telling this woman. And now that I have been in Calgary for 4 years, I've grown accustomed to telling people as little about me as possible. (I figured out that in a big city, nobody really cares) All of her intrusive questions are met with polite responses completely void of any unnecessary detail. It leaves her with the dilemma of not knowing if anything she's saying is doing any good. I really do like the woman. She's nice, intelligent, and she has a calming disposition. I offered to keep a journal so she could read it and get a better idea of what I think about. If I wasn't so lazy, it would have been an excellent idea. Blogging was the next solution she came up with. I'm sure she has some very good reason for suggesting this. I don't know what that could possibly be, but I really hope she does.

Anyway, I suppose since she's trying so hard, I should put forth an equal amount of effort. Question though; is it normal that the idea of strangers reading this doesn't bother me nearly as much as the idea of people I actually know reading it? I'm a little afraid of what will happen when people who think I like them find out I don't and what will happen when the people who think I'm normal, find out I'm not....