Tuesday, March 31, 2009

Rollin' Rollin' Rollin'

Toronto was a blast.

Dee and I did a Mommy and Son Travelling Team and booted it down there last week for a couple of days with my nephew, sister-in-law and brother-in-law.

We met Em there, who had travelled down on her own at the beginning of last week by train. I don't know about you, but I would never have been able to take a train, bus or wagon on my own at the tender age of 14. And she's been doing it since she was 12!

So, I thought it would be so nice and thoughtful of me to post some photos of our voyage, because I'm sure you've all been waiting with bated breath for the images.

Remember, my camera sucks. I am trying to save money to get a really nice one, but at this rate , I'll be six feet under before that happens. Oh well.

Here goes:

This is my nephew, Oscar. Oscar, meet the world. He's pretty damn cute, wouldn't you say? Yes, those are really his cheeks. No fillers. No Botox.

Here, he's looking lovingly into my eyes, as most people do when they first see me. Actually, I think he was about to hurl.

This is some very cool graffiti we saw on our way to Danforth Ave., the really happenin' place for really cool people. My children made fun of me as I took this picture, but I told them, "What the hell do you know, people?! This is art!" I apologize for the swear words that I didn't notice until now.

This is Dee watching Oscar as he poops his pants. Every three days, right on schedule.

Em, probably telling me to stop taking pictures of her, or to hurry the f*ck up because it was freakin' cold. Notice Dee in the background, watching a toothless homeless person jiggle a Timmy's cup and play a harmonica.

And here's Dee, after taking a whiff from the sewer grate behind him.

I love Toronto.

Monday, March 30, 2009

Dennis Rodman Needs Help, And I Need Jesse James

I never thought I'd see the day when I'd cry tears as I watched an episode of The Celebrity Apprentice. I mean, who does that? I've cried over Donald Trump's freaking hair, but that's another story.

I cry, that's who. I'm here to tell you that I cried last night. No, I'm not pregnant and, therefore, extremely hormonal and hence, overly emotional. However, I may be PMSing for the fourth time this month, so that may explain some of it.

This is the real deal, people. I cried real tears of sadness.

This was mostly the result of watching the latest episode of The Apprentice, where Dennis Rodman was planted as project manager, and we watched as he went into his downward spiral, which he has done before a couple of episodes ago, but this time, you saw in more detail the reason behind it.

He's an alcoholic, and he's a sad man, and he needs help.

And it makes me so sad, because here is this man who has the whole world in his hands, and could do anything he wants, and yet, he ruins it all through his addiction to alcohol. And it's totally out of his control.

What may be the saddest part of all this is that he is so far from ready to admit that he even has a problem. And that reminded me of my mother and my younger brother. Not alcoholics, but so far from admitting that they both had/have major mental health problems, and it's so sad to watch as they fight a battle that only they believe they have to fight. And I guess, it's really just a very personal fight, an internal fight, a self-hatred. And I don't think there's anything in this world sadder than that.

I saw it in my mother and in my brother, and I saw it in myself many years ago. Not the mental illness, but the loneliness, the aloneness, the self-hatred, the longing to just be liked, to like oneself even just a little bit. And I recognized the internal, silent screaming. That was me.

It brought back a lot of emotion about my childhood, about my struggle to be someone, to feel like I was okay and deserved to be loved, to love myself. Our whole family struggled with these issues, and we will until the day we die.

And I saw it last night in Rodman.

Watching Rodman deny that he had a problem, and watching him desperately have another, and yet another drink to soothe his pain, was almost too hard to watch. I hope he finds his way.

And when they were all sitting in the Room of Judgment, in front of Donald Trump, at one point Rodman verbally attacks Jesse James, after Jesse states that it's clear Rodman has a drinking problem. Rodman reacts by defensively pointing the finger at Jesse, and states he should talk because he too had a drinking problem at one point (apparently Jesse had a bit of an addiction issue about nine years ago).

Then they show James' face, and I swear to god, he was crying. He didn't shed tears, but he sure looked upset. His little chin was all a-quiver, which makes my heart go pitter patter, and my knickers get all twisted. He was upset that the finger had been pointed back at him so unfairly, but I think he was much more upset that Rodman was so screwed up, and that he was wrecking what could be an amazing life.

And now I'm in love with Jesse James, because although he's not really my type, he sure has a heart of gold. And that just made me cry all the more, because there's nothing better than a man who gives a crap, and who overcomes something so difficult as an addiction, and makes something of himself.

And although he's not my idea of handsome, he's hot. And not a Patrick Dempsey hot, or even a Patrick Swayze hot, or a Mr. Handsome hot. He's just hot. Take my word for it. Even when he wears a button-down flannel shirt with all the buttons buttoned up to his unshaven chin. H.O.T.

I think I've got to stop watching these reality shows. They suck the life outta me.

Sunday, March 29, 2009

Bunny Attack

This cute little bunny was sitting on our front lawn yesterday. We named him Harry. As you can see, he is excellent in the art of camouflage.

He must have sat like that, staring at our window, for a good half hour. I thought he might be stuck to some dog poop or chewing gum, but he eventually skittered away.

We have a relatively high number of the little critters in our neighbourhood, considering we live in the middle of a pretty large city. We also have a large assortment of raccoons and skunks, but they're not as cute (just my opinion -- don't want to be ruffling any feathers here!).

Gryphon was very interested in Harry's presence. It was very tempting to let him out to see what he'd do once face-to-face with the little furball, but even we're not that mean.

(photos courtesy of Dee)

A short little anecdote: Harry reminded me of a time many years ago, when Em was just a little imp, and I was trying to get her to remember important things like our phone number and address, just in case she decided to hike it one day while I was still in bed, picking my nose and oblivious to all around me.

Em was either having an honest-to-goodness tough time memorizing these details, or she was just being difficult. Knowing what I know now, I'm opting for Door Number 2.

Anyway, I came up with this awesome and amazing idea that should probably go down in the annals of wonderful parenting: I thought I would come up with a story involving a cute little bunny named Harold who lived in the bushes in front of our house. And, as I would tell Em the story EVERY SINGLE DAY, I would reiterate that Harold's address was blahblahblah, and his phone number was xxx-xxxx (he would use our phone since he didn't have one of his own). And he had a friend, Flower, who lived at Grandma's across the street, and on and on it went. Every night, I'd have a new adventure to add to the story. And every night, I would start it out the same way, so that I was stating our address, phone number, etc. at least twice each day. Before long, Em knew it all. And I was never a prouder mother.

And it went downhill from there.
By the way, on a completely other tangent, can anyone please explain to me the whole Entrecard issue that seems to have everyone's knickers in a knot? Although I was a gifted student, I cannot for the life of me understand what's happening? What are these damned changes, and what am I supposed to feel? Anyone? Anyone?

Saturday, March 28, 2009

Peace and Contention

Bit of a mishy-mashy bish-bash of a blog post today.

Here I sit, feeling very content at the moment. Me?? Content?! Yeah, I know. A rarity, to be sure.

Mr. Handsome has gone to work (yes, on a Saturday -- it's year-end, don'tcha know), Em and Dee have decided to go to the movies to see Monsters vs. Aliens, and I am left alone with Gryphon and the guinea pigs. So, here I sit, in absolute quiet, with the warm sun streaming in through our gargantuan front window, and I feel okay, peaceful even.

It must be spring: the neighbours across the street are emptying out their garage and cleaning. This is what the husband at that house does once the warmer weather hits. I can't wait for spring because he is my entertainment. Every Friday evening, without fail, he begins to empty his garage. Everything comes out and gets put on the lawn. Why, you ask? I don't know. Because what happens after he empties the garage? He puts everything back in. Saturday morning, same thing. Sunday as well.

I've often wanted to go over there and ask him what gives, don't you have anything better and more important to do with your weekends? But he has ignored me pretty much every time I've ever gone over there to be neighbourly. I don't think he likes me. Not sure why.

Then there's the neighbour beside this neighbour, whose mother does all the housework inside and out. Here's this itty bitty woman, her gray hair in a tight bun, running around her daughter's house, swatting rugs, picking up litter off the huge lawn, washing their windows. I'm trying to befriend her so that maybe she'll adopt me, because god knows my windows could use a good cleaning, and I don't have the time for such things. Only problem is, I'm not sure I much like her. She once wanted to call the police because my dad's car was parked on the street, and she didn't know whose car that was, and how dare they park this car on the street? She doesn't even live here! She's the kind of person who needs to know everything, for no other reason than to know. She's nosy, and she's whiny too. Not a good combination, I feel. But she has loads of energy, so I'll keep trying to be nice to her, because a good window washer and rug beater is hard to find.

And then there's the neighbour on the other side of the first neighbour (the one who cleans out his garage three times a weekend). Now, this neighbour tends to do things with his tent trailer when they haven't all gone camping for the weekend. He'll crank the trailer up and set it all up, and look at it. Then his wife comes out, and they both stand there, hands on hips, and they look at it. Then they crank that baby back down again and clean their gutters and stuff. Every weekend.

Then, the neighbour to the left of us, he's a nice guy, but very very quiet, and I've always believed that when a man lives all alone, and doesn't seem to have any friends, and is very quiet, there is something very wrong with him, and so I am trying to get him kicked out of the neighbourhood, because he kind of freaks me out. Once, I was trying to be nice to him at a Neighbourhood Watch meeting, and I offered him a drive home since it was raining out, and he wouldn't get out of the damn car. Like I said, freaky.

The neighbours to the right of us: nice people, but I never see them. They're very private. They have a baby, but I've seen him maybe twice since he was born, and that was a year-and-a-half ago. They do come out, but only to do yardwork and to give us nasty, sideways glances because we don't do yardwork, and apparently, a neat and tidy lawn is very important to these people and makes you closer to god or something. Well, I'm letting them know right now that we don't have the time or the energy to pick up every stray leaf off our lawn, nor do we have the inclination to do so. I think a leaf-strewn lawn is actually preferable. In fact, I think I might throw a couple of dog craps out there as well for good measure.

And me? When I'm done watching all the neighbours, I'm going to clean the house. I actually have a bit of energy today, and although my arthritis is flaring up, I'm going to battle on and get some stuff done because I am sick of not being able to do anything. And plus, I finally went to my doctor yesterday (getting in to see this guy is a whole other blog post in itself), and he told me that there is nothing wrong with me. Nothing. My blood is in better shape than his, he says.

So, I ask, why is it that I always feel like I fell down two flights of stairs and landed in a vat of acid?

He says I'm an enigma. It's just who I am, he says. And I'm guessing that should be a good enough explanation.

Yes, that must be it. I am a healthy healthy person who cannot do a day's work without needing a two-hour nap in the middle of the day, who cannot eat more than one meal a day without being in great pain and discomfort, who has lost over 30 pounds over the last couple of years, and whose every joint and muscle cries out in pain most days. That must just be who I am. I know my Stickler Syndrome probably has something to do with it, but really, don't you think he'd want to do a little more research?

Maybe I have one of those rare orphan diseases, or maybe something completely new and odd that would make him famous were he to discover it, or maybe I just have an alien living inside my body, slowly procreating and causing havoc.

But we'll never know, will we? Not at this rate, anyway.

Neighbour #1 is now vacuuming his car engine, and I am now seething with anger and resentment, so what better time to do some floor mopping? So much for my peaceful Saturday!


Friday, March 27, 2009

My Life Is The Disaster Movie

So, I got up yesterday morning and I looked like this:

That is, my hair looked like this. Nothing else did. Not the smile, nor the enthusiasm, nor the jazz hands.

And that is how my day started.

Still haven't got my old blogging moves back yet. March has been a tough month. Four funerals. Count 'em. Four. That might even be a record of sorts. I'm calling Guinness tomorrow.

I think there might even be a movie in there somewhere. Four Funerals And A Wedding.

And what with my mother passing away, it's thrown me for more of a loop than I was expecting. Let me correct that. I didn't know what to expect, and so now all these feelings keep popping up, and all these memories, and thoughts, and I often feel like I'm drowning in a vat of mac and cheese. And if you're wondering, it's not a good feeling. And it's very fattening.

I spent the majority of the day yesterday either on the phone or on the toilet. Neither one was very productive.

In-between phone calls and toilet runs, I had what I think may have been an anxiety attack. My whole body trembled, I felt like I was going to explode, and I had to knead the couch cushions because otherwise I would have thrown the television remote through the window. What is wrong with me? This is the second time this week that this has happened. I hope it doesn't happen again. I'd rather have major hot flashes and scabies. At the same time.

It was awful, really. Totally uncontrollable irritability. Please tell me I'm not going whacko.

And then, obviously I'd had such a stressful and energy-draining day from eating Cheetos and Coffee Crisps, answering the phone and sitting on the toilet that once the kids got home from school, I went to bed for a two-hour nap. A two-hour nap! Bury me now because I'm obviously barely alive as it is.

And then Mr. Handsome comes home from work. Poor thing. The clouds opened up about three minutes into his bike ride home, and the rain came down in droves and poured on his little body all the way home. Pelting, cold, icy rain. He came in the door looking like the Iceman, and I didn't even know it was raining out. Why? Because I had been snuggled up under my duvet in the bedroom, dreaming wild and crazy dreams about circuses and old men in big houses, and drinking ginger ale and falling asleep and spilling said ginger ale all over my lap. No, I didn't pee the bed.

I was also supposed to go to the gym with my friend Slut yesterday evening, who goes to the gym primarily to show off her slutty body to everyone there, although if you asked her, she would say she was there to get in shape. Yeah. Whatev. I even have shoes now for the gym, so I was sure there was no excuse.

Alas, I was wrong. So wrong. Because there's always more to the story in my small, miniscule world of pain and misery. So, I didn't go to the gym, and now Slut will be angry with me, and she will spray her wrath all over kingdom come, and I will have to listen to her whine and go on and on and on about Responsibility, and Health, and Commitment. And I know I've let her down yet again, but really, I think I had a really good excuse.

You have to understand. I couldn't go. I just couldn't. I'm so tired. And I haven't yet prepared myself mentally to enter the hallowed gym once again and use its many contraptions and look in its many mirrors and watch my hanging ass fat flap over my sweats.

And Mr. Handsome hadn't yet made dinner. So, I was waiting for him to make dinner so that I could eat it and then go to the gym. But he was very very late with dinner, and what was I supposed to do? Because it was his turn to make dinner, and I will not go near the stove when it's Mr. Handsome's turn to make Spaghettios.

And my hair. It wasn't doing so well either.

I'm thinking maybe the weekend might be a better time to tackle the gym with Slut. Maybe by then, I'll have worked through all the images of extra flab and sweaty armpits and groaning body parts and be able to just concentrate on getting those abs back that I had once long, long ago ...

Your Friday Night Partay No. 11!

The Sign Of Leo (Mexican Breakfast) - Funny home videos are a click away

Tuesday, March 24, 2009

Waxing Poetic

I've just re-read the past few posts, and I'm ashamed.

I apologize profusely to every one of you, my faithful readers, who continued to read my posts, regardless of the painful, egocentrical blathering I did about myself, my mother and my teenage-angsted daughter.

I also wanted to thank each and every one of you for your warm thoughts and great advice. I am so fortunate to have so many friends throughout the world. Amazing, really. Boggles the mind (which, mind you, doesn't take much in my case).

You've had enough of this, I'm sure. I know I have. Time to move on.

Uh oh, I think I'm now getting a cold sore due to the stress of re-reading those posts. I can feel it brewing under my skin, right above my lip. This does not bode well for all those job interviews I know are about to come my way. I mean, who wants to hire someone with major issues who also has a blown-up, pus-filled balloon hanging off her upper lip?

I thought a great way to de-stress would be to finally use my new wax product that I bought to remove my many facial hairs that I seem to have growing on my chin and upper lip, like an army slowly creeping up on me, about to take over the country that is my face. Since spring sprang last weekend, I thought there would be no better way to celebrate than my removing unwanted hair follicles from my previously virgin face. I would say it's almost poetic: the waxing of the face, removing unwanted growth, as the first flowers take root and poke through the snow, greeting the new season. Do you see the amazing and poetic juxtaposition of those two images? I know, I can be pretty damn profound when I want to be.

I bought the Wax-A-Way Sugar Formula Long Term Hair Removal kit not too long ago for just this procedure. I was so looking forward to finally getting rid of the hairs that have been plaguing me for quite some time now. Hairs that have no place whatsoever on my face, except maybe to keep it a bit warmer on those cold, blustery days.

But spring is now here, and soon enough we will have temperatures that don't freeze the proverbial testicles off the bulls at the proverbial farm, so I have to be prepared. Because, if there's one thing I won't do, it's waltz around the neighbourhood in a tank top, shorts and a moustache.

And let's talk about legs for a moment, if you don't mind. I just realized that I have not shorn my legs all winter long. Kind of a naturally-occurring long john undergarment, if you will. And up here in the north, eh, we need all the coverage we can get on those cold winter nights.

Although they've done their duty, it's now time to shave them. I'm just not sure if a regular razor is going to do the trick. I may need a heavy-duty lawnmower and a weed whacker to get in-between my toes.
You don't understand. I have hairy legs. And I mean hairy. As in, lots of hair. So much hair, in fact, that I've had to resort to wearing spandex just so that I can wear something over my legs since my pants no longer fit circumferentially. And I don't wear skirts unless I am forced to under threat of death or sex.

Getting back to the face now... I bought the all-natural waxing formula because I thought it would be best for my oh-so-delicate and sensitive skin. It was also on sale, and I got extra points as well to use in my daily purchase of Cheetos and Coffee Crisp chocolate bars. In addition, I thought it would be pretty easy to use because you can apparently use it either hot or cold, and you can re-use the strips, and I'm all about recycling. I've almost gone as far as buying re-usable menstrual pads, but decided that even I cannot bring myself to such gruesome tasks.

I have yet to use the waxing treatment on my oh-so-delicate face. It's a little scary, if truth be told. I have also yet to shave my legumes. So, I thought I'd save that for another post, because you can be sure it's going to be a good one.

Monday, March 23, 2009

Another Day Of Hell

I just finished calling my daughter a f*cking bitch ... to her face.


I'm pretty sure she's old enough now to hear the truth, no mincing of words necessary...

She accused me of not being fair, once again, and I guess I've just had it. Today was not the day to play with my mind and play the old guilt trip on me.

I just buried my mother today. Do I need another reason?

I'm bitter, and I'm exhausted, and I'm sick and tired of being accused of never being good enough, of never having her best interests at heart, of not loving enough.

This time, it was about asking for my money back that I had given Em for her trip to Toronto. She didn't use it there, and it was given to her as an emergency fund. She immediately accused me of being unfair because she didn't have to spend the money, and I wanted it back. Somehow, this is all my fault and I should now feel bad about it. Then she had some other choice things to say about how I never do anything for her, and how I'm not much of a mother. Things I've heard coming out of her mouth before.

I didn't remind her of the money I spent at Lick's for whatever she wanted to eat, or the Starbucks drink I bought her because she wanted one, or the more-expensive-than-I-expected bedding I so excitedly put together in her bedroom so she'd be surprised when we got back home last weekend, or the offer to buy her new curtains and other things for her bedroom, or that I always try and make time to listen to her many stories about school or her friends, or that I always put down what I'm doing to braid her hair at night. I do this without complaint or expectations, as any good mother would do.

I'm especially tired of hearing her complaints and nasty words when I've just buried a mother who was not a very good mother, and I was pretty much justified in often thinking those things. I never actually said them to my mother, however, because I loved her and I didn't want to hurt her feelings. I realized the power of words. They can often hurt more than any weapon could. And although my mother was very good at the art of inflicting pain, I never reciprocated. I only tried harder to please her.

I think it's time Em realizes that words can hurt. A lot. And that I am nowhere near perfect, but that when she tells me I do nothing for her, that I am not a good mother, it really hurts deep inside, especially since I know how untrue it all is. And it upsets me because I think Em doesn't realize how fortunate she really is to have a mother who truly would do anything for her, who loves her unconditionally, and always will, and who always puts her first.

Of course, Em is in the throes of teenagehood, self-centred and full of anguish, and this is all very real to her.

But her words sting, and they hurt deep down inside, and they are the words I heard my mother speak to me, which makes them hurt all the more.

I hope she reads this, and realizes this. Because I just buried my mother, and I only wish I could have had in her what Em has in me.

Em, my mother never once told me she loved me. Think about that. And next time, think before you speak.

Saturday, March 21, 2009

The Mind Is A Very Strange Thing

I really don't have much to say today, except a huge thank you to all the generous and kind comments regarding my mother's recent passing. They really mean so very much to me. So, thank you.

I've spent the past few days in Toronto with my gorgeous baby nephew, and if that's not the best way to forget about one's troubles, I don't know what is.

Today's the visitation for my mother. The funeral and burial take place tomorrow morning.

My feelings are all over the place. One minute, I'm so very sad. The next, I'm almost fine.

I didn't know how I would react when the inevitable happened, and now it has, and I still seem very confused. I'm so sad, but it's not the same sadness I felt when my dad passed away three years ago. This time, it's a sadness for the loss of what might have been between my mother and I, the concrete disappearance, perhaps, of that one last chance that things might be good again between us. Although the chances of that happening were slim to none, there's always that hope.

I had recently thought about maybe taking the chance and talking to my mother again, seeing if there was some way to salvage a little something of what we had between us. What did we have, though? Not really anything, when I think about it. Not a mother/daughter love, not even a smidgen of it.

Somehow, though, there was this small, thin thread still connecting me to her. She never asked about me or the kids. Never. I don't know if she cared. And I know some people will say, "Of course she cared. She was your mother, she was their grandmother." But, you see, I honestly don't think she did. And I was okay with it. Because rationally, I knew that she was the one with the problem, not me. She would be the one who would have to deal with not knowing her grandchildren or having me around.

But I cared about her. I still cared. I would regularly ask my brother how she was doing, and I was getting very angry that the doctors could often not figure out what was wrong with her, and would send her back home. So, obviously, there was some care there on my part. After all, she was still my mother, just not in the regular sense of the word.

I am trying not to focus on the negative, because I feel this is not the time or the place. The problem is, however, that I have no positives to think about. Nothing. I remember nothing pleasant in all my years on earth with this woman, my mother. And for that, I feel awful, and guilty, and like somehow this too is my fault, although rationally, I know it isn't.

I know my older brother is going through the same kind of stuff. He's thinking about his relationship with our mother, and he too is trying to make sense of it all.

I think this might be more difficult to get over than I previously thought. I didn't think her death would be a terrible thing to overcome. However, the mind is a funny thing. When we least expect it, the thoughts and feelings start to come, overwhelming us when we least expect it, wrapping us up and forcing us to face them, whether we like it or not.

I'll just let it happen, because I have no other choice. I will let the thoughts and feelings come and take over like ocean waves, and then, maybe very slowly and gradually, I'll begin to make sense of it all. As much sense as anyone can make of it.

Thursday, March 19, 2009


My mother died last night.

I don't know how to feel or what I feel. I am sad, but not just because of her passing. I am sad for a wasted lifetime of anger, resentment, and hatred.

She'd been in and out of the hospital over the past few years and was getting on, but you know, when it actually happens, it's always a shock. It doesn't matter how much time you have to mull things over, knowing this is bound to happen sooner rather than later. It's still unbelievable when it finally does happen.

This last time, she had been in the hospital for about two weeks, but had been doing quite well. They were just waiting for a bed to open up for her at a longer-term care facility so that she could further recuperate before returning home. She was in the hospital for multiple spinal fractures. Thank you, osteoporosis. Nothing at all related to her eventual demise.

Last Sunday, she was walking the halls in the hospital. Monday, she didn't feel so great. Tuesday came and she began vomiting, and tests showed she had an infection. The infection quickly spread to her blood, and she couldn't fight it.

What's confusing about this situation is that, before last night, I hadn't seen my mother in probably seven years. And now she's gone, and I don't know what to do with my feelings, or should I say, perhaps my lack thereof.

I went to see her at the hospital last night, because I felt it was the right thing to do. But I felt out of place standing there next to her, staring at her, waiting for her chest to rise, and seeing nothing but stillness. I wasn't there for her for a very long time, so what was I doing here now? I felt like a voyeur.

Our relationship was a difficult and strenuous one from the very beginning, and I tried to make it work many times over the years. However, once I had my children, and she began treating my daughter the same way I had been treated by her, I decided I couldn't allow our relationship to continue. I couldn't do it for myself, but I did it for Em. That tells you something about my level of self-esteem, I guess. But, you know, it's not easy saying good-bye to your mother, regardless of how she treats you, regardless of how awful she makes you feel, regardless of the knowledge that she did not love me. There is always some sort of hope, I guess, hope that maybe she will have a change of heart, that she will suddenly be the mother she was supposed to be.

This separation didn't happen without a lot of talking and hoping on my part, but my mother never seemed to be able to make a change in how she dealt with her only daughter and granddaughter. I'll never really know why. Something must have happened to her at some point in her younger years, but when we'd ask her questions about her life as a young girl during World War II, she didn't remember much.

It took me a long time to feel 'fine' about it, but I always missed her, and wished things could have been different. Because, after everything that had happened between us, she was still my mother, and that invisible and sometimes very thin thread is what kept us connected.

I missed not having the mother so many other people talk about having: the kind who smiles when you enter the room, the kind who calls you up just to say "hi", the kind who loves you unconditionally. I didn't want a lot. I just wanted some recognition that I was worthy. But, for whatever reason, she couldn't give me that. And I had to accept it, so I did, as well as I could.

My mother was not those mothers, and I learned to deal with it. And as a result, I had to say good-bye to her because that was the only way I was going to be able to get on with my life and keep on enjoying my life, because really, that's all I had. She had already ripped my soul apart through many years of abuse, and I was having a hard enough time rebuilding it. My physical and emotional distance from her was entirely an act of self-preservation. There is no longer any blame involved. It just is.

When I stood there watching her last night as she lay there, immobile, peaceful at last, I wanted to say "I'm sorry" to her. I am sorry, but not for having done anything wrong. I am simply sorry that things couldn't have been different between us, that somehow we couldn't have managed to transgress the chasm that we had created, just accept one another as we were, and just be. I am sorry she couldn't love me for who I am. I am sorry I could not love her.

And now she is gone forever, and my grieving begins all over again.

And I am numb.

Wednesday, March 18, 2009

Bits Of This And That, And Even More Complaining

My computer is still pretty much on the fritz, so I thought I'd try and post if I could, and if I can't, then so be it...

Mr. Handsome keeps working and working on his, trying to figure out what to do to save our computers from a long and sad death. I'm thinking to just ship the two computers to the service repairpeople who do this kind of debugging stuff for a living, and let them figure it out. Well worth the money, I should think. But hey, what do I know really, in the grand scheme of all things important and worthy of knowing? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I do, however, know that having a laptop that does not work properly makes this Blogging Goddess right ornery and quite awful to live with. I can barely stand myself, it's that bad. I've been gritting my teeth all day long, and couldn't even focus long enough to do a load of laundry.

Luckily, I am on my way to Toronto on Thursday with Dee to meet up with Em and my sister-in-law and her little 6-month-old bundle of wiggles, Oscar. So Mr. Handsome won't have to put up with my nasty words of derision for much longer. We're leaving Thursday and coming back Saturday or Sunday, depending on how things go.

This computer virus has made me even more paranoid than I normally am. I am continually looking behind my shoulder, or trying to type as fast as I can so that I can ensure that I get as much done as possible before my laptop implodes upon itself, sending shards of glass and metal all over my lap and into Gryphon's curly hair.

I almost feel as paranoid as I did after 9/11, when I started looking suspiciously at anyone and everyone. I also watched airplanes like a hawk, which made me trip a lot on my walks.

And it's no wonder, the things Mr. Handsome has been telling me. He told me last night at dinner that there is an actual person watching my every move while I'm on this laptop. He told me this wacko is sitting there, and who knows what he might do to my blog, or my emails, and that he now knows all my passwords, and probably my bra size too.

And I believe him.

Because Mr. Handsome doesn't lie.

I had so many things to talk about with everyone this week, and I don't feel I can now, because this virus has taken over, not only my computer, but my life. I'm suffering, people. Just suffering. It's more than a person should have to bear.

I'm hoping I can tell you all about my trip to Toronto, as it happens. And I hope to have photos to post of the little Oscar munchkin and my kiddies. And I'm hoping when we return, Mr. Handsome will have this whole thing settled, and I can once again be the calm and rational person I usually am. Calm and rational. Yes. That's me. Always.

Tuesday, March 17, 2009

It's A Sucky Day In The Neighbourhood

St. Patrick's Day. The day of celebratory drinking for a little Irish saint who did something.

I'm not in the mood to celebrate, so I decided not to even wear any green, let alone have green beer. I'm in a foul mood, though, if that matters. I think my underwear (Day 4!!) may have a bit of green in it, though. Does that count? Sure it does. Dee just reminded me that I have green eyes, so I think I'm good. Not that I care.

This computer stuff is just making me crazy. I didn't realize how attached I was to my computer, to my Internet, my blog, my friends, my world. I think it's a problem, actually. Mr. Handsome has actually told me more than once since I started last October. But I just think he's jealous, because he knows he could never rise to the occasion, even if he wanted to. Which he secretly does. He just doesn't know it.

I spent the better part of today wandering the streets with Dee. It's March Break, don't you know, and the kids have the week off school. Yippee. Can you hear my happiness? I thought so. I am so cranky right now, I feel bad for Dee. He's just being an 11-year-old boy, but it's too much for me. Too much. My fingers are twitching, I'm so uptight.

Thank god Em is in Toronto visiting her aunt and baby cousin Oscar for a few days. If she were here, I think I would be running naked down the street toward the mental health centre.

We went to Cora's for a nice brunch, because I haven't done anything like that with Dee for what seems like forever. And I could not enjoy myself. Everything annoyed me. Can you say Xanax please?

Then, after I was adequately annoyed at Cora's after having to choose something else to eat because they no longer serve blintzes, which is something I have been craving for a year now, we went to the watch repair shop next to Sears because my solar-powered Citizen watch is on the fritz. This watch is very special to me. Mr. Handsome bought it for me many years ago, and it has a gorgeous mother of pearl face and runs on light. Very cool. But light doesn't seem to be doing much for it any longer, so I decided to bring it in because I. need. my. watch. And the little Chinese guy at the watch repair shop coughed phlegm in my face (let's just say the guy needed to be in a hospital somewhere, not in a watch repair shop serving people) as he told me it would cost $150 to get the sucker fixed. Great.

Meanwhile, Dee is getting antsy, which just makes me more annoyed. Not a good combination.

We then headed for the public library, because I thought I would do the good motherly thing and get Dee to take out some books to read over the March Break, to keep his little mind in good working order. We get to the self check-out, and apparently my borrowing has been barred, as they so eloquently put it. So I ask the man behind the desk what gives, and he says, "Oh, it seems you owe a bit of money." Which I already knew, because I went through a little phase last fall and early winter where I couldn't keep track of the littlest thing, let alone all the Photoshop books I took out to try and learn the damn program (I'm still working on that).

And guess what? I owed $84. That's right. I do not know how, but it's true. And now, Mr. Handsome is going to throttle me and ban me from the library forevermore, because he is going to read this and find out. I'm sorry, dear.

Let's just say, I don't blame him. I won't be taking out more than one book at a time from here on out. Lesson learned.

Then, I decided we needed to go to the grocery store to pick up a few things because, apparently, spending $250 last week just wasn't enough to keep this family of four going for more than a few days. And, of course, the store was full of little old ladies, and people with 310 children who didn't know how to keep them under control, and other people who forgot that there are other humans in the store as well, so they'd park their carts in the middle of the aisle, and chat, or fart, or whatever. It doesn't really matter what they were doing because all that mattered was that they were blocking the entire aisle, and I was about to scream bloody murder and throw cantaloupes at their heads and hope someone would call 9-1-1 so that I could at least get an escort out of the damn place.

Meanwhile, Dee is tired, annoyed, and thirsty, and when Dee gets thirsty, watch out. He becomes very nasty when his tongue is parched. When he needs a drink, he needs it now. I think it has something to do with the fact that he only has one functioning kidney (thanks, cancer), because he's almost never this frustrating, except when he needs a drink. Of course, he never remembers to bring one with him when we're heading out.

Now we're home, and Hoodwinked is playing for the second time in the last 24 hours, because Dee loves this movie, and I found it funny yesterday, but today, not so much.

And, you know what else, just to make the day complete? My hair. My hair is a damn mess. It sucks the big one. I look awful, and it's all frizzy, and I hate it.

And did I tell you my computer isn't working properly?

I Hate Viruses And I Hate This Office

Oh lord.

It seems our home computers have been infected with a nasty virus, one so nasty that it frightens me to even speak of it here, for fear it will track me down and slowly strangle me, one thought at a time, a slow and terrible death.

Mr. Handsome's computer started it all. Seems it got sick over the weekend. So, on Sunday, when I was busy going to my third funeral in as many weeks (just call me the Kiss of Death), he took my laptop in an effort to find an answer to his computer's ills.

Then, he did something that doesn't make much sense to me, but somehow, the USB key that he used to download something from my laptop on to his very ill computer then transferred the ugly virus disease back onto my laptop...

So now, here we are.

I'm very very sad. I know not what to do. Heck, I can't even access my email, not to mention any of the porn sites.

Mr. Handsome's computer now works a bit, but my laptop is at the moment just a sad lump of metal, a sad and lonely metallic component that can do nothing. It justs sits there, looking up at me forlornly, begging for something, anything, just a little love.

I sit here now, in the office, using Mr. Handsome's computer, hoping it doesn't crash before I can post this. I hate this office. I hate this computer. It's so freakin' cold in here, my fingers and toes are blue. And did I say I hate this office?

So, all this to say that my posts may be a bit erratic for the next while. Please send prayers and soft, chewy chocolate chip cookies.


Important Update!

I can now sometimes access my blog, my wonderful Internet friends, and as you can see, I can even update my posts! Are we possibly overcoming this nasty nasty virus after all?

Stay tuned.

Monday, March 16, 2009

Loit and Slut Go Out To Dinner

I went out for dinner with my friend Slut the other evening.

That's her new name. Slut. It used to be Pick, as in Pickerel, as in the fish. Now it's Slut. She's very nosy as well, so I could very well call her Nosy, but Slut is just much more appropriate. I suppose I could call her Nosy Slut. Or Slutty Nose. Something to think about.

Why? I don't know. It just is. Well, there's actually a story behind it, but it's really too long and inane to go into here. Besides, it doesn't really matter because, chances are, she is a slut, and I just don't know it yet.

I've known Slut for about 11 years now. Amazing, really. We met at CHEO when our sons were both diagnosed with cancer. Her son had leukemia, mine had neuroblastoma. Cancer is cancer. The same shock, the same terror coursing through every mother's system as they helplessly watch the poisonous chemo make its way through their children's tiny bodies, and hope that this is all just a terrible, awful nightmare and that they will soon all wake up and life will be normal once again.

When Slut and I first started hanging out together, we usually ended up talking about cancer, our kids, and our kids with cancer. We'd call each other with worries and concerns, ask for advice, be there for each other when things were going badly.

Slowly, but surely, our friendship grew, and progressed to where our common ground was greater than the cancer that had taken over our lives years before. Now we were friends, true friends, friends for life, beyond that of the disease that had first brought us together.

Now, we talk about everything but cancer. Funny how that happens. So glad that it happened. That is one of the silver linings in the grey clouds that were our lives: our friendship. And I am so glad I know her.

Before I go on with our night out, I thought I'd mention that if you want to make a difference in a child's life who is battling cancer, please go to Jay's site over at Halftime Lessons. On March 21, Jay is shaving his head for kids with cancer. There are lots of awesome prizes to be won as well, but most importantly, your donation will make a difference to children's lives. So, please go check him out and if you can, help out a very worthy cause.

Back to Slut now. So, Friday evening, Slut and I went out for a fancy dinner at the local Boston Pizza. When we go out, we go all out, Slut and I. She was wearing her slutty best black top that accentuated her breasts just so (just admit it), if you know what I mean, with cleavage and all.

She also wore this awesome necklace that encircled her mammaries just so, allowing every man in the fancy Boston Pizza restaurant to easily find her targets. Don't tell me you wore that necklace because you liked the colours, Slut. I know better.

I, on the other hand, wore a baggy sweater and baggy jeans. I am the Anti-Slut.

We had a great time as we ate our four-course dinner. She had a Stromboli, which I always thought was the name of the man in Pinocchio who is a puppeteer, and his main concern is making money (and what's wrong with that?!) and he proceeds to buy Pinocchio from J. Worthington Foulfellow. He locks Pinocchio in a cage and makes him do stage tricks, which make him look so much sillier than he already does, with those knobby knees of his and that crazy nose that keeps growing and growing.

Well, apparently there's this sandwich called a Stromboli as well, and that's what Slut had, along with a plate of slutty french fries. This Stromboli is very much like a calzone, a turnover type of deal filled with veggies, cheese and meat. It looked deeelish. Except they forgot her fries, and gave her a healthy salad instead, but when Slut wants her fries, she wants her fries.

Of course, Slut said no no no to the meat Stromboli because she is a holier than thou vegetarian, which makes going out with her a huge problem in the first place. Have you ever tried choosing a restaurant when you're a carnivore and your best friend is a herbivore? It's not easy, let me tell you. Which is why we end up at places like Boston Pizza. And then, I have to ask myself, were carnivores and herbivores ever friends back in the dinosaur age? I don't think so. Hah! Can you even imagine a Tyrannosaurus Rex hanging out with a Brontosaurus?! Too funny.

And then I started wondering whether maybe our friendship is only a farce, a funny trick Mother Nature is playing on us. Because how can a meat-eater and a vegetarian have a true and honest friendship when all she wants to do is eat her greens and Kashi, and all I want to do is nibble on her ear.

Moving on.

I, on the other hand, had tortellini with alfredo sauce which sucked the big one. And that made me very sad, because if there's one thing I don't like, it's alfredo sauce that tastes like water mixed with a bit of flour. Very tasty indeed. Of course, I ate every last bite because I am a pig. I had also not eaten at all that day so that I could be a pig at the restaurant with Slut because I enjoy filling my belly with lots of expensive and not-so-tasty food. So, I was going to eat that tasteless and watery tortellini whether I liked it or not.

Oh, I also had a slice of garlic toast, but I'm pretty sure it was missing an ingredient: garlic.

So, after we sat and ate, and ate and sat, and talked and talked and talked, I complained bitterly to the waitress about all the noise in the restaurant. Of course, I was just joking around, because I know I'm funny and I like to spread my humour around and I know that people really enjoy my funny jokes and that it would be really selfish of me not to help others smile. But the waitress kind of took me seriously, and she said she could tell the kitchen staff to pipe down, but there was nothing she could do about all the loud and obnoxious customers who were giving me a migraine and bad tortellini acid reflux.

And I had to tell her I was only joking, but I don't think she believed me because she walked away with this sort of vacuous look on her face, kind of like she was in a trance, her mouth partially open. I think I even saw a thread of drool hanging from it, but I could be wrong.

Slut and I ended up having a Chocolate Explosion for dessert at Boston Pizza. It was quite tasty, I must admit. Full of chocolatey goodness, chunks of melted white chocolate mousse or something like that plopped here and there throughout, and even more chocolate. Very decadent, but we both deserved it, we justified, as we sat back after swallowing the last bite, letting our forks clang noisily to the plate, our stomachs poking over the table. Slut even groaned at one point and said she was going to throw up. Dessert had obviously been a success.

After Boston Pizza, Slut and I decided to top off the evening with some more excitement. We decided that Boston Pizza didn't have the best tea or coffee this wild and crazy city offers, so we would have to go elsewhere. Money and time were no object. Nothing's too good for us.

I followed Slut because we were in her neck of the woods, and I am a little bit stupid when it comes to things like directions and locations, especially in Farrhaven at night.

We ended up at a very classy Tim Horton's joint. Inside: a few teens with their pants around their ankles because that's cool, an older gentleman with white hair who was reading something, the 'something' pressed up to his nose (I am not exaggerating), and other weird and wonderful people who were drinking coffee at 10 at night. Who does that? That is something I do not, and never will, understand. The Timmy's across the city are full at 10 in the evening. I dare you to go to one at that time and not have half the place filled with freaks and misfits and a few scattered normal-looking citizens. Oh yeah, there was this other dude sitting behind me that Slut kindly pointed out. He was sitting all alone, reading a book, and every few seconds, he'd slap his other hand. Freak.

Speaking of classy, I bought Slut's steeped tea because that's the kind of friend I am. I buy my friends.

So, then we sat down and talked some more about all the very important things going on in our lives, and then after we had exhausted ourselves, we decided it was time to go our separate ways and make our way back to our respective homes. We must have sat there in those hard plastic seats for almost two hours.

We got up to go home, and Slut pointed to a sign we had been sitting under for the past two hours. I actually whipped out my cell phone and had Slut point to the sign so that I could get one of those really cool action shots to put up here, but I couldn't figure out how the camera on my phone worked. Can you say loser?

Twenty minutes?! Twenty minutes?!?!? Who in god's great country can drink a hot beverage in 20 minutes?! And how can they ever so politely thank you "for your stay", meanwhile simultaneously tell you to get the hell out after 20 short minutes?

And that's when I got my new name. Loit.

Don't tell me we don't lead exciting and amazingly adventurous lives.
Next time, Slut and I are heading to Pizza Hut.

Sunday, March 15, 2009

Yes, Virginia, We Do Have Igloos in Canada

Today's post will be all about me. That's right, the moment you've all been waiting for. The answers to your many deep, profound and juicy questions about who I really am.

Just who is this mystery woman, you've all been asking yourselves for months now. I know. I've been pretty secretive, pretty quiet. But since my 166th post celebration, I decided to open things up, make things a little more exciting around here, and get some more audience participation.

So, here we go.

Jobthingy asked: What is my favourite food?

Answer: I love most food, except maybe slimy mushrooms that my husband might cook, thinking they're still okay to eat, especially since they're going to be cooked. Who does that? I would have to say, however, that some of my very favourite foods are Chinese food and anything Mexican. Good question, Jobthingy!

Elisabeth Dean cheated a bit and asked a few questions. Not sure what to do with this besides spank her, but I will be generous and answer them all, because that, my wonderful people, is how I roll. They're actually great questions, and I'm glad she asked me as many as she did because otherwise, this would be a very short blog post.

Why did I start blogging?

Answer: Because my friend Pick suggested it as a means of making sense of this life of mine, and as an outlet. And although I hesitated for quite a while, I finally bit the bullet, and started. I used to write for a living, and I've wanted to get back into it for a long time now. God help us all.

Don't I want to visit Florida?

Yes, actually, I do, and have. I've been to Miami and Orlando, as well as Cocoa Beach. I would actually love to live in Florida for half the year, and maybe someday we will...That is a dream of mine. All we need is money. That's all.

How long have I been married?

Mr. Handsome and I have been together 22 years, married 18 of those. We will be celebrating 19 years of marriage this coming August. Amazing, but true.

Did I get my sense of humour from my mom or my dad?

I would have to say from my dad, since my mom was/is a bit psychopathic, and my dad would always play silly and irritating jokes on me, although once I got him back by shortsheeting his bed, but it ended up not working because I forgot that he was a very short man, so he never even noticed.

Is it cold in Canada today?

Nope, although I suppose my answer totally depends on what your definition of "cold" is. Living in Florida, heck yeah, you'd be sobbing if you were here right now. For we rugged Canadians, the weather is actually really really nice, and warming up. I think it went up to 4 C today. What is that in Fahrenheit anyway? Maybe 40 F? Of course, different parts of Canada have different temperatures and different weather conditions as well. Some parts of Canada don't even get any snow all winter long!

Did I want more than 2 kiddos?

Actually, yes. I would have liked one more, but things didn't quite work out that way. Not to mention I probably would have ended up totally disabled had I gone through another pregnancy. It was also a bit scary to even think of having another child after going through all the cancer stuff with Dee.

Blueviolet also asked me a question, although I think it was actually rhetorical. She asked if I actually call myself 'poodle'.

Why, yes, I do! Doesn't everyone?

Quirkyloon then came out with a really good question that I cannot really answer because I don't really know what it means. She asked, Where are all the flowers gone?

I can only think that she means that since I live in cold Canada, flowers are anything but apparent. And she would be so right. Although, I suppose her question could have some deep and profound meaning, of which I do not understand because I am a stupid, stupid person and am anything but profound. But I almost always have good hair, and that counts for a lot.

And then there was CurvyGurl's wonderful question: I've been nominated to single-handedly solve the economic crisis...what would be my first task?

Ummmm, I would probably have to say I would take this task very seriously. And after a lot of thought and care, I would go to all the MAC and Sephora stores (there aren't that many here in Ottawa) and buy up all their product, then I would revive the economy a bit more by buying up all the Cheetos in town, and end with a quick stop at Banana Republic. I think that would make a huge difference.

And then, fellow Canuck Skye asked if I'd ever lied to an American (or several), saying that I live in an igloo and always travel by dogsled.

And my answer to that: Of course.

And maybe it's not a lie. Maybe I do actually live in an igloo, and hitch up my doggies to the old sled to head over to the grocery store. To buy my Cheetos. And my Timmy's coffee.

I've got to keep some things mysterious.

Friday, March 13, 2009

Prayers Needed

One of the amazing things about the Internet and blogging is that the world becomes your neighbourhood, and everyone in it is a friend.

One of my dear blogger friends in India has just been in a terrible accident. You can read about Braja's accident here and here.

Please send both her and her husband plenty of good wishes, positive vibes and prayers.

Be well, Braja.

I Am Not Amused.

I am not amused. Let me read my paper in peace.

Your Friday Night Partay No. 10!

Patrick Hernandez - Born To Be Alive - Click here for funny video clips

Gotta love this ditty. Brings back memories of disco pants and wedge-heeled shoes. Is that what they're called? I don't remember, because I was, and still am, a nerd.

Review -- Hassle-Free Disney World Vacation! Here We Come!

Going to Disney? Just thinking about it?

The Hassle-Free Walt Disney World Vacation 2009 is the definite "go to" book for you. And at only $15.95, it's more than worth its weight in gold.

Written by Steven M. Barrett, author of Hidden Mickeys: A Field Guide to Walt Disney World's Best Kept Secrets, this book is chock-full of everything you need to know (and then some) to plan your vacation to the world's favourite fun spot. Well, maybe not the whole world's, but certainly this family's. We've been three times. Three. Times. Yeah, I know.

And one of those times was without the children! In fact, that one time was even more fun than I thought it could be, because everywhere I looked, there were whiny and unruly children, and they weren't mine!

This is one of the best books on planning your WDW vacation that I've ever laid eyes on. Just when you thought your vacation was going to be anything but relaxing, Barrett comes to the rescue. His book focuses on making your trip as fun and as hassle-free as possible, and is based on weekly visits to WDW over two decades.

There is something for everyone inside, from seniors to teens to families with small children. Flexible touring plans are very detailed and have obviously been meticulously developed, and lots of hints are included to help make your day more enjoyable than exhausting. And believe me, they can be very exhausting.

What I loved about this book, having been to WDW at different times of the year, is the inclusion of the little details that can make or break your visit there. Details like which bathrooms are the least crowded, shady spots from which to watch the many wonderful parades, ratings for over 80 restaurants at WDW, which attractions have minimal wait times, attractions that may frighten younger children, and even sections on where to find some of the numerous Hidden Mickeys throughout the grounds.

I know for a fact that these seemingly silly details can actually make a huge difference in your WDW experience.

Barrett wrote this book after overhearing a man complaining bitterly while on a boat ride from the Magic Kingdom to Fort Wilderness. "This is supposed to be a vacation? I've been here five days, and I'm more tired than when I left home." I know the feeling all too well.

I would highly recommend this book for anyone even remotely thinking about taking the plunge into the world of Disney. Your fears will most definitely be allayed when you read this book.

Thank you so much to MomFuse for giving me the opportunity to read and review this awesome book.

Thursday, March 12, 2009

I Live Inside Myself...And I Dance With Myself Too, IF You Know What I Mean

There's this guy, like the diplomats here in our wonderful capital city, or the Natives in our country, who claims the law does not apply to him.

You see, he was recently accused of drunk driving somewhere in Pennsylvania, and while standing in court in his own defense, while wearing a Coors Light sweatshirt no less, he stated he is "a sovereign man", which he went on to explain meant "I live inside myself."
I've got to meet Scott Witmer. He's my kind of guy.


Update on Dee and Ass:

Thanks to everyone who left comments yesterday regarding Dee's run-ins with Ass. Seems that their teacher had a little talk with both of them. As well, the vice-principal spoke to Ass and his mother. However, because this society is all about political-correctness and all things la-dee-dah, I am not privy to what was said, nor what the results may be. All I know is that the teacher was pretty darn gentle in his dealings with the boys. And I don't know a lot, but I'm pretty sure that gentle isn't quite the way to go in this instance.

I also wasn't too thrilled with the tone of the vice-principal's voice when I called her to find out what had been done. A tone that I thought resembled the tone one would use with someone who was asking questions that were none of her business. And, last time I checked, Dee was very much my business.

All I know is, Ass better not put his little hands on my Dee again. Because now it's time for Mrs. Wicked, Vile and Beastly to make an appearance.


Yet another update, this one on my French language testing:

I flunked. Unless "flunked" means I failed miserably, in which case, I didn't. I got pretty good marks overall, but they want someone who has impeccable verbal abilities in the French language, and apparently swear words don't count.

Oh well, I can always file. Or pick up dog poop in people's yards. Or both!


I cut Mr. Handsome's large head of hair yesterday. I could not say no any longer. He was no longer able to fit into his cubicle at work. I stand corrected. Mr. Handsome has corrected me, saying getting into the elevator was even more of a bitch.

Before cutting, however, I distinctly remember warning him that I was tired, and maybe we should wait until tomorrow. Nonono, Mr. Handsome said, waving his hands through the air pell mell, I cannot wait any longer because I can no longer fit in my cubicle. So, I took pity on him, as I often do, and cut his hair.

Today, we all noticed he has a discernible lump on one side of his head. Somehow, I missed a spot, about the size of a small potato. So, now, instead of just having a very large head, he looks like he has a second head growing out of a now smaller head. I think I would have stuck with the large head another day.

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