Let me start by saying my teen is wonderful. She works hard, is on the Honour Role at school, has a part time job, lots of friends, everyone loves her, yadda yadda yadda. Now for the real teen that I live with.
For her Fashion Fundamentals course, yes really Fashion Fundamentals WTF ? The nearest I ever came to Fashion Fundamentals in school was the choice of white or navy socks with my uniform. Anyway, this isn't about me, so back to my teen. For one task, her class had to take photos of their clothes in their closet and drawers and take them into school. Not sure how that exercise is going to garner her a place in University, but still. Anyway Lindsay cheerfully told her teacher that she didn't have a photo of her closet because all her clothes were piled on her desk & chair. She wasn't kidding. Somewhere under all that is a hamster cage too.
This wouldn't be so bad, after all I can shut her bedroom door and ignore it. It's a bit of a hazard for Sid tho' who shares the room, and has more than once been buried under a sudden avalanche of clothing as she tiptoes her way through the obstacle course that has become the floor of their bedroom. My biggest fear is that maybe one day we'll need a Cadaver Dog to locate her.
I take issue when Lindsay demands to know the whereabouts of a certain item of clothing that was supposed to have been washed a week before. I explain that I have not seen said item and have therefore not washed it. Lindsay, who should know not to answer back, but has never been one to shy away from a challenge, escalates the argument to a whole new level. Rob by this time is usually standing behind me making frantic "cease & desist" hand signals to Lindsay, who blithely ignores him and ratchets it up a notch. The fight can only end one way; tearful (Lindsay) and incensed (me). And that item of clothing ? It never did leave her room.
PS I'm really hoping I'm not wasting my time writing this, should the world end tomorrow.
Friday, 21 December 2012
Thursday, 20 December 2012
My Pet Peeves (Part 1)
I honestly can't remember if I have done a "Pet Peeve" Post yet and honestly I'm far too lazy to scroll back through, but these are all new peeves so I shouldn't be in too much danger of repeating myself.
First, climbing in MY van, only to turn on the ignition and have the speakers blare out some bloody awful music. Obviously my daughter & her friends have been playing with the radio on their way to school. I always know who sat in the front passenger seat, (C)rap music - Lindsay, Country & Western - Mary Clare. I am going to have to cover the dials with duct tape to prevent interference. My van, my radio, my rules.
While on the subject of my beloved mini van, nothing pisses me off more than when my husband uses it to ferry back and forth to the stables every day for a week, only to have him cheerfully remind me as I dash out the door, late for an appointment, "Your gas light is on honey!". Honey ? Honey ? Is he serious ? Does he really think that adding an endearment at the end of the sentence is going to make up for the fact that he emptied an $80 gas tank on me ?
This is one I'm sure everyone can relate to. What's with those people who turn up late for a show and always end up in the seats at the far end of the row, so you have to get up and let them pass. Usually squeezing so close that you feel you should have exchanged marriage vows first. Why is it as soon as those same people get settled, they then decide they have to go back and get refreshments ? If you ever squeeze by me in a crowded movie theater, you'll know who I am when I accidentally stomp on your foot. Just sayin'.
First, climbing in MY van, only to turn on the ignition and have the speakers blare out some bloody awful music. Obviously my daughter & her friends have been playing with the radio on their way to school. I always know who sat in the front passenger seat, (C)rap music - Lindsay, Country & Western - Mary Clare. I am going to have to cover the dials with duct tape to prevent interference. My van, my radio, my rules.
While on the subject of my beloved mini van, nothing pisses me off more than when my husband uses it to ferry back and forth to the stables every day for a week, only to have him cheerfully remind me as I dash out the door, late for an appointment, "Your gas light is on honey!". Honey ? Honey ? Is he serious ? Does he really think that adding an endearment at the end of the sentence is going to make up for the fact that he emptied an $80 gas tank on me ?
This is one I'm sure everyone can relate to. What's with those people who turn up late for a show and always end up in the seats at the far end of the row, so you have to get up and let them pass. Usually squeezing so close that you feel you should have exchanged marriage vows first. Why is it as soon as those same people get settled, they then decide they have to go back and get refreshments ? If you ever squeeze by me in a crowded movie theater, you'll know who I am when I accidentally stomp on your foot. Just sayin'.
Wednesday, 19 December 2012
My Morning In Hospital
Not to worry loyal followers, I am fine, but I had to accompany my erstwhile husband to the hospital in order to have a lump removed from his arm. It was very traumatic - for me that is, because he had to be at the hospital for 6:00 AM. Yes, 6:00 AM, what idiot came up with that idea?. That meant I had to get up at 5:15 this morning. For crying out loud it was still dark out. I know, many of you regularly rise at that time, and good for you, but it is well documented that I do not function before 9:00 AM, so this business of being up at 5:15 did not go over well. To be fair, both my father-in-law and brother-in-law, knowing my undisguised disdain for early mornings, offered to take Rob in to the hospital in my stead. Believe me, I seriously contemplated taking them up on their offers, but in the end my sense of spousal obligation won out.
My first mistake this morning was actually opening my eyes, and secondly expecting my husband to make me a cup of coffee to go. Apparently he was just "too preoccupied"! Nothing was open upon reaching the hospital, what kind of establishment is this ? It was actually a good two hours before I was able to ditch Rob and race down to the cafe. My in-laws had joined us by this time, so I was at least able to elicit some sympathy for my predicament and they bought me breakfast!
I had been given a card with which I could track Rob's advancement through the surgical process, via a screen in the waiting room, kind of like the Arrivals/Departures board at the airport. My father-in-law is not one to sit still, and he was up and down every two minutes to check Rob's progress, positively gleeful when the indicator turned from red (operating room) to green (post op) and finally to blue (recovery) where we were able to join up again with the patient. After checking that their son had survived his ordeal under the knife, my in-laws had to leave for another appointment, and just when it was about to get interesting!
The nurse came by to check Rob out (and I don't mean that the way it sounds). She starts by putting his arm in a sling, until I suggested that it might be a good idea if she let him put his shirt on first! She leaves to give Rob a chance to get dressed and that was when the fun began. He had a nerve blocker in his shoulder so his arm was essentially paralyzed, and it flopped about like a dead fish. He didn't have a hope in hell of getting dressed by himself, but it sure was funny to watch him try. This is what happens when I have to get up at 5:15 AM. Payback. Finally I relented and helped him to dress. Thank goodness he had been allowed to keep his underwear on, just getting the rest of his clothes on was bad enough.
The nurse returns and tells me I have to go to the lobby and get a wheelchair. Seriously ? I looked at her incredulously. "You do realise he had surgery on his arm, not his leg ?" I queried. She was not impressed. Hospital policy states he has to be wheeled out. Whatever. Off I trot to get the wheelchair, and I tell you it was a lot easier pushing it without the deadweight of my husband. Dutifully I wheel him out of recovery, and sail right past the bank of elevators. "Do you know where you're going?" he asked nervously. (I am well known for my lousy sense of direction). "Yep" I reply "To the escalator" He's worried now, "You can't take me down the escalator in a wheelchair" he whined, and goddammit he's right, the escalator was too damned narrow. So elevator it was. Only one problem, I hadn't quite figured out how to stop the wheelchair, and when I removed my hand from the bar it came to a sudden, jarring halt as I rammed his feet into the wall. Oops. Actually that was kind of fun, so I did it again when we reached the lobby. Now he is whinging about whiplash. Payback's a bitch.
Later, when Rob was relaying the story of me helping him get dressed to the kids, Sid was mortified. "OMG Dad" she cried out "Please tell me you weren't naked in front of the doctor". She actually whispered the word naked, because it was apparently too awful to contemplate. Rob's arm has to be in a sling for a couple of days, so it's fun times ahead.
Just in case you think that Rob is not surrounded by a loving sympathetic family, you should know that upon first hearing of the date of his surgery, his mother's immediate concern was "Who is going to cook the Christmas dinner ?" To give her her due, She didn't even bother looking in my direction.
My first mistake this morning was actually opening my eyes, and secondly expecting my husband to make me a cup of coffee to go. Apparently he was just "too preoccupied"! Nothing was open upon reaching the hospital, what kind of establishment is this ? It was actually a good two hours before I was able to ditch Rob and race down to the cafe. My in-laws had joined us by this time, so I was at least able to elicit some sympathy for my predicament and they bought me breakfast!
I had been given a card with which I could track Rob's advancement through the surgical process, via a screen in the waiting room, kind of like the Arrivals/Departures board at the airport. My father-in-law is not one to sit still, and he was up and down every two minutes to check Rob's progress, positively gleeful when the indicator turned from red (operating room) to green (post op) and finally to blue (recovery) where we were able to join up again with the patient. After checking that their son had survived his ordeal under the knife, my in-laws had to leave for another appointment, and just when it was about to get interesting!
The nurse came by to check Rob out (and I don't mean that the way it sounds). She starts by putting his arm in a sling, until I suggested that it might be a good idea if she let him put his shirt on first! She leaves to give Rob a chance to get dressed and that was when the fun began. He had a nerve blocker in his shoulder so his arm was essentially paralyzed, and it flopped about like a dead fish. He didn't have a hope in hell of getting dressed by himself, but it sure was funny to watch him try. This is what happens when I have to get up at 5:15 AM. Payback. Finally I relented and helped him to dress. Thank goodness he had been allowed to keep his underwear on, just getting the rest of his clothes on was bad enough.
The nurse returns and tells me I have to go to the lobby and get a wheelchair. Seriously ? I looked at her incredulously. "You do realise he had surgery on his arm, not his leg ?" I queried. She was not impressed. Hospital policy states he has to be wheeled out. Whatever. Off I trot to get the wheelchair, and I tell you it was a lot easier pushing it without the deadweight of my husband. Dutifully I wheel him out of recovery, and sail right past the bank of elevators. "Do you know where you're going?" he asked nervously. (I am well known for my lousy sense of direction). "Yep" I reply "To the escalator" He's worried now, "You can't take me down the escalator in a wheelchair" he whined, and goddammit he's right, the escalator was too damned narrow. So elevator it was. Only one problem, I hadn't quite figured out how to stop the wheelchair, and when I removed my hand from the bar it came to a sudden, jarring halt as I rammed his feet into the wall. Oops. Actually that was kind of fun, so I did it again when we reached the lobby. Now he is whinging about whiplash. Payback's a bitch.
Later, when Rob was relaying the story of me helping him get dressed to the kids, Sid was mortified. "OMG Dad" she cried out "Please tell me you weren't naked in front of the doctor". She actually whispered the word naked, because it was apparently too awful to contemplate. Rob's arm has to be in a sling for a couple of days, so it's fun times ahead.
Just in case you think that Rob is not surrounded by a loving sympathetic family, you should know that upon first hearing of the date of his surgery, his mother's immediate concern was "Who is going to cook the Christmas dinner ?" To give her her due, She didn't even bother looking in my direction.
Tuesday, 18 December 2012
Sidisms
While on the subject of Sidney, my daughter at years old has become quite the comedienne, in fact I'm never sure what she is going to say. Here are a few of the more recent "Sidisms".
One Sunday morning Lindsay is up in her room watching TV and I yell up to ask her if she has any homework. Sidney turns to me with an incredulous look, "Are you new here ? Don't you know everyone leaves their homework to the last minute" The sad truth is she is right.
A couple of weeks ago we were heading up to see my sister in Port Perry to watch the Santa Claus parade. As we reach the town, on old geezer runs a red light right in front of us. Fortunately because my husband drives like an old woman, preferring to wait for the traffic lights to turn a particular shade of green, he hadn't entered the intersection immediately, so he was able to avoid what could have been a nasty collision. However that doesn't stop my reaction; shaking my fist and yelling obscenities at the idiot driver as he sails blithely by. Then a little voice pipes up from the back of the van "Dial it down mum". Dial it down ? Where on earth does she get this from ?
Monday morning means spelling tests for both Grady and Sidney, and as usual everything is left to the last minute (see above). A quick cram session Sunday evening, followed by a last minute run-through the next morning, the one time I have to get up earlier to help out. We are sitting at dinner one Sunday evening and Sidney is showing off (the boyfriend was over!) and so I turned to her "I know how to wipe that smile off your face, you have to study your spelling tonight" Without missing a beat she replies "You can stop smiling too mum. You have to get up early tomorrow to test us" . Little brat.
Rob is not immune to Sid's barbs. She need to take something in for "Show and Tell" (bless her teacher for letting them off the dreaded current events for the month of December), and couldn't find anything worthy enough. Finally Rob suggested a wood carving, and he explained to Sid "Daddy carved this when he was Lindsay's age". Sid turns to him and with a pitying look asks "Why are you referring to yourself in the third person ?". Huh? the girl is only eight years old.
Finally just this week, when Sid and her brother were fighting, I broke it up and told them both to go and clean their bedrooms., As I left the room I heard Sid mutter under her breath "Like that's gonna happen". Thems fighting words, but I just didn't have the energy. I still have the "I can cancel Christmas" card up my sleeve, I just hope I don't have to use it.
One Sunday morning Lindsay is up in her room watching TV and I yell up to ask her if she has any homework. Sidney turns to me with an incredulous look, "Are you new here ? Don't you know everyone leaves their homework to the last minute" The sad truth is she is right.
A couple of weeks ago we were heading up to see my sister in Port Perry to watch the Santa Claus parade. As we reach the town, on old geezer runs a red light right in front of us. Fortunately because my husband drives like an old woman, preferring to wait for the traffic lights to turn a particular shade of green, he hadn't entered the intersection immediately, so he was able to avoid what could have been a nasty collision. However that doesn't stop my reaction; shaking my fist and yelling obscenities at the idiot driver as he sails blithely by. Then a little voice pipes up from the back of the van "Dial it down mum". Dial it down ? Where on earth does she get this from ?
Monday morning means spelling tests for both Grady and Sidney, and as usual everything is left to the last minute (see above). A quick cram session Sunday evening, followed by a last minute run-through the next morning, the one time I have to get up earlier to help out. We are sitting at dinner one Sunday evening and Sidney is showing off (the boyfriend was over!) and so I turned to her "I know how to wipe that smile off your face, you have to study your spelling tonight" Without missing a beat she replies "You can stop smiling too mum. You have to get up early tomorrow to test us" . Little brat.
Rob is not immune to Sid's barbs. She need to take something in for "Show and Tell" (bless her teacher for letting them off the dreaded current events for the month of December), and couldn't find anything worthy enough. Finally Rob suggested a wood carving, and he explained to Sid "Daddy carved this when he was Lindsay's age". Sid turns to him and with a pitying look asks "Why are you referring to yourself in the third person ?". Huh? the girl is only eight years old.
Finally just this week, when Sid and her brother were fighting, I broke it up and told them both to go and clean their bedrooms., As I left the room I heard Sid mutter under her breath "Like that's gonna happen". Thems fighting words, but I just didn't have the energy. I still have the "I can cancel Christmas" card up my sleeve, I just hope I don't have to use it.
Monday, 17 December 2012
I'm not sure where I went wrong with my children. Lindsay seems to be turning out alright, but it's my youngest I have my concerns about.
Yesterday was Cubs night and I discovered over dinner that they were supposed to perform a skit or a song. Sidney tells me brightly "I have a song". Like an idiot, I fell for it and told her to go ahead and sing it, and so she obliged:
"There's a snake in the grass,
Stick a bullet up it's ass,
Stick it in, stick it out,
Like a good boy scout".
WTF ? Did I mention Zach (the boyfriend) was over for dinner ? The poor boy just about choked, as did I. "Where on earth did you learn that ?" I asked horrified. "Grady taught me" She glibly replies. She has no qualms about tossing her brother under a bus if the situation warrants it. I turn to her brother who realises the jig is up and is attempting a fast getaway. He conveniently "can't remember" where he heard it. I tell them both, that under no circumstances are they to perform this little chorus at Cubs. I've already pre-paid for a whole bunch of activities, and I'm worried I might not get my money back if they are kicked out in disgrace.
I didn't think to remind Sid not to repeat it at school either. Her poor teacher pretty much has conniptions almost every time Sid opens her mouth as it is. I can't tell you how many times I have picked her up from school, only to have her teacher tell me "You won't believe what Sid said today". Sadly, I do believe it. Although I must admit I did express abject horror and surprise when Sidney was in Grade 1, and I found out she was teaching her friends to say "Piss Off". I don't think the teacher believed me when I blamed it on Grady. Her comment to Rob "Isn't Piss Off an English expression?" pretty much summed it up. So Mrs. Gunn, when you read this, you have my heart felt apologies if Sidney regales your class with her latest little ditty.
Yesterday was Cubs night and I discovered over dinner that they were supposed to perform a skit or a song. Sidney tells me brightly "I have a song". Like an idiot, I fell for it and told her to go ahead and sing it, and so she obliged:
"There's a snake in the grass,
Stick a bullet up it's ass,
Stick it in, stick it out,
Like a good boy scout".
WTF ? Did I mention Zach (the boyfriend) was over for dinner ? The poor boy just about choked, as did I. "Where on earth did you learn that ?" I asked horrified. "Grady taught me" She glibly replies. She has no qualms about tossing her brother under a bus if the situation warrants it. I turn to her brother who realises the jig is up and is attempting a fast getaway. He conveniently "can't remember" where he heard it. I tell them both, that under no circumstances are they to perform this little chorus at Cubs. I've already pre-paid for a whole bunch of activities, and I'm worried I might not get my money back if they are kicked out in disgrace.
I didn't think to remind Sid not to repeat it at school either. Her poor teacher pretty much has conniptions almost every time Sid opens her mouth as it is. I can't tell you how many times I have picked her up from school, only to have her teacher tell me "You won't believe what Sid said today". Sadly, I do believe it. Although I must admit I did express abject horror and surprise when Sidney was in Grade 1, and I found out she was teaching her friends to say "Piss Off". I don't think the teacher believed me when I blamed it on Grady. Her comment to Rob "Isn't Piss Off an English expression?" pretty much summed it up. So Mrs. Gunn, when you read this, you have my heart felt apologies if Sidney regales your class with her latest little ditty.
Friday, 14 December 2012
Diary Of My Wimpy Kids
I was encouraged to learn the other day that I am still able to instill fear into the hearts of my children. For once I wasn't cross with them but was having a fight with a laundry basket which had got caught on something. My laundry room is small at the best of times, but with the addition of the jird cage (the previous location was too close to the fireplace), and some items that had to be moved to make room for the Christmas Tree (which is still standing - yay!) there is not a inch of spare space.
Anyway back to the laundry basket, I am on my tippy toes, precariously balanced over the jird cage trying to retrieve the said basket with little success. Finally, after I've sent a pile of boxes careening to the floor, I've had enough and start to swear. To be fair all I said was "Son of a bitch", certainly not up to my usual standards, but apparently it was strident enough to signal to the rest of the family that there was a disturbance in the force.
Alerted by the loud crash caused by the boxes, Sid and Grady stood at the top of the stairs, anxiously peering down into the basement. Says Grady to his sister "Go and down and see what the matter is". "No" replies Sid vehemently "You do it". "Not likely" rejoins Grady, "She sounds pissed". He decides to compromise and in a faint voice calls down "Are you alright mum?". Of course I didn't hear him, so no answer was forthcoming. "There" he said "At least I did something. Its someone else's turn to go down there". At that point it becomes a game of dare and double dare, with both of them wondering aloud if I was hurt, but neither child brave enough to find out firsthand. After listening to this discourse for a few minutes, my husband steps up, calls them both wimps and ventures down to the laundry room. All I can say, it was a good job I wasn't injured, because I would have probably bled out by the time anyone came to my aid. Let's just say I won't forget this in a hurry.
Anyway back to the laundry basket, I am on my tippy toes, precariously balanced over the jird cage trying to retrieve the said basket with little success. Finally, after I've sent a pile of boxes careening to the floor, I've had enough and start to swear. To be fair all I said was "Son of a bitch", certainly not up to my usual standards, but apparently it was strident enough to signal to the rest of the family that there was a disturbance in the force.
Alerted by the loud crash caused by the boxes, Sid and Grady stood at the top of the stairs, anxiously peering down into the basement. Says Grady to his sister "Go and down and see what the matter is". "No" replies Sid vehemently "You do it". "Not likely" rejoins Grady, "She sounds pissed". He decides to compromise and in a faint voice calls down "Are you alright mum?". Of course I didn't hear him, so no answer was forthcoming. "There" he said "At least I did something. Its someone else's turn to go down there". At that point it becomes a game of dare and double dare, with both of them wondering aloud if I was hurt, but neither child brave enough to find out firsthand. After listening to this discourse for a few minutes, my husband steps up, calls them both wimps and ventures down to the laundry room. All I can say, it was a good job I wasn't injured, because I would have probably bled out by the time anyone came to my aid. Let's just say I won't forget this in a hurry.
Thursday, 13 December 2012
Texting Tales
I got a bit of a shock the other day. I was looking through the invoice for our cell phones, checking our usage for the month. I had 68 texts which I thought was high, while Rob's numbered 418, which which I considered a bit excessive, but nothing had prepared me for Lindsay's usage; 9,817 texts. Yes, I did a double take too. Who on earth can send 9,817 texts inside of a month ? Apparently my daughter can. This is the same girl with whom holding a conversation is akin to pulling teeth. For example, a typical exchange goes something like this.
Me: "How was school today ?"
Her: "Fine"
Me: "How did you do in your test?"
Her: "OK"
Me: "What did you have for lunch?"
Her: "Usual."
Me: "What sort of homework do you have to do tonight ?"
Her: "Lots"
Me: "Do you have any plans for the weekend ?"
Her: "Yep."
So I have learned absolutely nothing from this scintillating conversation, but somehow she has enough news to impart that requires the execution of 9,817 (all outgoing) texts. Did I miss that chapter in the parenting handbook ?
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