Let Us Pray...

Okay, THIS is the job I want.

Let us pray...

(Bow your heads, damnit!)

"Our Metasoft, who art on Water Street, Hallowed be thy Inside Sales Position. Thy interview will come. Thy sales quotas will be done, Online as it is on the phone. Give us this day our weekly check. And forgive us our lack of sales experience, As we forgive those who haven't yet hired me. And lead us not into torching your building if I don't get an interview, But deliver us from unemployment. For thine is the company, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen."

Warning! Morons 2

I have a swanky new cell phone from Telus. Remember, I broke up with Rogers.

They gave me a handy little booklet, the first page of which comes with IMPORTANT SAFETY PRECAUTIONS...

And, naturally, I am not making any of these up:

1. Never use an unapproved battery - really? But I made my own battery from gum and a melted Tic Tac box. You really don't think it'll work?

2. Never place your phone in a microwave - but I like to have my ear all warm.... WHO WOULD DO THIS??????!!!!

3. Never store your phone in temperatures less than -4 F - but storing it in the freezer is such a good idea when it's hot outside.

4. Do not dispose of your battery by fire - isn't that how everyone gets rid of trash? I have a pile of old paint stripper cans that are just begging for a pyro party...

I was supposed to familiarize myself with this new phone, since I haven't yet figured out how to turn it on, but couldn't get past page one of the User Guide because it was so damn funny.

Shave and a Hair Slut....Two Bits!

The relationship many vain women (such as myself) have with their hairdressers is multifaceted and profound. It is a mystery that most men do not understand. Unless, of course, they are hairdressers themselves. Which in my case, he is.

I adore him. He’s skilled and flamboyant and expensive. Aren’t those the only three criteria for a competent aesthetics professional? I had to choose carefully, you see, because of the narcissism that is my hair/self connection. The deep and meaningful relationship I have with my hair carries as much weight as my hair itself. That is, one boyfriend once told me that I could never accurately weigh myself because I have so much hair. He’s a doctor now, so he must have known what he was talking about.

The point is that because my hair is so very significant to me, I’ve always been very protective of it. Which is weird considering I shed as much as an Afghan Hound. Andy asked me the other day, “How are you not bald?” while holding a handful of my hair that he’d scooped up from the air. I'm pretty sure he’s jealous. I may have nothing, but I have my hair.

Nevertheless, I’ve actually budgeted for hair. Which is why what happened yesterday is so unusual and blogworthy.

I cheated on my hairdresser.

I was unfaithful. I became a hair ‘ho, a follicular slut. And to make it all the more depraved, I didn’t go to another hairdresser – I let a non-professional cut my hair. In my bathroom. I know – how down and dirty is that? And it was quick too. It was a meaningless fling.

And only other women will understand why I actually feel guilt over this. Albeit a sassier, shorter guilt, but guilt nonetheless.

Nanny McSheesh!

People....WORK with me!

More au pair applications are pouring in.

I got one today from South Korea. She only wants to work with children aged five to seventeen.

I am starting to get irritated with the need to point out the difference between the numbers one and five. Nic gets that. And she's only five.

The latest application? "I'm blind. I hope that won't be a problem."

Well...

So maybe I am a bad person for discrimminating against you because of an unfortunate impairment. But....aw, come on! You're BLIND! The idea behind hiring you is that you help us.

Given that I gave my mom a vigorous workout the other day, it's been pretty much established that I'm not a Good Person, so I guess that is the natural progression of my descent.

I'm Going to Dumbass Hell for This

So, I realize this is not a situation many people are likely to find themselves in. But, nevertheless, I was in it, and I feel like I may just have to, I don't know, sustain another vicious head-injury in order to deal with it.

We went to my dad's new place for dinner and, naturally, this involved moving things for him. It just wouldn't be right to go there and not be actually hauling something stupidly heavy. This time?

A six-hundred-pound wooden statue.

For real.

Why he actually owns a 600 lb statue is another story, but the fact was that it was in a van and needed to get out of the van and into his garden.

But first, we need to get all the boxes out that he'd efficiently stuffed around the statue.

Because I've had two pregnancies, I figure I've already done my share of heavy lifting for, like, my entire life. So I assigned myself the task of getting the boxes out.

I'm lifting out boxes of books, old slides, magazines from the late nineties and I come to a box that has no label and I can't peek into. I'm shoving, shaking and tossing the thing around before I find out what's in the box.

Oh. My. God.

COULD HAVE WARNED ME MY MOTHER'S ASHES WERE IN THERE!

Was a little "heads up" too much to ask, Dad! Just a bit of a warning before I start tossing it around?

Jayzuz, I feel like I'm going to go Dumbass Hell for this - the place for people who do bad things, but not entirely on purpose.

So I did what every normal, well-adjusted person would do.

I got out of the van and got drunk.

The head injury is sure to follow.

Motherhood is a non essential service.

Today, Nicola said, "Mommy - you're redundant."

Redundant.

I KNOW she doesn't know what that means. If she did know, I'd pack my bags right now because clearly she's torturing me.

Redundant.

Thanks.

CRASH!

We got rear-ended this weekend - which totally sucked ...BUT we're all fine and dandy and the whole experience was worth it just to find this picture of a woman whose phenomenal Boobs Saved Her Life.

Now, to all the expectant moms out there - you don't need to worry about having an accident on your way home from the hospital. Your life-saving, life-nurturing milk will have come in and CHECK THESE OUT! You won't even feel the impact! I knew my temporary reign as Dairy Queen would have come in handy some how.....

Thing is...my reign as DQ is long past and my boobs were completely bloody useless in preventing Andrew's little knee injury. Come to think of it, they were completely bloody useless in nurturing my children too. (I worship at the alter of Enfamil.)

And I know this is random, and really one of my worst ever segues, but have the Nipple Nazis been disbanded? Five years ago when I had Nic, the nurses were hard-core "YOU MUST BREAST FEED! IF THE BABY WON'T SUCK, PUMP, SISTER, PUMP!!!" Well, not to get too graphic but I was pumping blood and weeping with the agony of it all, when my mother finally grabbed the baby, gave me a beer and said, "For God's sake, Andrew go get some formula! Ridiculous."

See what I mean? Mom had some kick-ass moments of coolness. Nic filled her little tummy and Slept Through the Night. I was reborn. My boobs recovered.

And this time, with Rachael, I was terrified of the Nipple Nazis again. But the nurses simply said, "Hey, if your breasts are purely decorative, so be it. Here's a bottle."

Thank you. Thank you.....my boobs never saved my life in a car accident. Nor did they nurture my children's lives. But I like to think of them as "purely decorative".

And this, my friends, is how my brain works - I start by telling you about my car accident, and end with a missive for my boobs.

I'm so glad you can follow my train of thought because I can't.

Sistahtude!

Since Rachael figured out that we were "ma ma" and "da da" we've been wondering what our sweet angel will call her sister, Nicola.

We did not expect this.

I dropped Nicola off at preschool yesterday and Rachael said, "Bye Bye Nigga"

Yeah.

I kind of died a thousand deaths too.

Oh, Rachael sweetie, you're going to get punched by angry people if you don't stop that.

She's already started wearing her pants absurdly low...and kind of swaggering in her almost walk. We even have photographic evidence of her having embraced the Baby Bong. (see above)

When we fetched Nic at the end of the day I was bracing myself for, "What up nigga?".

She's not a brotha...she's not even a sistah. She's your sister.

I am reminded of the perpetual apology I gave when Nic learned to talk but she pronounced "truck" with an "f" and screamed, "Look Mommy! A Fire Fuck!"

And then, of course, after my brother played with her for a while, he said, "Well, according to your daughter, we've been feeding the fucks."

I'm truly sorry to the other parents whose children will come into contact with mine.

Really.

Truly sorry.

The Search Beings Anew

So I'm getting all these applications from Au Pairs around the world. Their profiles are saying things like, "I've always wanted to see Norway so I am interested in your culture."

Um.

Have you ever cracked open an atlas?

You're obviously on the internet. Check out Google Maps. Ca-na-da is not anywhere near Norway.

People, please!

At least I have more criteria on which to eliminate candidates. Like, given my current feelings about the au pair experience, if you posess an epidermis, you're out.

Should move on to Au Pair Universe - maybe there are better ones on other planets.

You never know.

Maybe it was the puking...

Well THAT was interesting.

I don’t even know where to start. The lovely Audrey arrived on Friday. She left yesterday.

I am sitting here with a raging case of WTF.

Maybe it was all the puking. No really. It's our new way of welcoming someone into our home. Nicola and Andrew turn into organic fountains.

It's just our thing.

The morning of her arrival, I felt as though I’d binged on large amounts of psychoactive substances and was coming down fast. I’m like that, so that’s not all that unusual when I get worked up. But something was amiss…..I’m usually just a partial basket case instead of completely berserk.

Clearly, it was my spidey senses tingling away. That, and the rampant intestinal bug that plagued our home for the next four days.

Nicola had her first out of stomach experience about half an hour after Audrey arrived. She horked, most considerately, I might add, on the kitchen floor, while we all sat bewildered and mortified. The lovely Audrey said, “Oh, elle est malade!”

Malade she was. She spewed five more times that day. Luckily, that was the end of her peristaltic pyrotechnics. Then Andy took over and it was Hurl City until Wednesday.

It's been a super fun week!

What began as a desperate need for childcare, ended in a hurried trip to the airport and finding a cigarette lighter in the bedroom.

How do you get from one to the other, you ask? Interesting, really. Because I wouldn’t have connected the two either –except that when you find a nanny online, you don’t know if they're the type to lie in the guest bed at night flicking the lighter on and off and muttering, “I’m gonna burn this mother down!”

I have no reason to think that she was doing just that - other than my over-developed imagination and a sense that it would make for a better story. And I did find a lighter in the room. Mind you, I also found maxi pads, which I'm sure means she was planning to suffocate us in our sleep by deathly feminine protection.

Apparently, she had some family emergency and had to return to France, like, NOW. I have no reason to believe otherwise.

But I think it was the puking.

If I were a nice person, which I'm not, I'd give her the benefit of the doubt and think, "Poor girl,". But like I said, I'm not a particularly nice person.

Welcome to My World!

Today is the day Audrey the Au Pair arrives.

I'm going to have to start being appropriate.

No more wanton farting and wandering around in my underwear.

No more spontaneous hip hop routines during dinner.

No more spitting.

God, it sounds so blandly respectable.

Nope - won't happen.

It's just not in me. IT WILL KILL MY SOUL.

So...she will simply have to be assimilated.

Resistance is futile.

Welcome to My World!