Suddenly Single ?

Who else has taken notice of the little ad on Facebook that pops up from time to time in the side bar, "Notifications" I think it is called ? A dating service no less. You can imagine how flattered I was when I saw that there are "46 Faithful Males" living within 1.3 km of my home who were interested in meeting me based on looking at my profile picture. 

Supposedly two of these intrepid fellows actually sent me a message. The only issue I have (other than the obvious, that I am happily married) is that my profile picture at the time was of my youngest kids (8 & 10 when photo was taken) and the arse end of my horse. If anyone wants to meet me based on looking at that photo, I don't know whether to run for the hills or pull out the ol' shotgun.

On a similar subject, a friend learned (courtesy of my husband & kids) of the torrid affair I'm supposed to be having with the cute delivery guy - she saw him once, and now she seems to turn up every time I'm expecting a UPS shipment.  No need to name names, but she knows who she is.

Trouble In Paradise

It would appear our 27 year honeymoon is over. Last night Rob was watching an episode of Long Island Medium while I was tooling around on the computer. After after a particularly moving (read depressing) segment about a man who had lost his wife and didn't know how he was going to continue without her, my husband turned to me and said in all seriousness "If something ever happens to us .." First off, what does he mean by "If"? Does he have some immortality gene I'm not aware of ?, I'm more inclined towards the "When". He continues ".. I hope I go first" .

I don't know what he expected me to reply at that point but I'm pretty sure it wasn't "So do I".  There was absolute silence and as I collapsed with loud guffaws he complained in an aggrieved tone "I can't believe you just said that".  As I try to choke out a totally insincere apology,  (I was really only sorry that I missed the expression on his face) he continues with "I'm not laughing". Which of course as far as I was concerned, made it even funnier.

Oh my god, did he ever sulk after that. The more he harrumphed and let out long aggravated sighs, the more I convulsed with laughter. I really am missing that sympathy gene. Personally I considered it payback. After all, anyone who read Monday's post knows he tries to off me every night by depriving me of oxygen. I don't take offense at that !  Maybe if he doesn't want me to go first - although he may not feel that way now - he should change his tactics.  Just sayin'.

Potty Tales Part Deux.

I mentioned last week how much time my youngest daughter spends in the bathroom. Even I was surprised by the length of time she took the other evening. Lindsay was in the shower upstairs so Grady was desperately doing a little jig outside the downstairs bathroom while trying to elicit a response from his younger sister. 

Finally after hearing nothing for close on 40 minutes I rapped on the bathroom door and inquired about her well being.  Okay, so I actually asked her if she had fallen in. No reply. So I knocked harder and asked louder. This time I get a response "Whaaat?".

"What the hell are you doing?" I venture, "You've been in there for ages"  The answer was totally unexpected. "I'm watching 'The Titanic'" she hollers back. That's right, while her brother is precariously hopping from one leg to the other, Sid was ensconced in there with her IPod watching the movie on Netflicks. 

I live in dread that one day she may be responsible for choosing our nursing home .... 

Art Imitates Life

I was watching a movie with Lindsay and Zach this past weekend called "The Purge", about a futuristic America where any crime including murder can be committed with impunity one night of the year. In the movie, one particular family, believing they were safe, was forced to fight for their lives. Ha ! One night, that's nothing. I face that threat anew, every time I go to bed. This is on account of the fact that I supposedly snore, so my dear husband has taken to new and creative ways to prevent this from happening. 

His favourite practice is to pinch my nose closed and watch while the oxygen slowly disperses from my system, and like a fish out of water, I eventually gasp for air.  The psycho has actually admitted to timing this process so he can report gleefully in the morning "You didn't breathe for at least 43 seconds last night, that is almost a record".  Sadly I sleep through these assaults - or maybe by then I'm unconsciousness, it's not like he'd know the
difference - so I am unable to defend myself. 

A less intrusive, but none the less effective method is for him to blow on my face. At this point, so he tells me, I flail my hands ineffectually around my head as if warding off a fly, before conceding defeat and rolling over. I thwarted this plot however, when in the stage of  thrashing around one night, my fist connected sharply with his nose. He really should have seen that one coming.   

I don't mind so much that my husband tries to annihilate me every night, I'm more concerned about the long term effects if I survive. My memory isn't what it used to be, and more and more I find myself having to write everything down, or when I struggle with the crossword, the answer to the clue just outside my mental grasp. At first I put these lapses down to natural aging, but it occurred to me yesterday as I was reading over Lindsay's biology essay, that the real cause of my mental deterioration is the nightly oxygen deprivation to my brain !!  

#200

So this is it, my 200th post. I have to admit, when I first started this at the request of   family and friends, I never thought for one moment it would take off as it has, with almost 18,000 readers from over 38 countries. 

Other than the people with whom I'm acquainted, I don't really know who reads this. I see statistics on the audience by country, but that is all the information I have. Every time I sit down to write, I think of these nameless and faceless readers. I can't imagine what the good people of Russia, Japan or Brazil think of the escapades that happen in this blog. Are there families in Indonesia, Italy or Ireland that can relate to the ups and downs of a family in Canada ? 

The Lebanese, Germans, Nigerians, do they laugh ? Frown ? Judge me or my (sometimes non-existent) parenting skills ?  Do they think this is a work of fiction ? Believe me, it is not. I couldn't make half this stuff up if I tried.  Do I elicit sympathy sometimes ? I'd like to think so.  Do people feel better about their own problems when they about read my trials and tribulations ?  

A friend mentioned recently that the trait she likes most about me is that I can (almost) always find something funny in every situation. Even this week when my van was hit by a transport truck I could still laugh at the fact Grady tried to use it as an opportunity to eat at McDonald's. That's me, a regular a regular Suzy Sunshine. 

It hasn't always been that way. My mother died when I was sixteen, and my world fell apart. It fell apart again 19 years later when my husband and I had to bury our twin sons, who had graced our lives for only one day.  Even now, fourteen years on, I still maintain the hardest thing I ever had to do in my life was to shop for two little outfits for our sons to be buried in. We have certainly had more than our fair share of heartache and disappointment.

But I can't dwell on that. I have amazing friends and an incredible family. I owe it to them to keep moving forward. My life - good and bad - has shaped me into the person I am today, with scarce regrets. It hasn't always been easy, and that is why - cliched as it may sound - I can look at each new day as a gift.  I'm not perfect, and this is the first and last time I will admit it.  I still get royally pissed off, my temper is legendary, there will be days when I sulk  and I will make mistakes, but that's okay, because I know now that I can keep laughing. Maybe not at the time of whatever crisis befalls us, but later, when I blog about it, I hope you will laugh with me too.    

That Warm & Cozy Feeling

I always thought I was the perfect parent, right up until the time I actually had children, now I'm not so sure.  Some days I look at my offspring indulgently and think how lucky I am and then there are those other 364 days of the year.....

I gave my children life - and a damn good one at that - so you'd think once in a while they would show a little gratitude. Instead I get the following....

While we are standing in a check out line, Lindsay peers closely at me and hisses loudly "Mum you have a long granny whisker, can I pluck it out?" followed by a lunge at my chin. "Uh no and fuck off." I hiss back.  Her turn will surely come.

Then there was Grady's contribution to my ego deflation. After giving him a hug he asks me, "Mum, have you always been this squishy?". I would have preferred he used the description "toned", but squishy it was. That day, the little bastard deserved everything Sid threw at him. 

That brings me to Sid. Actually she's pretty good compared to the other two, other than the time if she asked me in all seriousness if I'd been on board the Titanic. Gotta love 'em.

Potty Tales

I can only assume my youngest loves the bathroom, after all outside of school she spends most of her waking hours in there. At first I grew concerned, was it natural for a child to spend so much time sitting on the loo ? Usually half an hour minimum.  After taking her to the doctor, and getting everything checked out, I'm embarrassed to say that it had taken  me so long to figure out what was going on. 

Her marathon sessions were the perfect excuse to get out of whatever chores her sibling's were engaged in. Time to set the table for dinner - Sid is in the loo. Time to empty the dishwasher before school - Sid is in the loo. Time to tidy the playroom on the weekend .... you get the picture.

I have to give her credit tho' because her timing was dead on. As soon as the chore in question is finished, Sid would co-incidentally stagger out the bathroom, with big smile on her face. I'm not sure who she thought she was fooling - me apparently for the first few months - but to lend credibility to her actions she often gave us a graphic description of what had transpired behind the closed door.  Warning - the following is not for the faint of heart. 

We had the infamous "OMG that felt like I was birthing donkeys" followed by the perennial favourite "I just dropped the mother lode in there". Personally I blame her father. I take full credit for her spectacular use of the "F" word, but that potty talk is all Rob. 

I hate Mondays Now Too

OK, Mondays are right up there with Thursdays now, especially after yesterday. That afternoon, I was taking Lindsay and four other kids to swim practice. We are almost there and I find myself driving alongside a transport pulling a bulldozer on a low bed truck.

My first thought was that the truck was taking up a lot of room and then I realised he was pulling over into my lane. There was nothing I could do, we were coming up to lights and there was a concrete median on my left so I couldn't move over any further. I'm blowing my horn but he is still coming over. I couldn't speed up and get past him, but I was too far alongside him to brake, he would have still hit me and he did.

He clipped me with the bulldozer that was hanging a couple of feet over the bed of the truck and then kept on going. Fortunately everyone was OK - it could have been so much worse. I pounded on the horn until he pulled over and I pulled in behind him. I wasn't getting out, there was far too much traffic, and it seemed like forever before he sauntered back to check on us and to say he had called the police.

Lindsay stayed with me but the other kids had to scoot out and hoof it to swim practice and then we sat back and waited, and waited. Another shout out to my friend Linda, who was ready to jump in her car and come and keep me company! Meanwhile I called Rob, to tell him what had happened. After ascertaining we were all OK he actually asked me "Did you damage the bulldozer?". Are you kidding me ? I drive a minivan, how the hell was I supposed to damage a fucking bulldozer with a minivan? My armour plating perhaps? The grappling hooks affixed to my rims? Seriously? I will put it down to shock, but really of all the stupid questions .... 

It was a couple of hours before the police arrived and I was getting antsy. It was a very nice cop that I spoke to and told him what had happened. I'm just guessing, but I think the fact that the bulldozer was a couple of feet over the edge of the truck, probably meant it obscured the view in the mirrors and the driver just didn't see me. Unfortunately it turned out that he had a totally different version of events. According to him, he was already in the lane, and I pulled out into oncoming traffic so I could pass him, ran out of room, pulled back in and clipped his bulldozer. I was gobsmacked. Maybe I am naive, but I couldn't believe that after endangering a van load of kids, the trucker could lie so blatantly. Fortunately the police had an issue with that story, and I was finally free to go. 

Meanwhile my boss who had stopped by my home for a meeting, waited there until another friend brought Sid & Grady home from school. After explaining to them what had happened, and that we were OK, Grady was practically jubilant. Apparently mummy getting into an accident with a transport truck was at the top of his list of reasons for having McDonald's for dinner. Really, that's his big concern ?  Failing that - because much to his chagrin, we didn't order McDonald's - he was only somewhat mollified that he could go into school the next day and regale his audience with tales of how his mum got hit by a bulldozer. I guess there is an upside to everything.

Mud Wrestling At The Barn

Anyone who saw the photos I posted on Facebook on the weekend will not be surprised to see today's subject. It was typically another fun filled Saturday for us. The family was off in different directions, myself manning a booth in the morning at an open air event, with my boss and my friend Linda, (a faithful follower of my blog) who also had nothing better to do than spend a cold, wet Saturday in the middle of a field. 

My boss picked me up at some ungodly early hour, which was actually fortunate because once I had bullied her into taking me to Tim's for my caffeine fix, we got hopelessly lost and had to resort to calling my husband for directions. This was really, really embarrassing as the location to which we were heading was less than 10 minutes from my house. 

But I digress. The grand plan was that after a few hours Rob was supposed to pick me up and we would head out with the kids to our next event of the day. So you can imagine my surprise when only a short while later my van skids to a halt, the children are forcibly ejected and my husband yells out the window as he zooms off, "The horses are all out, I have to go round them up". It turns out they had pushed down the fence and wandered in to the neighbour's field which had the all the appearance of an African Savannah with enticing waist high grass. The barn manager and the property owner were both at work, and as it was my husband's horse that had probably led the frontal assault, he felt obliged to try and mend fences so to speak.

He returned some time later, definitely worse for wear. Soaking wet, freezing cold, worn out and more than a little pissed off.  It would appear that all the horses were frisky, and after chasing them around the field for an hour my husband came to the realization that not only did the herd have absolutely no intention of returning to their rightful paddock, there was not a damn thing he could do about it. His more immediate concern however, was a very good chance he was going to expire right there and then in the long grass and not be found until spring (much like the little cadaver in our freezer).  When I answered my phone to the sound of tortured breathing, and what I assumed was an obscene call, was merely my husband, gasping his last. I quite thought I was going to have to improvise and rig up my jumper cables as a makeshift defibrillator.  

Once he was sufficiently recovered, we took off to our next - thankfully uneventful - event of the day, but on the way home I decided to check in with the barn manager as to the status of the horses. She was still stuck at work and the horses still mowing down on the neighbour's property, so I suggested that Rob return to the barn, but this time take re-enforcements in the form of Zach & Lindsay, and this, my friends is when the fun began. 

Two facts to keep in mind. First, the waist high grass and second my daughter who has all the grace & co-ordination of a hippo on roller skates. Sadly there wasn't time to record the escapades, because it would have gone viral for sure.  Picture my daughter running through the field after the horses, running, running, running, then gone. Face plant in the dirt. Totally disappears from view. Cry goes up "I'm alright" and gamely off she goes again. Running, running, running and gone. I wish I could say that was it, but sadly she was in for several more nose dives before the round-up was complete. It was like a giant game of Whack-A-Mole, you didn't know where she was going to pop up next. 

Maybe it was luck, or maybe it was the uncertainty of where Lindsay was going to suddenly materialize in the field, but the tactics worked, and half an hour or so later everyone was back where they belonged. However, Lindsay & Zach were coated in a thick layer of mud, and god only knows what else. I didn't even want them in my van, never mind the house. My husband thought this was hilarious and amused himself with taking pictures, but then he isn't the one who had to spend the rest of their Saturday evening up close & personal with the washing machine !

RIP Jird

Sadly, our animal count has dropped considerably over the past few months. At the rate we are going, we will soon be within the "normal" levels of  pet per family ratio. Of course, normal isn't typically the first word that comes to mind when asked to describe our house.  

Anyway, we said good bye to the jird early this year, and I was very sorry. To be fair, according to the jird's former owner, our niece Brittany, she had already outlived her normal life span before we even took possession. I personally preferred the jird to some of the other animals. She was very low maintenance and didn't smell. Trust me in a house of cat litters, hamster cages and an 11 year old boy who refuses to shower, "didn't smell" was a significant plus. 

She went very quickly, one morning she was whipping around on her wheel, and that evening when she didn't emerge for her treat and the cat wasn't hanging, white knuckled off the side of her cage, I realised something was up. Unfortunately I spoke without thinking (it wouldn't be the first time) and abruptly announced "The jird is dead".  I wasn't prepared for Grady's reaction, which was floods of tears, he was really upset and I felt terrible.  Rob however was positively gleeful, although he did make an, albeit feeble effort to hide his good humour from Grady. 

When Lindsay found out she was elated and instantly shared the news with all her friends. It was pretty much a case of "Ding ! Dong ! the jird is dead". I should point out, that according to the girls, the jird's squeaky wheel was the predominate cause of insomnia when her posse slept over.  Of course, that had absolutely nothing to do with the horror movie marathons, and the constant yackity yack until the wee hours of the morning.

Anyway, I digress. After Grady had gone to bed, we began the talk. "What are we going to do with the jird ? Grady wants to bury it". Rob wasn't keen on that idea, and muttered something about not wasting his time digging a grave in the f***ing frozen tundra for a rat. (This was Canada in February - deep freeze). When I saw the creepy little smile cross his face, I immediately knew he was thinking about the garbage bags sitting at the curb, ready for pick up the next day.  There was no way I was going to allow that, so we compromised on stashing the cadaver in the freezer.

Now it was just a matter of retrieval. Rob wouldn't stick his hand in the cage when the jird was alive, I knew there wasn't a hope in hell he was going to frisk the mounds of bedding to locate the cold dead corpse. That task would certainly fall to me. A case of "My pet. My problem".

The grand plan was to keep the jird stashed safely in the deep freeze, awaiting the spring thaw, at which point we would we can conduct a worthy service. The only problem, we totally forgot. So here we are in October and somewhere in my freezer is a furry little corpse just waiting to be discovered when I least expect it.  Here's to me, living life on the edge !

Life Through The Eyes Of A Teenager

This is just an observation on how differently teens view the world. Be afraid, because one day they will be ruling the world.

Teenage Outlook #1:

One of Lindsay's chores is to clean the bathroom - not even regularly, just occasionally, and this weekend happened to be one of those occasions. As I am looking around the less than pristine bathroom, the ensuing conversation goes like this:

Me: "Lindsay, did you clean the bathroom today ?" 
Lindsay: "Yes"
Me: "Did you clean the mirror ?"
Lindsay: "Uh no".
Me: "Did you clean the toilet ?"
Lindsay: "Nope".
Me: "Did you clean the basin ?"
Lindsay: "No again".
Me (Now exasperated): "What exactly did you do then ?"
Lindsay (Huffily): "I put away the stuff that was on the counter." 

For the record the "stuff" on the counter amounted to one tube of toothpaste and a bottle of mouthwash. Who knew that constituted cleaning the bathroom ?


Teenage Outlook #2.

I was going to withhold names to protect the innocent, but as Lindsay's boyfriend Zach has been part of the family for almost a year now, I figure he is fair game.  So here is a
conversation I had with him one weekend as I drove him home. 

Me: "Have you got all your homework finished for the weekend ?"
Zach: "I just have science but my brothers have the same homework, so we'll just print it out three times". 
Me: "Do you all have the same teacher ?"
Zach: "Yes, that's why we all have the same homework."' "Duh!" wasn't actually stated, but I think it was certainly implied.
Me: (Somewhat incredulously) "Don't you think your teacher may recognize three identical pieces of work ?"
Zach (Confidently): "Oh no, I'm going to change the font."

Brilliant, sheer genius !

The Hunt Is On

I left off yesterday with Grady's frantic dash to the house screaming "Mayday! Mayday" The chipmunk is still in the house".  I am convinced that as far as the neighbours are concerned we surpassed ourselves this weekend. 

It turns out that as Rob removed the cardboard covering from the bin that housed the chipmunk, he was surprised when nothing jumped out. He looked in the bin, no chipmunk. Checked again, still no chipmunk. It didn't break loose on it's trek down the garden, which can only mean it escaped while still in the bedroom, probably as Rob swooped in on the DVD stand. 

Lindsay who was calling my sister to tell her we were finally on our way, hung up mid dial and we all raced back upstairs.  We searched under, over, behind and in everything in the bedroom, but no sign of the damn chipmunk. By this time it could have gone anywhere, and we were all hungry for turkey, so we decided sod it, leave the cat in the house and take our chances.

Finally we are on our way and troop out to the van. No sooner have we got settled, when Sid decides she has forgotten something and races back to the house. The next thing we hear is a blood curdling scream "Charlie has the chipmunk". We react like a crack Navy Seal unit and deploy from the van en masse, stampeding towards the door. All that is, except Zach who is still in the van wondering what the hell just happened. I yell over my shoulder "Grab my purse Zach", only because I didn't want to leave it sitting in an open vehicle at the end of the driveway, but Zach replies "Seriously?" suspecting I may have a chipmunk catching device hidden among the kleenex and lipsticks. By now he is convinced we have all lost the plot, but he follows us gamely back into the house. 

We locate Sid and then we see Charlie - sans chipmunk, sitting in the kitchen. It turns out that Sid jumped the gun - she had seen Charlie looking for the chipmunk and assumed capture was imminent. By this time Lindsay has made multiple - long distance - calls to my sister who is waiting to serve the turkey - "We're running late", "We're on our way", "We're back looking for the chipmunk" , "We're on our way again". 

Normally I take a "live and let live" approach and protect the chipmunk at all costs, but by now, I felt the furry little fiend deserved his impending death by feline, and we set off once again for my sister's house, assuming Charlie would take care of business while we were gone. That might have worked too, if the damn cat hadn't escaped outside during the commotion and was now sitting on the front lawn giving us the finger.  

So here we are two days on, and still not sure if we have an unwanted guest or if he somehow made it to out safety. I'm guessing only time will tell.

The Charge Of The Chipmunk

This past weekend was Thanksgiving here in Canada, and we were all ready to head up to my sister's house for a lovely turkey dinner, but fate had other plans in store for us.

Seconds before we are about to leave there is a shriek "Charlie has a chipmunk".  Now we are used to our cat catching small prey, and for mice and birds I will make a half hearted attempt to rescue, and usually - in the case of the mice - get bitten for my trouble. For chipmunks however, I pull out all the stops. 

As we speed towards our rescue mission there is another panicked cry, this time from my husband, "Charlie is in the house, he has the chipmunk. It's alive!!!". Sure enough as we screech to a halt, there is the cat trotting through the dining room with a wiggling chipmunk hanging between his jaws. I don't know whether it was the noise or the sudden threat of everyone about to pounce on him, but Charlie dropped the chipmunk and in a flash it had legged it up the stairs and into Lindsay & Sid's bedroom.

Of all the rooms to choose it had to be that one Their room is a disaster area on a good day, but it had been at least a month or two since the last time there had been any serious clean up so it now looked like an episode from "Hoarders".  

Now most families practice fire drills with their children, but we are not "most families" and as such we practice "Wildlife Drills", as in the procedure to follow should we be invaded by a creature not deemed as a pet. This happens more times then I'd care to admit.

We all crowd into the bedroom and determine from the rustling in the far corner that the chipmunk has taken up residence under the bookshelf.  Lindsay is gingerly poking at it with a sheet of paper (??). Rob is yelling at me not to pick it up because they bite - who knew ? Sid and Grady race off in search of flashlights, while the dog charges up and down the hall barking loudly. Poor Zach stands in the midst of this chaos, totally gobsmacked. 

It would have been a lot easier to catch the chipmunk had I not had to traverse mounds of clothes and piles of Lego. I make my way cautiously to the bookshelf - has anyone noticed in these blogs it is always ME that gets to catch whatever needs catching ? - and start to pull it out from the wall. There is the poor little chipmunk scampering up the back of the shelf. I start to remove books and toss them aside with gay abandon in my effort to reach the rodent. I almost have it within my grasp when it darts through my hands and across the room. Lindsay screams and leaps on to her bed, which is no mean feat considering she has the top bunk. Suddenly, Rob lets out a shout and catapults through the air with a waste bin in his hands. 

He now has it trapped in the DVD stand. There is a small space at the bottom with no DVDs and it has gone to ground in there. Rob triumphantly throws the waste bin in front of the  stand and claims a successful catch. That is all very well and good, but now what is he going to do ? Somehow we have to persuade the chipmunk to go into the bin. I start to tilt the DVD stand, maybe not the smartest move under the circumstances as the DVDs cascade down on Rob's head. He mutters something impolite about my IQ, so I removed the DVDs and threw them into the closet instead. We finally get to the stage where we are able to lift up the DVD stand and invert it so the chipmunk has no choice but to slide into the bin. Rob slides a piece of cardboard over the top, and Voila ! one trapped chipmunk.

I elicit a promise from my husband that he will take it as far away as possible to give it a fighting chance, so Rob obliging trots off down the garden, and we get ready to leave again. Seconds later Grady dashes back screaming "Mayday! Mayday! The chipmunk is still in the house".

To be continued....

Anarchy At The Barn

This past summer, Alyssia, the barn manager took possession of a new ewe, and asked me to check in on her the day after her arrival to ensure she was making out okay.  Not a problem, Lindsay and I were having a mother/daughter day, so drove up at lunch time, not expecting to stay long. Were we in for a surprise. As we entered the driveway, I wondered aloud why Alyssia had moved more ponies to the front paddock, as it looked a little crowded. As we drew closer I clued in that the ponies were actually out of their enclosures and roaming the courtyard. Lindsay went to investigate while I attempted to reach Alyssia. As I look up, I glimpse Lindsay with a panic stricken look on her face, gesturing wildly towards the barn. By the time I make it to the gate, I noticed the full extent of our problem. It wasn't just the ponies that were loose, but the rest of the herd were hiding out in the barn. It would appear they had opened a gate, tracked across the manure pile and made their way stealthily through the back doors of the barn. I dash off a frantic text to Alyssia - "Help. All horses are in courtyard". I'm not even sure if she will receive my frantic missive, as reception at the barn is intermittent at best. 

We quickly deduce that one of us has to go and close the gate, and we gaze at each other in dismay. To reach the gate we have to traverse two very muddy paddocks and we are both wearing flip-flops. I know, not ideal footwear for the barn, but we hadn't exactly planned on a rodeo roundup. Rank has it's privileges and Lindsay reluctantly dons Rob's rubber boots - which dwarf her - and gamely makes her way across the fields to shut the gate. I meanwhile start to round up the horses, none of which want to go anywhere, so I quickly give up on that and start taking pictures instead, much to Lindsay's disapproval. Hey, if we're going to die there, trampled by a stampeding herd of horses, I want to leave photographic evidence. Maybe I can see where my son gets his flair for the dramatic.

Lindsay is making some progress with the ponies, so I grab a lead rope and join in the fray, trying very hard not to get stepped on. One by one we lead the horse through the main gate back to the paddock. We had been at this for several minutes, before something dawned on me. I don't know all of Alyssia's horses - there is at least 20 of them - but I was pretty sure she didn't have several sets of twins. I turned to speak to Lindsay, but she had come to the same conclusion and that is when we discovered that in addition to opening the gate they had also knocked down a section of the fence. I say "they" but it's a pretty safe bet it was our horse that did it. She is the biggest one there, and has been known to take select members of the herd on walkabout on several previous occasions.

So, it would appear, that while Lindsay and I were busy funneling the conniving beasts (no offense Alyssia, lovely horses really, they are) through the gate, unbeknownst to us, they were circling around and re-entering the barn through the back doors. Where upon we'd lead them back out into the paddock. With so many milling about, we hadn't noticed that the numbers weren't decreasing. I'm sure they thought that getting one over on us stupid humans was hilarious. 

Again, I pull rank and Lindsay sets off to shore up the fence. I really should have gone to her aid, especially when I hear her distraught cry of "Mummmmmy" as the ponies jostle her for position at the gap in the fence. But, there was no way I was going in that paddock armed with only a pair of flip-flops. 

It took a while, but we succeeded in getting everyone settled back in the paddock and then turned our attention to the barn. OMG it looked like the aftermath of a Frat house party. All that was missing was a keg of beer. The cushions were off the couch, and the couch itself was pushed out from the wall. Bridles and tack were tossed with gay abandon. Garbage, buckets, bowls and an emptied bottle of mineral oil (ugh), strewn from one end of the barn to the other, together with that other stuff you'd expect to find around horses, and me still in my flip-flops as we gingerly clean up the destruction. This is one mother/daughter day we won't forget.

Who Knew ?

The other morning I am downstairs putting lunches together, when all hell breaks out upstairs. Screaming, shouting, crying, doors banging, the whole nine yards. My first response is the old standby "Don't make me come up there." 

That doesn't make any difference so I move on to my particular favourite, "Someone is going to get hurt, and I will do the hurting." Still no effect. 

They have forced me to bring out the big guns, my last resort, the seldom used but no less potent, "I brought you into this world and I can take you out of it". Amazingly, the commotion continues unabated, if anything the uproar grows louder. It would appear that I am losing my touch and I really need to come up with a whole new series of threats.

Realising that my bellowing was only adding to the furor, I stomp upstairs to pull the culprits apart. Sidney & Grady, with tears streaming down their faces are squaring off in the upstairs hall.

Grady appears to be the most coherent - everything's relative - so I asked him what happened. "Sid kicked me in the nuts" he accused. 

I turned to Sid "Did you kick your brother in the ahh .." - stumbling for want of a better term - "nuts ?" I ask. Unrepentantly she answers in the affirmative.  I lecture her on the perils of kicking Grady in that part of his anatomy and finish up by asking her why she did it. "Because he hit me first ..." she replies ".. and I was aiming for his head". Glad to hear the karate lessons paid off, and OK, so hers was not necessarily an unprovoked attack and I turn back to Grady and give him a similar lecture. 

Finally thinking I have convinced them of the error of their ways, I inquire as to why Grady pummeled Sid in the first place, totally gobsmacked by his answer "Because she was watching me clean my teeth." WTF ? 

We haven't even got to the skort episode yet, because yes, sadly they of swollen nuts, sore stomach and tear stained faces were heading off to school for picture day.

It's A Lovely Day In The Neighbourhood ....

.... Just not in our house.  September rolled around quickly and the children are back to school. On their first day back I did my utmost to appear sorrowful, but it just wasn't cutting it, even Sid saw through my thinly veiled excitement.  I'm guessing my infamous "Happy Dance" in the driveway didn't exactly add to my credibility.

Fast forward a few relatively uneventful (at least for our family) days and the THAT day dawns. SCHOOL PICTURE DAY.  Now, my children have to wear a uniform, most days they're a little on the casual side, but for the school picture they have to be in full dress - crest, ties, the whole shebang.  I'm not sure if that's the right spelling of shebang, but my spell checker tried to replace it with "shagging", and I know that's not correct. 

Anyway I digress, back to the full dress code, which for Sid means a skort. Now on any other day Sid refuses to wear a skort, so I didn't bother wasting my money this year. I should have just plonked down the $30 and had done with it, because who knew that the absence of a skort could send my daughter into a full on atomic meltdown, complete with tears, slamming doors and much stomping of feet. 

My husband, oh he of faint heart just shrugged, muttered "She's your daughter" and took off to work with tires screeching in the dust.  I tried to reason with her, "No-one will see your legs. You'll be in the back row of the class photo, and the individual portrait is taken from shoulders up".  Which actually brings me to last year's photo. Normally they send home 2 or 3 proofs from which you choose your favourite pose. Not so for Sid, there were a total of 6 proofs, each one worse than the one before. It was a full on body short, hip thrust out, hand placed upon said hip, and a come hither look on her face. OMG. All she was missing was the stripper pole. The class photo wasn't much better, at head & shoulders taller than the rest of her classmates, together with a gormless expression, she looked for all the world as if she'd been kept back a couple of grades, if you know what I mean.  I bought the photos anyway, who knows when they may come in useful ?

In the end it took a frantic call to the teacher (poor long suffering soul) to convince Sid that she could indeed wear trousers instead of a skort. I can't wait to see what train-wreck comes home this year.

Arts & Crafts

Overheard, while Sid and Grady were working on Halloween crafts. Grady being two years older and wiser, feels it his duty to impart his knowledge and wisdom in an ineffectual attempt to improve Sid's handiwork. 

Sid on the other hand, is not one to accept criticism, helpful or otherwise. After a heated discussion on colours  & shapes, Grady finished his diatribe with the comment  "...and your pumpkins are too flat". 

Not missing a beat, Sid rejoined with a glare, "You keep that up, and it's your head that's gonna be flat!". Grady will never learn.

We have a saying in this house (admittedly stolen from the movie "The Croods") about Sid, "If you're not ready to challenge her, don't look her in the eye".  Sadly, Grady looks her in the eye quite a bit.

End Of Days

It is well documented in this blog that I don't like Thursdays. I don't just dislike them more than other days, I positively detest them with every fiber of my being, and that's a lot of fiber. I even prefer Mondays over Thursdays, after all there is a certain satisfaction at the beginning of the week in kicking the kids off to school and their spelling tests, while I indulge in a coffee and the newspaper.  

If something bad is going to happen to me, it happens on a Thursday. I have yet to receive a speeding ticket (although my dear husband insists it is just a matter of time), but if I do, I just know it will be on a Thursday. Thursdays are a "Bad Moon Rising" kind of day. I always wake up on a Thursday expecting Armageddon, and if the world is still turning Friday morning, I am pleasantly surprised.

This Thursday was no different. The first thing I hear is Lindsay, "Mum" she screeched, "The cat barfed on the floor and I stepped in it". Not sure what I am supposed to do, but I toss her a roll of paper towel and tell her to knock herself out - which I probably shouldn't because my daughter is renown for her clumsiness, and might just do it. 

Which is a nice segue into problem number two. "Mum" (Lindsay again) "I think there may be something wrong with my phone". Well peachy, (we all know the word I really used, but I've been instructed to clean up my act after Rob overheard Sidney mutter my favourite phrase - accent and all - so we'll just go with "peachy"). That would be the same phone that we had to replace less than 3 months ago. Although I had paid a monthly premium to insure her previous phone, I still had to part with a hefty sum to replace it - and only two days after the warranty ran out.  That was a Thursday too ! 

It turns out that yes, there is something wrong with Lindsay's phone, on account of the fact she happened to have dropped it in the toilet. Go figure. Who knew that Blackberrys don't work after being submerged in the loo. Lindsay is apparently distraught - I say apparently because she has been angling after an upgrade to an IPhone, so this could be deemed a fortuitous event.

Lindsay is pleading that it was an accident, and I explain that an accident is when the Titanic hit an iceberg, her phone taking a dive in the loo was sheer stupidity. Wrong move, this prompts Grady to launch into one of his conspiracy theories. Apparently 8 out of 10 people think the Titanic was sunk on purpose. I have absolutely no idea where he gets these ideas, but he is on a roll now, and it is just way too much for me to handle at 7:00 A.M.

I stagger downstairs, with only one thought in mind - coffee! We all know I'm not my best before my morning brew. I reach the kitchen only to find Sid draped dramatically across the kitchen table. Uh oh, that doesn't bode well. Sure enough a little voice groans "I'm sick". At this point I think I uttered my third "Peachy" of the morning. It's a Thursday after all. 

Trying to inject concern in my voice when I'm inwardly thinking "Peachy! Peachy! Peachy!" I inquire as to her problem. "I'm dizzy. In fact I'm so dizzy, I almost fell down the stairs and I'm so dizzy that when daddy was doing my hair (for the record, I don't cook and I don't do hair) I almost fell off my chair and when .." I get the picture. She has tried every other symptom this week; nausea, diarrhea, sore throat, headache, cold, but dizzy was a new one. Got to give her points for creativity. 

I can't imagine where she has honed her craft. Only yesterday, Grady informed me he had a sinus infection, he almost got away with it too (he is after all a consummately better actor than his sister) except he followed it up with the question "What is a Sinus Infection?".  I think after the menstrual cramps debacle (see post for Feb. 24/2012) he is a little more cautious as to what he will admit to suffering from. 

So here it is 7:05 on a Thursday morning, and so far I have a vomiting cat, a worthless phone, a lecture on the Titanic, a hypochondriac child and at this point still no coffee. If that isn't a portent for the End Of Days, I don't know what is. 

Up Yours ! The Recovery.

After my close encounter with the simpleton in the waiting room, I was anxious to claim my husband and get the hell out of there, but that wasn't going to be easy.

I head back to the recovery room to find Rob lying in bed with a dopey smile on his face. Not feeling very sympathetic to his plight, considering what I had just gone through, I told him to hurry up and get dressed, we were leaving pronto.

At that moment a nurse came round the corner to inquire after the patient. I told her he was just fine and we were leaving, but she had other ideas.  "Oh no dearie" she exclaimed -  I just hate it when someone calls me dearie. "He isn't going anywhere with you. We will wheel him to the west entrance and you can meet him there with your vehicle." I look at her in horror and disbelief. I have absolutely no idea where to find the west entrance. I was born with no sense of direction (probably linked to the sympathy gene I'm missing too).  On my own, I'd be lucky to find my way back to the parking garage.

I try to sound calm and rational, while feeling anything but. "Look at him" I wailed, "He's fine, and there's nothing wrong with his legs. If he can't walk I'll wheel him out myself". But she is having none of it. "Hospital rules state we must wheel him out".  I turn to glare at my husband, expecting him to come to my aid, instead he lies there like a limp dick with a gormless grin on his face. He is not helping my argument at all and he will pay dearly for that betrayal.

I decide to appeal to the nurse's sympathy and try to explain the horrific encounter I'd just experienced in the waiting room, but she was having none of it. Arms folded across her starched chest, and a steely glint in her eye she had obviously stared down fiercer folk than I. However I was not going down without a fight, so I meekly admit defeated and as soon as her back was turned I hissed at my husband to get a move on. My plan was to be gone before she returned. But the bitch was wise to me and reappeared promptly with a wheelchair. I tried one last ditch argument for me to wheel him out, but it was in vain. I had no choice but to leave, muttering darkly under my breath. 

Surprisingly, I made it back to the parking garage, and even found my van without too much effort and I was feeling pretty pleased with myself, but my troubles were just beginning. I don't know who designed that parking garage, but they were a masochist. I followed the signs for the exit but they just took me round and round in circles, and then round and round in circles again. I kept passing the same group of people and when I drove slowly by for the third time, they were looking nervously over their shoulders and I think  calling security.

After about 10 minutes of driving aimlessly around the parking garage, I lucked upon the right trajectory for the exit. I was almost in tears. I had never been so happy in my life to see daylight. Now all I had to do was find the west entrance. Did I mention my lousy sense of direction ?  By this time I was cursing my husband, the parking garage architect, the obnoxious nurse and the medical community in general. Fortunately I found the entrance without incident and there was Rob waiting in his wheelchair along with the porter assigned to transport him through the hospital - like he was any better at pushing a wheelchair than I was ?  The porter was looking anxiously at his watch, whereupon my husband informed him that I had probably got lost in the parking garage. The porter actually thought he was joking and laughed. Bastard.

So there you have it, my traumatic trip to the hospital. Fortunately by the time Rob has to do this again, Lindsay will have her license and it will be her problem.  Meanwhile, it is good to know that after 27 years of wedded bliss, I can still amaze my husband.  He is astounded that I can write three posts about HIS colonoscopy, but still make it all about ME. That, my friends is known as Poetic License ! 

Up Yours ! The Waiting Room

So where was I ? Ah yes, wafting a perfectly delicious cup of coffee in front of my husband who has consumed nothing more than clear liquids for 2 days. We arrive at the hospital in good time, I drop him off,  wish him well, (see? I'm not totally heartless) and scamper off to get another coffee. Armed with that and a damn good book, I head to the waiting area, to wait.

Now, my nearest and dearest know that I am not one to suffer fools gladly. Nor am I one to strike up idle conversations with total strangers. Normally I can shut down any such attempts to converse with a faultlessly perfected malevolent glare. It would seem that that day at the hospital was not going to be my day. 

No sooner am I seated in the waiting area than a woman plonks herself down opposite. I risk a quick glimpse over the top of my page and unfortunately catch her eye. I immediately do my best to ignore her and immerse myself in my book. I recognised the signs & realise in horror that she is itching to talk to someone and I refuse to be her victim. Luckily for me - but not so much for him - she spies a young man hovering nearby and like a ground to air missile she locks on target. For the next half hour the poor man was subjected to all manner of questions. She grilled him loudly on his job, his home, his marital status and any number of other topics. He was either too polite to demur or too shell shocked to run.  Eventually his name was called and he beat a hasty retreat.

I wasn't taking any chances, I had my book glued so close to my face, I was cross-eyed.  No way was I going to give that dimwit a chance to latch on to me. I thought I was doing pretty well until I realised that she had left her seat and was looming over me. Still I pretended not to notice.  I can do that very well, I have practiced on my children.

"Did you know you can use ice cubes to water plants ?"  She asks. I looked up. Rookie mistake. Now she had me trapped. I muttered something unintelligible, and returned to my book. It was obvious from her opening volley that I had a problem on my hands. 

"Do you have any plants ?" she continues.  "No" I reply curtly, not looking at her this time. 
I am not above lying in situations like this. 

"I have lots of plants." she adds. Are you kidding me ?  Do I really look like I care ? This time I don't even bother with speech, I just glare at her and return pointedly to my book, but she is tenacious and continues with her diatribe. I finally put away my book and pull out my phone.  "Excuse me" as I talk over her, "But I must take this call" My phone hadn't actually rung, but she had no clue. I put the phone to my ear and for the next few minutes conducted a one sided conversation with dead air.  It wasn't easy, but I turned in an Oscar worthy performance, if I do say so myself. Finally she took the hint, and huffily returned to her seat. Fortunately my name was called soon after, but I had absolutely no idea what fresh hell awaited me.

To be continued....

Up Yours ! The Preview.

Warning - Not for the faint of heart ! 

My husband had to go in for a colonoscopy - yes nothing is sacred in this blog. I personally thought the whole process was hilarious, starting with the two days prior to the procedure where he spent most of his waking hours up close and personal with the toilet. Followed by the event itself,  I mean what is funnier than having a camera stuck up your arse ? As long as it is happening to someone else. 

One such preparation was an enema. Not any old enema mind you, but one where you have to lie on your side on the bathroom floor, do the deed and then leap on to the toilet within 5 seconds.  I'd love to know what idiot wrote those instructions. What the hell are they thinking ? If that were me prone on the floor, 5 seconds wouldn't even see me rolled over. One nice touch was the suggestion that the recipient may want to have someone to assist them with the process of administering the enema. Oh yeah right, I'm sure people are just lined up around the block for that fun task. 

So, two days of enemas and a liquid diet. One minute he is sitting there quietly watching TV, when suddenly a panicked look crosses his face and it's the ten yard dash to the toilet. Woe betide anyone or anything that got in his way. His bathroom was designated a "No-fly" zone for the duration.

As readers of this blog will have ascertained, I'm somewhat lacking the sympathy gene, but believe me, I more than made up for it on those few days with comic one liners and my witty repartee. Maybe not so witty for Rob, but the kids and I had a blast at his expense.  If he wants to set the record straight, he will have to start writing his own blog. Until that time comes, my version of events is gospel.

So, two days of hilarity and then the smile was wiped right off my face. Turns out, as this was an invasive procedure (snicker) and he would be under general anesthetic, he is not allowed to drive. Initially he wasn't due to be admitted until midday, which was just fine with me. Maybe it was co-incidence or maybe it was karma, but every few days he would receive notice that the procedure had been brought forward a couple of hours. This is where it stopped being funny, on account of the fact that I now had to get up at some ungodly hour and drive him to the hospital for 5:00 A.M. All was not lost though, as I spent the drive tantalizing him with my Tim's extra large black coffee.  Payback's a bitch. 

To be continued ......

The Blog Is Back

Dear followers, 

After a lengthy absence I am back. It was not my intent to be silent for this length of time - my long suffering husband can certainly attest to that. Those near and dear to me know it has not been the best of times for us in the last few months, but that is now in the  past and my - somewhat warped - sense of humour has finally returned, I hope in good form. Thank you for your patience.

I have determined that I do not have an infinite amount of blog material - on the plus side it is a result of my children wising up ! That said, on some days, those when my life appears near normal, I may be reduced to penning a short anecdote - probably about Sid, as her antcis never cease to amaze us. 

Meanwhile some things never change in this house, and as I compose this first blog of many, I hear my husband holler down to the kids "Sidney! Grady! Don't answer the door", this is quickly followed by a loud knock at said door, as the dog launches himself at the front window, hackles raised and teeth bared. The kids immediately drop into a commando crawl behind the couch, but when their heads keep popping up like a game of Whack-A-Mole, they aren't fooling anyone. 

I have no idea what poor hapless soul happened upon our house tonight, but my money is on the town employee who pays regular visits trying to exhort money for animal licences - dog & cats. He is a somewhat creepy fellow who gives me the heebie-jeebies, and we have been known to "go dark" when he is on the prowl. This endeavour is assisted by my ever helpful neighbours, who give me fair warning when he is spotted in the area.

We have to pay hefty fee each year, not only for the dog but for my two cats as well.  Yes, anyone who has followed this blog knows I actually have four cats, but you never see two of them, and I sure as hell ain't letting the Creepy Guy across my threshold (you do that in a movie and it never ends well for the homeowner) to check it out. The only issue I have is that Creepy Guy has an excellent memory, whereas I can't remember from one year to the next, which of my cats I have had to "kill off". My aunt always told me to be a good liar, you need to have a good memory. It appears I am failing on both counts. 

So, if you should ever pay us an unannounced visit, only to have all the lights in the house spontaneously extinguish, and spy the children peering out from behind the couch, you now know why and as long as you don't want money, we may even let you in