Holy Mackerel

Here we are, the continuation of Monday's post , whereby I am being tested by French people. And when I say tested, I mean tested in every sense of the word. Then, they finally open the corral, and allow the cattle to exit (no, this is not an instalment at Pioneer Woman ).We all run for it, knowing we have to be back in 10 minutes, or else the doors will again be shut and we won't have the chance to write the second portion of the test, and we will also forever be forbidden from writing said test because we took too long in the bathroom. Have I told you I hate the government mentality? Well, I do. I am not an animal. I am a human bean. I run for the concessions because I am hypoglycemic, and if I don't eat something when I start feeling woozy, I get all wonky and fall to the floor convulsing and vomit and stuff, so I try to prevent that from happening at all costs. I'm thoughtful like that. I make it to the floor where the one little tiny counter had been open initiall...

Overturned trees... ...ripped out of the ground by their roots... Would you look at that tree? The Leaning Pine of Pisa. So, apparently we had a tornado here Saturday evening, and I slept right through it. It was a low-grade tornado and it actually touched down in a few areas, all around my neighbourhood. That figures. No one was hurt, which is what's important, of course. But I still think what's more important to report is that I actually slept through it. Let's think about that for a moment, shall we? A tornado, ripping roofs off houses, and 70-year-old trees out by their roots. Me, asleep. Gives you an idea of what kind of day I'd had. Although, I guess it helps that I can't hear out of my left ear. A relatively recent health issue. More on that another day, when I really have nothing else to talk about. It was really strange, actually, to see these uprooted trees, because right beside them were tiny saplings, fully erect and happily growing. Not touched in t...

Em with her friends, talking treats and scores. Dee being Dee, all aglow. Cool bowling photos of an unnamed subject, probably getting a strike. Just numbers. But they mean everything when you put this, $ , in front of them. That's how much money was raised at last Saturday's Camp Quality of Eastern Ontario bowlathon fundraiser. $34,888. Not just a simple number. I am speechless. This is a record , and in this day and age, it is beyond belief. Our next highest amount raised was about $32,000 a few years back. The generosity of the Ottawa region Starbucks, as well as everyone else who participated and donated, reminds me that people will always continue to amaze me. In the midst of financial woes, of people losing their jobs, there is still so much generosity. It blows my mind. The children will have one more year of happiness at Camp Quality this summer. Thank you everyone!

I hate multiple choice questions. That is how I spent my Saturday afternoon, sitting in a gargantuan, icy cold room that could fit 1,000 nicely fed elephants, freezing my buns off, writing a Second Language test to assess my abilities to speak Canada's 'other' official language. That would be French. Francais. Except I don't know which keys to use to type the little tail on the 'c', and for that alone, I'll probably fail this and all future tests. I guess I should be happy I was even asked to write this test, because it means I passed the federal government's initial screening for a job I had applied for. So, here I go. Yay. I would have failed had the test included actually finding the damn building and room, because the French, they aren't too good at giving directions. First off, there are no numbers on their government buildings that tower sky high over the Ottawa River. So, you're pretty much guessing where this place is. Thank god for Map...

Are you a Type 1, or a Type 7? What are you talking about, you're probably asking me right about NOW . And usually, my answer would be, "I have no idea." But not this time! No! Believe it or not, you've come to the right place today. You know the Type A and B personality choices, kind of like blood types, but not? Now we have a new chart to further identify your "type". And, in my humble opinion, this typing might be the most telling of them all. Let me further illustrate. Last week, Mr. Handsome, Dee and I were at the hospital, where we discovered that Dee will most probably need more surgery to correct a little health problem that's been plaguing him. Nothing serious, but it has to be taken care of. Not cancer-related, and so it's all good. After the surgeon gave us this news, we were shuffled into this little examination room in the urology department to wait for a pre-op nurse to go through the rigamarole of the operation, what to expect, etc. A...

Dee's annual oncology appointment on Thursday went swimmingly. Another year cancer free! Not that Dee needs any reason to jump off the living room furniture and do cartwheels. The sun rising every morning is reason enough for him. By the way, please excuse the mess in the living room. I've been too busy picking my toes.

We are honest and good people. Unless we're buying chicken breasts that happen to be on sale. Then, watch out. No holds barred is how we roll. We don't like following senseless rules made by big ass organizations, especially when it limits one's poultry purchasing capabilities. A limit of two packages per family, the sign said. Two measly packages. We'll see about that. We'll show those big guys who's really boss in this town. We form a posse, Mr. Handsome up in front, me behind him holding Dee's hand, Em bringing up the rear. All the while, our eyes do not meet, nor do we speak. We are alone in this endeavour. All alone. And yet, a team. It's poetic. Mr. Handsome picks out two choice packages of chicken breasts. Skinless. Boneless. Priceless. He turns, does not acknowledge my existence, and quickly starts making his way to the cash at the front of the store. Now, it's my turn. A smile forms as I watch Mr. Handsome leave, not sure I can believe what...

My Saturdays are often spent prostrate on a couch, ignoring my children and husband, reading the paper and drinking coffee, or running errands, or just picking my nose and wiping it on an unsuspecting child. This Saturday, that all goes down the toilet. Because this Saturday, folks, this babe is going to be b-u-s-y. Yup, that's right. No rest for the wicked, they say (whatever that means). Saturday is the annual fundraiser Slut and I run for Camp Quality , which is a camp for kids with cancer. This year, Slut has pretty much run the show all by her lonesome, mostly because I am very lazy, but also because I've not been well. We've been doing this fundraiser for six years now (I think), although it feels more like sixty, and it's probably our last year, because we're both tired of doing it, and it's time for some new blood. My kids have attended this camp for about seven years now. Slut's son attended it for many years as well, and Slut is actually the perso...

Remember those days, when going for a leisurely bike ride was actually a fun thing? Well, no more. Now, it's a plethora (yes, a plethora, I say) of agony and all things hellish, replete with moaning, whiny children who can't seem to make it past the first five blocks before needing a drink, a rest, and a long nap. And my children are 14 and 11 years old. God help me if I ever go on a bike ride with my children ever again. It was that bad. And stupid me, here I was waiting for this day, counting the years until my children could finally go on bike rides with us, and what fun we would have! A big NOT. It started when I looked out the front window and saw our neighbours across the street going for a nice weekend bike ride. And I thought, 'How nice. What a nice family. Look how wonderful they look. Don't they look like the perfect little nuclear family. Hey! We can be that family. In fact, we are that family. Dammit, we're going to go biking, and we're going to sm...

Slut's given up on her flaky eyebrows, everyone. She's decided to live and let live, and has realized that she is probably the only one in the world with Flaky Eyebrow Syndrome, and isn't she one lucky bastard? I'm always one to think outside the box. So, I'm thinking maybe Slut will go down in the annals of medicine for the only person with flaky brows, and she could become an eyebrow guinea pig, where she could donate brow parts to medical science, and the scientists could then dissect her brow parts and find out why they flake. Because this is serious stuff, people. Why the hell are we focusing on breast cancer?! It's time to get real, and start taking these orphan afflictions seriously. Are you with me? Anyway, now Slut's focusing all her efforts on losing ass weight. Ten pounds of ass weight, to be exact. Although it might be more now. Or less. I can never keep up with Slut, because she's waaay ahead in this Game of Life. I for one don't agree ...

A resplendent Saturday dinner. Photo taken with my brand new Canon XSi Beefaroni, canned corn, and leftover bacon. Ohh yeaah. Doesn't this shot, not to mention this entire meal, remind you of The Pioneer Woman ? Please, hold your applause. Really, it's not necessary. You'll only embarrass me. And no, we did not have guests. Just us chickens. Next episode: Mary sitting on the toilet, groaning endlessly.

This is why I fight for my son, and will continue to fight for him. I found this awful news on Katie's site, over here . Bullying is unacceptable. And I don't care what anyone says. People don't take it seriously until someone dies. And then we wonder why.

I fondled my dog yesterday. And I liked it. Until I realized what exactly I was doing. And then I was all, "ACK!! OH MY GOD!! What am I doing?!" Because, really, who does that, even willingly? You see, I was sitting on our couch, beside Mr. Handsome, enjoying a so-so cup of coffee and Mr. Handsome's company while we discussed the probability of Dee having to go in for yet another surgical procedure in the fall. We had just come back home from his follow-up appointment with the surgeon, and it looks like he may have to go under the knife again. More on that another time. I'm just happy because it doesn't seem to be tumour-related, and that's all I care about. Anyway, the coffee was not strong enough, and we had run out of milk, so I was not happy. And, while Mr. Handsome and I were talking, I was absentmindedly fiddling with what I thought was a very warm and fuzzy flap of doggy skin on Gryphon's abdomen. Gryphon had sidled up to me and was leaning across m...

When I was introduced to the world of blogging only a few short months ago, I was hesitant. Mostly because I didn't know what it was all about. But soon enough, I was hooked, and now I cannot live without it. It's become more a part of me than peanut butter on a spoon. Blogging, and the blogosphere (that means you!) has become very important to me, and for so many reasons. It's my way of venting, of being creative, of getting back into the writing groove, of having some fun, and of expanding my horizons. But maybe most importantly, blogging has allowed me to meet so many wonderful people I would never have otherwise met. The entire world fits in my back pocket now, and although there are things about today's focus on technology and lack of face-to-face contact that I don't particularly like, overall I think it's a great thing. It can also be a very sad thing, because all of a sudden, you get to know people and their intimate lives, and you get to know them on s...

I apologize, my lovely Internet friends, for this, but I'm afraid I'm going to be more absent than usual for the next bit until I get my laptop problem solved. I am anal, therefore I must research each and every avenue possible before deciding where to go and what to do. In fact, I must first discover whether it is indeed my laptop cord that is in need of replacement, or the little thingy into which the cord goes, because right now, it could be either. I do know, however, that it is not the guinea pigs' fault this time, and I also know I am not going bonkers. Yet. I'm actually kind of liking sitting up in the office and working on Mr. Handsome's lunk of a computer. I like it because I can sit here, in relative peace, while downstairs I hear all hell break loose. Both kids are screaming bloody murder, the dog is humping Em (unless that scream I hear is the dog humping Dee), and Mr. Handsome just walked out the front door (I think). And I don't care, because I am...

Okay, so yesterday it was all about my friend Slut and her flaky brows. Today it's about me again. I'm having computer issues, guys. Really bad ones. Not quite like when there was some creepy guy sitting in the bushes somewhere in Tanzania and playing around with my computer insides. No, this is more of a physically technical, hardware nature. Basically, the power cord on my laptop is close to kaput, and I only have 26 minutes left before my battery runs out, and then what will I do? This is the second power cord for this laptop. And I don't know about you, but I for one am really sick and tired of things breaking down all around me. First it was the dishwasher, then the front door lock, then the dryer, and now the laptop cord. It's like our house is haunted. Maybe I need to do an exorcism? My brother Gee (or as he'd rather be called, Adonis or Zeus), should probably have a say in this, because he's all into these hoaky, spooky, non-terrestrial type issues. Wh...

Slut needs our help, guys. She's in bad shape, and it's my duty to help her. Slut, if you don't already know, is my dearest friend, and I would do anything for her. Anything. I'd even have another transvaginal probe put up my Precious for her. Yes, that's how much I adore her. If you want to know more about Slut, you can find out here . She's as crazy as I am, if not more so, in fact. Although, of course, she'd disagree. She's like that -- disagreeable. But I still love her, because that's how I roll. She's also a blast at the restaurant, and in church. But Slut is in dire straits, and needs our advice. It's her eyebrows, guys. They're flaky. Her eyebrows have dandruff. Actually, her brows are not like that dude's. Not like that at all. They're more like No. 21 below, except when she's pissed, and then they're more like No. 22. And when she's constipated, they're more like No. 16 mixed with a little No. 27. I know....

Our afternoon and evening with my brother and sister-in-law was fabulous, thanks for asking. They live in Chelsea, Quebec, a tiny hamlet of sorts nestled in the Laurentian Mountains, also known as the Adirondacks, with a history as rich as many of its current residents. The village has gone through many a transformation, and is now a very desirable area of residence for those who have lots of dough. It's about 20 minutes to half an hour from our house to theirs, and I don't know why we don't get together more often. It's ridiculous, really. Especially since Gee and Ess are the only family on my side that we have left. My younger brother, Leo, is incognito, and that's the way he wants it. Long story. Maybe someday I'll tell you about it. Suffice it to say that I pretty much had written him off for dead and gone about 10 years ago. I don't talk about it much because it's still very difficult for me to accept. My brother and sister-in-law do not exactly f...