Benign Acceptance

I am now completely okay with the fact that I can't have any more babies.

Our toothbrush holder only has four spaces.

Another one would completely ruin the aesthetic of the bathroom counter.

It's just not worth it.

Okay maybe just one tip.

Turn an old T-shirt into a reusable shopping or grocery bag!

Here's How:

1. Turn T-shirt inside out and pin bottom of the T-shirt along the hem. Using a sewing machine, sew bottom of T-shirt closed. Flip shirt right side out and lay flat on table, making sure all seams are lined up.

2. Place medium-size bowl about half-way over the neck hole. Using a water-erasable marking pen, trace along the edge of the bowl. Cut along the outline, making sure to go through the front and back sides of the shirt, in order to create an opening for the bag that's larger than what the neck hole allows.

3. Line up the hems on the front and back side of the sleeve and cut, making sure to go through both sides of the shirt. Repeat on the other sleeve. Tip: A jersey shirt would also work well for this craft, as it is already sleeveless, and it's made of a great mesh material.

So many t-shirts....so little time!

Houston, we no longer have a problem...

It stopped!

After TWENTY-THREE DAYS of biblical proportions, the period has reached the period. Mind you, the drugs I had to take to get it to stop have likely done something kind of whacky and my body thinks it's male now.

Or something.

So far - no moustache, but I do burp and scratch myself and lack the ability to sense feelings. Hmmmm. No wait....I still love to shop. Phew! It's all good.

The thing about surgery in Canada is that you Wait. Unless you're fully dying and even then, unless you're bleeding from your eyes and your head is rotating really fast, you might still wait. We're a positive nation, you know?

Having surgery?
Yep.
Any head rotations?
Only mild. But Satan did tell me to buy a Windstar.
Oh, so what - next April?
Yep.

Found! MAC Rose Romance.

Anytime I'm downtown, I can't resist a stroll to MAC and usually a purchase too. They're always so great with the Big Girl and let her try on everything. They put her in a chair and make her feel like a grown up, even though her choices are sparkly pink lip gloss and sparkly blue eye shadow.

This time, I found the Rose Romance Collection which has me salivating. The fragrance alone is divine and the nail polish is on my WANT/HAVE TO HAVE list. I spritzed some on, went home and Husband took a whiff and said, "My, what is that striking bouquet of lush Bulgarian, Turkish and Tea red roses? Why it is veritably led with dewy watery and luminous green nuances...sniff and is that the velvety petals of exotic orchid, lily, jasmine and peony I smell - teasing with a hint of crimson red raspberry and the gentle texture of pink pepper? I do declare that the interplay of light and dark woods deliciously adds to the intensity of the scent, while the hypnotic incense vapours and amber crystals lend a sense of intrigue and allure to this sensuous creation. And for $25 that's rad.

News from Down There

Hooray! No hysterectomy for me! Just an ablation.

This is good because it's not as big a deal. It's like they're just going to do a little redecorating instead of complete demolition. No tumbleweeds will be blowing through my nether regions. However...ain't nothin' gonna get nowhere there. Or as the doc put it: "You can still conceive but we don't know what would happen if you do, so don't." Hear that Sperm Provider? It's your turn. (She said in a sing-song voice)

So, sometime this summer I'll be renovating the internal nursery. Knocking down walls, painting it black, and adding death metal posters. So it's kind of like my uterus is home to an angst-ridden teenager who never comes home anyway. I'm going to ask the doctor to put up a big "Keep Out" sign on my cervix.

Ugh...Erg...Hang on...Nope.

Oh the utter exhaustion of blinking.

If only I could drag myself across the room using only my tongue... (I'd have had very interesting job offers)...

Must....type....something....meaningful...

Oh fuck it.

I'm going to bed.

Thrill Ride on a Maxi Pad

Dear Readers,

If you're male or squeamish, stop reading. No really, this post is all about the centre of my personal universe and why It is like the slow kid in poontang college.

Still reading? Okay.

Here's the thing - I understand, God do I understand, that this particular feature of my body can be problematic in that it's been failing periodically (snort snort) every month since I was thirteen! Yeah, I know we all deal with it, but I've got this little problem: it's been going on for two and half weeks. And I'm not talking 'spotting' - we're talking tsunami. (Why do they even call it that? It's not like it's hard to see. "Oh! I SPOTTED it! There it is! I am a genius sleuth!") Moreover, I'm as anemic as an overcooked noodle so the more blood I lose the more I need to lie down after the exertion of, you know, getting up. But that's neither here nor there. What IS here and freaking everywhere is the, well...nastiness.

My children have yet to grasp the meaning of 'privacy' and thus barge through the bathroom door at all times. No. That's a lie. They stay out of the bathroom unless I go in. Then they want to know what I'm doing in there. Like it's a big secret. I do what everyone else does in there. But no, my kids seem to think that mum has some secret arsenal of smurfs that only come alive when she goes into the bathroom alone. Determined to solve my personal mystery, they come in. When the Big Girl invariably says, "What is THAT!?", I've given up trying to be demur and simply say, "It's the lining of my spazzy uterus. Again." This is often met with, "Eeeew. That is so gross,". Freaking tell me about it.

Oh, and I know that I could lock the door, but ever since someone locked herself in the bathroom and had a full meltdown because she couldn't get out, we have a no locking policy. I'm going to reconsider this. REGARDLESS, I get to traipse back to the gynecologist's office in a few days to calmly ask, "WTF Dude! I'm hemorraghing here! Make it stop!" I know the only pharmaceutical way to make it stop is to double up on birth control pills, which make me puke. So I could bleed out, or I could barf out. I'm thinking neither option is attractive. So this little anemia problem I have (I'm just a delightful little train wreck, aren't I) leaves me with one choice: hysterectomy. Yay!

This will be the third time in my life that I screamed at a doctor to look between my legs and "Get it out! Get it out! For the love all that is holy, get it out!"

Top Three Things That Frost My Giblet

I haven't been whining and bitching enough lately. I'm just too damn tired.

But it occurred to me that there are a few things that frost my giblet, and I'd like to share them with you.

There are some things that have been said to me over the years that continue to make me chew nails. I can dismiss the rude drivers and random weirdos who shout things. But when it's someone with whom I'm having a conversation and they say any of the following things:

"You're just oversensitive"
"You're taking things too personally"
"You're angry so I'm not listening to you"

...they deserve to be punched.

Here's why.

When people tell you "You're oversensitive", they disown their own responsibility. They're essentially saying that the argument you're having is your fault – nothing they said was hurtful, offensive, bigoted or discriminatory, because they said it in all innocence!

When someone says, “you’re taking things too personally” he or she is obviously an idiot. It's personal for you. 'Nuff said. No, it's not. There's more: it's guaranteed to piss someone off. What, are you just having this argument for kicks? It's only personal for me?

By now, I'm good and mad and then the person says, "You're too angry to have a conversation with, I'm not listening,". This is the part where I want to hurl china. And frequently do. Saying that disregards everything they have said and done that led to the anger! What is most infuriating about this one is that people say it to make it seem as though they were ready and willing to listen, but then you ruined it by getting mad.

Just sayin'.

How to Wake Up at the Same Time Each Day

I no longer have the radio alarm news to start my day. This is good, because the news is depressing, at best, alarmist at worst.

No, instead I am greeted by a furry little snout that arrives at my bedside. The message is, "I have to pee,".

So this is good.

Trouble is, it's 5:43 am.

Every. Single. Morning.

Discoveries

This weekend I went to Vancouver Island with my family. My in-laws have a beautiful home there and we always have a relaxing time. The weather was perfect so The Big Girl and I found our own mermaid cave down on the beach and the Little Girl told us all kinds of stories about fish and the sea. It was magic.

However, while putzing around the house, I made a jarring discovery. There was a small book called The Unhinging of Wings. It was a book of poems. I'm not normally a big poetry fan, but I flipped through it anyway. These were good. The author really understands grief, I thought. So I checked out the author: Margo Button. Hang on. I know a Margo Button. Can't be the same one. Wait...read her bio...lived in Chile. That's...the same one I know. I had dinner at her house in Chile when I was eleven years old. She...just a second - what's this book about ...

I flipped to the front. A photo of a shockingly handsome young man, and the name: Randall John Button 1967-1994. Oh God. This is the boy I knew. Her son. We would go for walks together and he would always make me laugh by pretending to walk into walls. No. He died? I started flipping through pages for more information - I needed it fast.

Randall had developed the beyond-devastating schizophrenia. It eroded his mind and he eventually took his own life, in a grisly and vicious way. His mother discovered him.

I did not sleep that night.

Rest in peace old friend.

I Hads Me a Long Think 'Bout Dis

You know, I've thought about this some more. I CAN cook decent food. Other people eat it and even (gasp) compliment it. So either everyone I know (except my family) is excruciatingly polite, or my family is impossible.

As I write this, Husband is forcing the children to eat last night's potatoes, chicken and peas. The Little has patently refused and is rebelliously playing Lego. The Big Girl is doing her best to suppress the gag-reflex and choke back her tears of suffering. It's so dramatic, it's almost funny if it weren't so MADDENING!

Help Wanted

Dear Readers,

I need your help. The evening meal has become a battle ground in my home. I am deeply grateful for the healthy, beautiful, intelligent children I have, and the kind, helpful and supportive husband who sired them. BUT...and you knew there'd be a 'but'....they are pickier than spoiled cats.

I've read the surefire books with promising titles like, "Food Your Family Will Actually Eat". I've made the weird-ass faces out of food to trick them. I've arranged bite-sized morsels in muffin tins, I've "disguised" vegetables among heaps of cream, cheese, pasta, and whatnot. They're like aiport dogs. They can smell it. "One of these noodles touched an onion. I can't eat it." This is all to no avail. Tonight, I'd had it. THIS IS A KITCHEN! NOT A RESTAURANT! YOU WILL EAT WHAT I MADE AND YOU WILL ALL SHUT UP ABOUT THE PEAS!"

Goddammit.

But then, the children get upset. The husband rolls his eyes, and I cry.

When this happens, it's probably healthier for everyone to simply eat yet another grilled-cheese sandwich.

So why do I need your help? Because APPARENTLY I can't cook anything palatable. The only thing everyone in my family loves into bloatedness is Andrea's Yar Bars, of which I have made staggering amounts.

I need recipes. And I need them desperately. Please send me your easiest, healthiest recipes.

Help me Obi Wan. You're my only hope. (Obi Wan...you know who you are...)


No Tip Day tomorrow. I'm done tipping.