Friday, January 29, 2010

Prayers And Illegal Drugs Would Be Most Welcome

There are but two three things on my mind right now.

Mr. Handsome has announced, rather quietly, that he is no longer reading my blog. Actually, he didn't so much announce it as he mentioned it under his breath in an almost inaudible way. Apparently, he finds my blog disgusting and inappropriate. He is ashamed, and he wants me to stop writing it.

Whatever, I say to him.

And then, I curled up in the fetal position and sucked my thumb until it was as flat as a pancake.

Seriously though ... WHAT. THE. HELLO KITTY??!! MY blog is "inappropriate"? MY blog? A little silly, maybe. Perhaps quite inane and ridiculous at times. I'll even go so far as to say that, at times, when I discuss certain bodily functions, maybe one could take that as being a bit too much information.

I see it more as part of everyone's everyday life. We all poop and pee and have sex. We all have either a vagina or a penis, or perhaps a combination of the two, or maybe a few of us wish we had what we don't actually have, and have to instead strap one on, or put on women's clothing. We just don't talk about it all the time.

I ask you, what is so wrong about actually talking about these things once in a while? I honestly think that's part of where this world is going oh so very wrong. We have become too sanitized in our daily lives, too concerned about what the neighbours will think, whose car is nicer, whether our kitchen floors are shiny and clean enough. My point is, who really gives a shit?

I know I don't.

Of course, Mr. Handsome would disagree, and he would say I SHOULD care. And when I would ask him why, he would either (a) not reply or (2) respond with a question, such as, "Why do you think we should care, Mary?" or better yet, "Why don't you care?"

When I started writing this blog back in October 2008, I had many reservations about what Mr. Handsome would think about it. I wasn't sure how much I should divulge about our private lives, what I should keep under wraps, what language I should or shouldn't use. I know Mr. Handsome too well, and I knew he would probably not like the whole idea. He's a very private person. So, I began the blog, and I didn't tell him for quite a while, because I wanted to write, I wanted to start a blog, and I was pretty sure I knew what his reaction would be.

And I was pretty much on the money, although it's taken a while to get to this point where he now apparently refuses to read it.

And you know what? I am pretty okay with it. I would much rather Mr. Handsome read my blog, enjoy it and have fun with it, but he can't, so I have to accept that. He's just not big on topics like yeast infections, ingrown vaginal hairs, and menstrual cramps. And although those topics are not at the top of the list of things I write about most often, they are there, and they will continue to be there. I can't write for him, or for anyone else. I have to write for myself.

So, there you have it. Another one bites the dust.What's one more disgusted and alienated family member, I say.

The other thing on my mind is that I am quite possibly going to have to take some high school night courses beginning in February, to get my high school biology and chemistry courses, since they are prerequisites for the college courses for which I'm thinking of registering. For both paramedic and nursing, they want these courses, as well as Grade 12 mathematics and Grade 12 English, both of which I have (I hope!). For god's sake, people, I'm 47 years old! I don't remember most of high school at this point.

So, as you read this sentence, I am probably at the school board office, ordering my high school records, and calling the college to find out if there is any other way of getting around having to have these prerequisites, in-between pulling my hair out and groaning softly to myself. Because, if I have to take these two courses, it means being in night school for four hours a night, four nights a week, from February until the end of May.

Guys, the only way this is going to happen is if I have my very own avatar. I don't do well after 2 p.m. My whole day ends then. The carriage turns into a pumpkin and I slowly sink into the ground, not to be seen or heard from until the next morning. Seriously. Any suggestions, including illegal drugs, would be greatlly appreciated right about now.

To end on a really happy note, we're spending some quality family time in a very cold hockey arena all weekend long because Dee is in a hockey tournament, and we'd rather do nothing else than sit by frozen water watching little children slash each other with sticks and elbows. Not only that,  my friends, but we have to travel an hour to get to this arena, which is situated in a little place called Spencerville, also known as The Devil's Cold Ass In Hell. 

Dee actually went to bed feeling really ill Thursday night, so if I squeeze my eyes shut really hard, and block out all positive thoughts, maybe he'll be too sick to play Saturday and we can just stay home instead and pick lint out of our navels. Please pray for me.

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

Life Is A Rocky Road, And We're Not Talking Ice Cream Here

 Life's a rocky road sometimes, and it's our duty as human beings to roll with the punches, go with the flow, run with the bulls, do whatever it takes, turn that frown into a smile. Blah. Blah. Blah.

Enough of that crapola.

Life is a rocky road much of the time, it sucks the big wazoo, and there are many times a day I wish I could simply do a do-over, like, from before the moment I was conceived in the godforsaken womb that unfortunately turned out to be my mother's.

So, I was given the short end of the stick in the childhood family department. Boo hoo for me.

I used to be all about feeling sorry for myself, and I guess I still go down that road more often than I should, but I'm much better than I used to be. At least, I think I am. I'd better ask my family and get back to you on that, because chances are I have a rather skewed view of such things. In fact, I know I do, just as I do about how small and cute I think my nose is, or how smooth and supple my buttocks are.

Nowadays, I tend to feel sorry for myself, not because of the rotten childhood I feel I had, but because I have reached a time in my life that isn't making much sense to me. Here I am, probably more than midway through my life, and I am lost. Lost like I've never been lost before.

I'm not lost in the literal sense, although Mr. Handsome would probably beg to differ. Apparently, I'm not the best navigator. Whatever. Highway 31 and Highway 16 are very easy to mix up.

I am, however, lost in the eternal, what-is-my-life-really-about way. You see, ever since I was a wee one, I knew I wanted to be a writer. That's it. Writing was my be-all and end-all. I would spend all my free and waking hours sitting on the couch, typewriter on my lap, writing story after story. I loved the worlds I created when I wrote. My dad would bring rolls of paper home from work for me so that I was never lacking. I lived in my newly created worlds, and they brought me some semblance of peace in my otherwise brutal reality.

So, I eventually became a writer, and worked for a variety of newspapers and magazines. And then I had Dee, and my world as I knew it ended. Cancer does that to a person.

Once Dee was out of the woods and we could once again start seeing life in a better light, I found myself grasping for something -- anything -- in an effort to re-invent myself. I couldn't focus enough to write.

So, instead, I did other things. I opened a daycare and ran it for six years. I became a Realtor and spent a few years stumbling there. Through it all, however, I didn't feel entirely fulfilled. I wasn't getting any younger, and what had I really done with my life that meant something, other than becoming the best mother I could possibly be to my two beautiful children?

I am now at a crossroads. I'm definitely not old, but I'm sure not a spring chicken either. And I've decided I want to do something that means something in the grand scheme of things, something that can maybe make a difference in someone's life besides my own. I want to give back to society, because, to me, that's what this life's all about.

So, I'm applying to college. That's right. I'm going to try and go back to school to learn a new trade. Either practical nursing or paramedic, because I've always been extremely interested in all things medicine, and what better way to give back to the world than to help those in the most need? I'm too old to actually go to med school to become a full-fledged doctor, because by the time I'd actually graduate, I'd have to become my own personal physician because I'd be moving into a nursing home with my walker and false teeth. Both the practical nursing and paramedic courses are two-year stints, which I could handle, and which this family could handle financially (well, not really).

My younger brother is a paramedic, so if he can do it, so can I. At least, that's how my pea brain justifies it. Unfortunately, he and I are not on speaking terms, so discussing things with him will never happen. And I know my older brother, Adonis, and his wife, Wood Nymph, who read this blog faithfully, are probably shaking their heads right now and dialing 911 to try and get me some help.

I'm not sure if I'll even be accepted into college, because for some reason, they want Grade 12 Chemistry (who the hell needs that, I ask??!) so if I have to take that course and play with Bunsen burners and beakers, I don't know if I'll get out of the classroom alive. I've been known to singe the eyebrows off classmates in the past. And husbands.

I'm also doing some writing, forcing proposals on to magazine editors and shoving them down their throats, but always with a smile on my face. I'm also on my way to writing for Suite101.com, and maybe even for Examiner.com.

I'll let you know how things go. At this rate, I'll probably end up working nights at the Tim Horton's handing out krullers and lukewarm coffee to the neighbourhood freaks.

Monday, January 25, 2010

Driving Rain and Baking Bread

Apparently, Mr. Handsome has a problem with healthy flora and yeast infections.

He's such a guy.

I mean, I don't expect him to actually enjoy such things, but to have no choice but to change the channel when a Vagisil commercial comes on? A bit overboard, wouldn't you say?



Here is a man who doesn't understand when I say bodily functions are disgustingly gross, and unnecessarily so. Oh, really? He says the body is a beautiful thing. But you can't even watch a commercial about yeast infections, right? Right.

Here is a man who had to stand behind -- WAAAY behind -- my head when I was giving birth to Dee, because standing anywhere near the action would have been asking for trouble. There he stood, hands on his head, a look of terror on his cute face, as he watched from an area of complete safety as his poor and ragged wife put all her effort and energy into pushing a 10-pound lug of a baby out of her hooha. Yeah, and I did that, in three pushes. That's right. Three. Pushes. No. Stitches. And then I ate dinner, had a shower, and was ready to pop out another 10-pounder, while Mr. Handsome nursed a headache and had to lie down.

Whatever.

It's raining today. As in, I should have stayed in bed under the covers and had my man-servant bring me hot tea and crumpets all day long while I read my stash of porn. Instead, I got up before the sun to make sure Dee ate some breakfast, brushed his teeth, and actually wore clothing without a multitude of crusty five-day-old food stains on them, then drove him and his friend down the street (who I quickly discovered is no longer his friend) to school because it's raining hard out there, and god forbid the children have to get their little innocent heads wet. And then I drove Em to school because she has her first high school exam ever today, and god forbid she have to take a bus and possibly be late, or early, and get her innocent little head wet.

Actually, I don't mind driving the kids to school. Especially when it's raining, or very cold, or windy, or too sunny, or ... No, seriously, I don't mind at all. They hoof it for the most part, and they are grateful when I actually pull my sorry butt out of bed and offer to drive them in. These kids of mine actually get up every morning on their own and make their own breakfast, without the aid of their mother or father. Yes, that's right.

One could go on and say that I am not doing my due diligence as their mother, and that maybe I should take a parenting course, or perhaps two. I, however, would rather see this as a case of actually doing the motherly thing, and allowing them to express their independence. It also bodes well when they're 18 and they can legally be kicked out.

Now, if you don't mind, I have to go wake up Mr. Handsome so he can help me apply my Canesten before I drive him to work.

Friday, January 22, 2010

My Cool Friend Has Headaches Too

So, Tuesday was the fourth anniversary of my dad's passing, and I (quite appropriately) spent the bulk of it lying on the couch, drugged with codeine and generic Extra Strength Tylenol, another migraine creating havoc in my tiny little head. Ditto for Wednesday and Thursday, hence no posts. I'd apologize, but it hurts too much.

I'm no doctor, but I am almost positive that these headaches are hormonally-induced, for the most part, seeing as I'm perimenopausal, and having pretty much every goddammed perimenopausal symptom in the Big Book of Perimenopause. Look up "perimenopause" in the dictionary, and you'll see my ugly mug, no doubt.

The wonderful thing with these headaches is that (1) they are fierce, and (2) no amount of intense drug therapy seems to minimize the pain in the least. So, I have to be patient and wait it out, which can sometimes mean days. It also, of course, means days of feeling entirely non-productive, as opposed to only mostly non-productive. And, it also means Mr. Handsome and the kids hear "shhhhhhh" a lot.

I used to take preventative medication for my migraines, when I was much younger. But then, once I had the kids, my headaches dissipated to a great extent, so I stopped taking meds unless I needed them. Over the past year and a bit, however, the headaches have returned with the vengeance of a lioness protecting her young, and even I can only take so much pain.

An old high school friend of mine, Rondi, with whom I reconnected via Facebook (you've gotta love Facebook for that), also suffers from monster migraines that strike her down for days at a time. She has now more than once messaged me with drugs I should be looking into that directly deal with the headache, and although I've appreciated it very much, I've not taken the time to look into them. Until now, that is. Now, I am ready to veer into the world of new migraine medications, because I've decided I'm not taking enough meds yet, and would like my monthly cost for prescriptions to top $1,000.

So, thanks to Rondi, I am now going to dive into this new and exciting world in the hopes that something will help to at least partially deaden the waves of intense screaming pain and nausea that seem to infiltrate my current state of being more often than not.

Rondi and I went through high school together.She is beautiful, blonde, and super intelligent, and tall like me, which always made me feel a little less alone in the big scary world of high school. She is now an amazing writer living in Toronto, and has a great blog that all of you should check out: Begin Each Day As If It Were On Purpose. Rondi's been published in national publications, and she is way cooler than I will ever be.

I'll be back when my head is no longer blown up like the Hindenburg. And please take this as a genuine apology for writing about my lack of health all the time. Because I know it must be extremely borrrrrring and YAWN-inducing at the best of times. I promise to soon write more posts about pink unicorns pooping happy rainbows out their butts. Honest.

Monday, January 18, 2010

Unbearable

The excitement was almost unbearable. My heart palpitations were on the verge of causing a myocardial infarction. My breath came in short, rapid gasps, almost sending me into the throes of carbon dioxidosis.

A fire truck came barrelling down our street on Sunday, right in front of our house, sirens blaring.

And where there's a fire truck, there are firefighters.



Need I say more?

There were actually two fire trucks, and they stopped not too far from my house. Of course, I immediately thought, 'What a great way to start a Sunday!', and I wanted to get my boots on and run out there to see what I could do to help, because that's how I roll, especially when firefighters are involved. But I didn't. Instead, I perched in front of our big living room window and watched intently.

The excitement, unfortunately, was short-lived. About five burly men jumped out of the trucks and ran toward a house on our side of the street. They disappeared into a house. And then, minutes later, they came out again, got into their trucks, and left.

Once again, I was left with nothing but my imagination.

Even Mr. Handsome felt bad for me.

So, instead of feeling sorry for myself, as I normally would, I actually brushed me teeth AND my hair (I know!) and took Gryphon to the dog park so that he could get rid of some of his energy. And he frolicked with all the happy dogs, and even met one he thought was worthy of humping. Unfortunately, I didn't get any pictures of the event despite having my camera with me. I was too busy trying to pull him off the poor, unsuspecting canine, who was only a quarter of Gryphon's size.

On a more serious note, tomorrow is the fourth anniversary of my dad's death. It's a day of sadness for me, because I miss him so much. He passed away 10 days after being placed in one of the best nursing homes in the city, and I still feel awfully guilty for how things happened and wish I could change it all, even though I know I did everything I could, and then some. I think about him every day.

I miss his stupid jokes that he would repeat over and over again, forgetting that he'd told it to me just the other day. I miss how he'd forget the punch line, or mix up the words because English was his third (or fourth) language. I miss his silent support, knowing he was always there for us. I miss his gentleness. I miss that he would never want me to leave when I came to visit, wanting the company as he sat there with his eyes closed. I miss him.

It's a hurt that will never go away.

Miss you and love you, Daddy-o.

Friday, January 15, 2010

What's Important



The Haiti earthquake has shaken up the whole world. Which is a good thing.



It's time we remember that we are not the centre of the universe, that there are MANY people MUCH worse off than we are or ever will be, and that it's time we step up and do what's REALLY important in this world.



So, today, instead of complaining about how Mr. Handsome doesn't even trust me enough to be able to tie my own shoes correctly (yeah, I went there), or about how the dog's farts smell like a festering skunk in the Arizona summer sun, I'm just going to be glad that I have a safe country in which to live, a roof over my head, food, and every comfort known to man, and I'm going to send every bit of everything I have in me to the people of Haiti, because we're all in this together, and it's time we remember.


Wednesday, January 13, 2010

The Winds of Winter

I'm bummed.

My kids hate me. And, being that I have no idea what I'd like to do with the rest of my life, my only purpose at the moment is being a mom, and well, we can see how that's going.

It also does wonderful and amazingly brilliant things for my ongoing depression. Nothing like your kids reminding you daily how they love taking you for granted to make you feel all warm and fuzzy about life.

Dee told me the other day that I am the only one who bothers him. Really. And here I was, all these years, pretty sure I am the only one who treated him like his bowel movements were made of solid gold. Silly me.

And Em? Well, I can't seem to do anything right by her these days. I know she's a teenager in all her teenage hormonal angst, and it's normal to hate one's mother at this stage in life, but still, it chafes like a guy's 2-day-old beard on your chin during a marathon kissing session when she gives me "that look", or gives me the silent treatment over what I thought was nothing. Apparently, I was wrong. Again.

I've also been in the throes of grappling with the meaning of my sorry life, trying to figure things out. Such things as: What in hell's name do I want to do with it? What would give it meaning? And how can I do that AND make enough money to keep me in Cheetos and cable television shows? It's a hard question. Especially with my age being what it is, which I know isn't really all that old, but still, I am now fully beginning to accept that I may not be a spring chicken.

I'd love to get back into the whole world of journalism, but the more I think about it, the more worried I get, seeing as the print medium is dying a slow but certain death. Writing has always been my passion, ever since I was a wee child who begged for a typewriter and dictionary (yeah, I was a geek), and it always will be. If I want to try and make a serious go at it, however, I am pretty sure the web is the way to go, and that scares me because (1) I'm old (2) I know so little about the internet and (3) I'm really very lazy and, ultimately, stupid.

 I've been doing a lot of research, but it sure is difficult (especially for stupid me) to discern which online web writing gigs are official, and which are just plain scams. Please correct me if I'm wrong, but most of them seem like dirty little scams, just out to grab a buck, or to snatch away your email address and other personal information so that they can then start sending you spam. And if there's one thing I really hate, it's luncheon meat in a can.

And, as if this isn't enough, I had to scoot outside in the early morning hours on Monday, just as the sun was peeking its head out over the houses, because Gryphon ran out of the house and onto the street, focusing on a tiny rat dog that was taking its owner for her regular morning stroll. I would have ignored him but for the fact that the dog's owner was having a heck of a time keeping her rat dog sane, as Gryphon loomed over it, prancing around and wanting to play. He's not very good at reading body language, apparently. He also wasn't listening to me as I repeatedly growled his name out the front door, trying to sound as threatening as possible.

I knew I had to go out into the snow to get him, and I couldn't find my boots quickly enough, so yes, I went out in my bare feet, in the snow, down the long laneway, to the street, to grab my stupid dog by the neck. I have never, in my many long years in this country of snow, cold and booger-filled noses, walked barefoot in the snow. And I'm here to tell you, although it's not quite as nice as walking in warm sand on a beautiful white beach in Cancun, it's not all that bad. It kind of feels like walking in cornstarch. Very cold cornstarch.



 The view from my front door. Yeah, really. Well, it could be. Just squint a little.

 The strange thing is, my feet didn't get all that cold. I mean, they got cold, and wet, and I thought it would take the whole day to warm them up, but what actually happened was that, within half an hour, they were warmer than they were when I first stepped outside. What.The.Hell? I'm thinking frostbite, and in another day or so, my feet will unexpectedly fall off, maybe as I'm making dinner. Foot soup, anyone?

So, yes, this is the state of my life these days, as the winds outside howl, the snow gets deeper, and my entire body itches in response to an apparent allergic reaction to new medication. I am one big, cold hive.

Monday, January 11, 2010

The Weakened

What a weekend.

Got rid of the kids on Friday. Winter camp for them. Lazy weekend of Cheetos feasting, old movie watching, and Facebook surfing was planned for me while I waited for my antibiotics to kick in. And then maybe a nice dinner out or a movie with Mr. Handsome, depending on how I felt.

Instead, Mr. Handsome worked. And worked. And worked some more.

And I. Did. Nothing. Well, I did watch about six straight hours of The Real World, Brooklyn, which just made me that much more depressed because I was reminded over and over and over again how old I really was, and that I would never again be as young and perky as those gorgeous 20-year-olds on the television screen. Not that I ever was in the first place. But I did have a nice ass and legs.

Now, the spider veins double in number every time I look down at my cellulite-infused legs, and my butt cheeks, when not encased in tightish pants, flap loudly against my ankles. And while we're on the topic, what's with my legs? They are by no means fat, but they are definitely lumpy. Is this yet another product of aging? I can't see what else it could be.

This whole event surprises me, actually, since a full two-thirds of my body is bionic, and the rest is dead. No joke. As a for instance, my entire spine is one solid mass of metal and hip bone, thanks to scoliosis and ensuing back surgery when I was only 13 years old. I also have some contraption in my left eye that holds my retina together.

If anyone's heard of Lumpy Leg Syndrome, please fill me in, because I am in the dark. I've been googling like mad, and all I come up with is cellulite. Please correct me if I'm wrong, but does cellulite not coincide with something called FAT? Because, like I said, my legs are not. So, could I be packing on a rare form of cellulite, until now unbeknownst to me and the rest of the world? Am I actually on the verge of some amazing new health discovery, which will put me on the international map of fame and make me rich, allowing me to lie on a beach in Barbados and drink mimosas for the rest of my godforsaken days?

Not bloody likely.

So, instead, I've decided to return to the gym and put myself back together again. And this time, I mean it. It's not just about looking good anymore. Now, it's about feeling well, and keeping myself healthy. Because I think I've finally faced the fact that I'm the only one responsible for my health and well-being, and as I get older, I will get weaker if I don't do something about it.

This whole age thing actually scares me. A lot. I think I might actually have a disorder, kind of like those people on that show Obsessed, who can't stand the sound "sh", or rearrange people's hands all the time so that they are always in the shape of a fortune cookie.

After watching both my parents slowly lose all independence, and sink into the deep depths of human indignities, I will do anything and everything in my power to avoid that at all costs. The problem is, and I fully realize this, that we do continue to get older. It's not something we can control. Really? Yes, really.

And although I'm not a control freak, I am when it comes to having to depend on someone else to wipe my butt and spoon cold Cream of Wheat into my gob.

So, I no longer have an excuse not to go back to the gym and get healthy, especially since my beautiful Em finally uploaded some amazingly hip workout songs on my iPod shuffle (which she says sucks, but whatever, I'm still cool).

I'm just going to wait another week or so, until all those eager New Year's resolution-makers finally realize that was a stupid decision to return to the gym, because if there's one thing I can't stand, it's waiting for a damn elliptical or treadmill. And that's not an excuse, just so you know.

Friday, January 8, 2010

The Leeches Have Left The Building

Thank you for all the lovely Happy Birfday wishes for Mr. Handsome the other day! Although he didn't mention it, I know he's very proud of all of you for remembering him on this precious day of his birth.

The day ended up being pretty darn perfect, if you ask me, which you didn't. Thanks to my two amazingly deft children, the house was actually semi-tidy by the time Mr. Handsome's family came over for dinner. Dee vacuumed and picked up, and Em took care of the dining room. Em also decorated the entire first floor. Awesome kids. And I only had to show them the knife twice.

Despite my killer headache and overall malaise, I managed to put together a pretty nice dinner: lamb roast, roast potatoes and onions, white asparagus, and peas. And for dessert, a chocolate/peanut butter ice cream cake. No one died, so I'm calling it a success.

And then Mr. Handsome kindly drove to the drugstore to pick up my antibiotics, because by then my eyes were crossed and my hands were gnarled into tight fists.

So, onward huphuphup! Yesterday, after nursing my headache for the third straight day, I actually started taking some antibiotics for what seems to be a bacterial infection in the sinuses and/or lungs. My doctor, whom I saw Wednesday, took a quick look up my nasal passages, checked my swollen glands, grimaced and quickly printed out a prescription, telling me I definitely had an infection. Thank god I wasn't imagining the last month, is all I can say!

And then, I lay on the couch all day because the antibiotics make my insides into jello, and not a tasty flavour either. More like a lime-coloured jello with pieces of rainbow-coloured marshmallows in it, or maybe that fake chicken loaf with the bits of macaroni and cheese strewn through it. You know, that fake meat stuff that makes you want to up-chuck just thinking about it. Why do they even make that stuff? And does anyone really eat it? I digress.

I still have a headache. Have I mentioned this?

Meanwhile, yesterday I struggled to figure out how to manage getting together Dee's clothing and things, since the kids are going away this weekend to Camp Trillium winter camp. For those of you who do not know what Camp Trillium is, it's a camp here in Ontario for kids with cancer and their siblings. It's a wonderful camp, wonderful people, and a wonderful time for the kiddies. Anyway, as I lay there, thinking, and fretting, because I honestly didn't even have the energy to wipe my nose, let alone find Dee's clothing and pack them, I came to a decision: Dee could pack his own damn bag. And then I had a nap.

Seriously, though, what the hell have I been thinking? Dee is going to be 12 next month (and I don't think I will ever be able to wrap my head around that), and he is more than able to pack his own bag, for god's sake. Why do I continue to treat him like a baby? Em packs her own bag, and I'm pretty sure she was doing this by 11 years of age. But then again, she's a girl, and Dee's not. Need I say more?

What this really means, though, is that Mr. Handsome and I are kidless this weekend. That means, no children swarming us, constantly demanding food and company and love blahblahblah. They're worse than leeches, these kids, because at least with leeches, you can pour some salt on them and they just drop off. Kids, on the other hand, lick the salt off your chips and demand moremoremore. God.

The thing is, I'm still sick (no kidding), and Mr. Handsome is once again busier than a beaver at work, so the chances of us doing anything at all this weekend are slim to none. I thought maybe we could go to a movie or maybe to a nice dinner. I think the last time we did anything like that was back in September when he took me off to a surprise weekend getaway to Kingston. However, instead, chances are Mr. Handsome's going to be working most of this weekend, and I'm going to be lying on the couch, watching Jersey Shore, pulling out stray chin hairs, and praying to the porcelain god.

You wish you could be me.

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

Happy 28th, Mr. Handsome!

Today's Mr. Handsome's birthday, guys! Please wish him a big happy 44th, although he swears he's 28. Whatever.  As he reminds me on an almost daily basis, he will always be younger than me.

So, as I battle a bad headache and what I am sure is a sinus infection (I'm going to the doctor today, folks, honest), I will do the last bit of running around that needs to be done to get things in order for my husband's big day, a day he'd rather forget, thank you very much. Because, as he so succinctly put it earlier this morning, any birthday after the 28th is just a sad reminder of our impending death.

Depressing, isn't it?

Thank god I got almost everything done early on, little by little, so today all I have to do is pick up the cake, get one more gift, buy a couple of groceries, throw the lamb roast into the oven, clean the house, take down all Christmas decorations (shut up), and put up birthday decorations. Can you hear the joy in my voice? I'm so glad I have two slaves children I will put to work as soon as they walk their tiny behinds through the door this afternoon.

I don't blame Mr. Handsome for being born so close after Christmas. He came out 10 weeks early. He was supposed to be born sometime in March. But he wasn't, and ever since I've known him, his birthday has always seemed to be a sort of afterthought, because everyone's just coming down from Christmas holidays, and are tired, and have no money, and then, holy crap!, it's birthday time! Mr. Handsome spent many a year with not much in terms of birthday celebrations, and his few gifts would be wrapped up in Christmas paper. Which really just sucks the big one, because seriously folks, if anyone should be celebrated, it should be him. Not only is he awesome, handsome, and very smart, he also survived a premature birth, with no health issues!

So, I vowed early on in our relationship that his birthdays would always be special, because he deserves it. He always goes whole hog for everyone else, putting so much effort into getting just the right gifts, making the day extra special, doing everything right. It just seemed so wrong (and, of course, it was) that he always seemed to get short shrift.

Today's all about you, big boy! Happy Birthday, and thank you for choosing me to share your life. Here's to 44 more years!

Monday, January 4, 2010

I May Just Be The Miraculous Virgin Mary

Honest to god, this was going to be a funny, hahaha post about one unfortunate event or another that recently occurred to me, but lo and behold! I cannot come up with anything except words filled with angst and pain. Woe's me, people.

I think I'm still sick, and I know this blog's kind of become the "Is Mary Ever Not On Her Deathbed?" sort of blog, but seriously? I'm still not well. And it's time, folks. I've now been officially ill with the flu since Dec. 14, and am not pleased.

I am experiencing my second eye infection since coming down with this flu back in December, and am still coughing like a 90-year-old smoking tuberculosis patient, although I am no longer on mega-doses of cough medicine, so I guess that's a plus. So, now I look like I'm drunk as well as sick, but not quite as sick as I was. As you know, I always look at the glass as half-full. I still have a sore throat, too, not to mention little energy, and night sweats that end up being really gross because it's like lying in a pool of your own juices for hours after a great workout, minus the workout. Which just leave me ... wet, in a not-so-sexy way.

I'm going to the doctor. Putting a call in this morning, and, with all hope, will get in to see him. He's not the easiest doctor to get in to see, and depending on how many patients he has that day, not always the most thorough. He's also been away since the second week of December, and is probably going to retire in the next few years, which means bad things for me, because it is pretty much impossible to get a doctor in this province. Not only that, but this guy's known me since I was 15 years old and suffering from terrible menstrual cramps that almost made me perform an hysterectomy on myself, so he really knows me. So, if I do actually get in to see him today, it will be a bloody miracle, and you can all call me the Virgin Mary, or something.

So, instead of this being about me today, let's make this post about you! How are all of my special friends feeling this fine Monday, the first day back to school for children (thank the lord above it couldn't come soon enough)? Tell me how things are, what you're up to, how you're feeling, and I'll get back to you if I actually live through  today. But if you don't hear from me, do not fret. It just means I'm either (a) dead, (b) feel dead, (c) wish I was dead, (d) curled up in the fetal position humming to myself, or (e) all of the above.

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