Friday, February 26, 2010

A Post About How I Kind Of Fail As A Mother, But Don't Worry, I'm Not Emo

So, I guess I had some people worried with my last post. Sorry. I guess I'm depressed.

BUT ... I'm feeling a tad better today, so today's post, albeit late, will be a happy, hilariously and joyously fun post that will have your ribs sore from all the laughter that will no doubt emanate from your gut. Oh yes.

The only problem is, I have Dee home with me today and he doesn't.stop.talking, which I really don't mind, and actually quite love, except when I'M TRYING TO WRITE A F**KING BLOG POST. Ahem. Sorry about that. Obviously, I am still harboring a little anger and resentment. Or whatever.

Okay, Dee's upstairs taking apart Mr. Handsome's computer, so I'm good to go.

Why is Dee home, you ask? Well, it goes something like this. Back in January, Dee brought home one of his millions of little pieces of paper from school for me to look at. Before I go any further, I'll be the first to admit that I'm not the best at keeping track of important pieces of paper. Hard to believe, I know. But it's true. I am really good at keeping dates to remember and crap like that in my head, though, so it all evens out in the end. Usually.

This little piece of paper actually had a time deadline on it, and was all about taking the kids at the school skiing for the day up in the mountains not far from home. It's an annual shindig Dee's school does, which is awesome and all cool and all that, and Dee said he really wanted to go, so Mr. Handsome and I discussed it for about five seconds minutes and decided that, yes, he could go, despite not having a nanosecond of experience with alpine skiing. What the hell. We're good parents that way. What's a little concussion or broken neck, I always say.

So, I kept the piece of paper (it was actually about 10 pieces of paper all stapled together neatly), and was  meaning to fill it out and have Dee bring it back to school, but I kind of forgot one detail. As it goes, it happened to be one of the most important details: the deadline to return the forms.

The other day, I look at the forms, and ask Dee if he's still interested in skiing, because hey! I still had the forms here, and what do you know? the ski day was coming upon us. Yes, Dee said, I really really want to go. So I filled everything out, gave it to him, and sent him on his merry way to school.

Dee came home that afternoon, handed the forms and the cheque back to me, saying, "The deadline was Feb. 9. I can't go."

Oh.My.God.

I felt like crying. The guilt from all mothers from around the world entered my soul at that point, and I crumbled into a little dust heap on the floor, never to raise my ugly head again with motherly pride. It was just awful.

And Dee came up to me and said, "It's okay, Mommy. Don't feel bad. It's really not that big a deal. Really. I don't really care."

But I know he did care. And I also know that one day, 20 years from now, he's going to bring this up at his therapist's appointment, and all fingers will point to this moment as the reason why he ended up a hobo in drag selling carnations from his stolen shopping cart.

Wow, that was an ultra-long and boring explanation as to why my son was home with me. Hmmm. The digression has actually turned into a post, which just blows me away, because I didn't think I was actually all that creative and handy like that.

So, Dee is home with me today, and he said he just wants to hang out around the house and chill. Just for that, I said, I'm making him shovel the driveway, clean my his room, make dinner, and curl my hair. That'll show him to trust his momma next time.

P.S. I wanted to thank everyone who called me, emailed me, and commented on my last post. I feel awful that I worried people. I'm really okay. I'm in a funk, was lower in the black hole than usual that day, and just had to vent, I guess. I'm actually feeling better today, the proverbial sun is out again (peeking over the clouds), and life is looking a little better again. Just having the reassurance that I have people around me makes all the difference. I feel awful that I worried everyone. I'll try not to do that again.

Depression is a funny thing, really. Because, although I  know in my heart that I am not alone, I still very much feel that way when I get very low. It's almost like I enter a world where everything is in total darkness, and the walls are solid, and nothing and no one can penetrate them, so that I not only feel all alone, but I AM alone. It's not a rational, logical thing. It's not even something I understand as I go through it. I have no control over it, and have to simply allow the feelings to overwhelm me, take control, and overtake my every breath, until it slowly starts to subside again and allow me to once again take my breaths freely and willingly, permitting me to open my eyes once again and see through what were once solid walls and is now just a thick haze, to once again see and feel my family and my friends, all holding hands around me, keeping me safe and loved.

Thank you all for caring.

P.P.S. I guess this post wasn't all that funny after all. Goddammit.

Wednesday, February 24, 2010

State Of Being

The problem with being me is ... just that: the state of "me-ness". It's almost unbearable at the best of times.

I've been laying a bit low the past few days because -- HOT NEWS FLASH!! -- I've not been feeling well. Like that never happens, you're saying to yourself. Don't deny it. I can hear you.

My arthritis has been raising its ugly head again over the past few weeks, and decided to make itself fully known on Monday. My hands are once again swollen and painful, my hips hurt with every step I take, and my sacroiliac joints and back are screaming, "DON'T MOVE IF YOU WANT TO STAY ALIVE!".

Speaking of which, I've been questioning that last statement lately.
My physical state has, unfortunately, had an effect on my mental state, leaving me depleted of energy and desire, just wanting to sleepsleepsleep the days away. I haven't been a very good mother lately, or a good wife, or friend. My temper is short, my good moods fleeting at best.

The thing is, there are so many people who just don't get it. They see me looking absolutely normal, seemingly happy enough, and it is automatically assumed that everything's hunky dory, when, if they just took the time to delve just a little deeper under the surface of my face, they would see the darkness, the pain, and the utter sadness and hopelessness that lives there perpetually. Maybe they don't want to, because to go there would be unbearable.

And so they go on with their day, and expect me to go on with mine, when in reality, I can barely make myself a cup of tea let alone an entire dinner for the family. The guilt I feel is insurmountable. Here I am, at home, and most days I can't even get myself together enough to sweep the floors, wash the linen, or clean the cobwebs off the ceiling.

I have lived with this most of my life, and am pretty much accustomed to people not understanding. Most of the time, I know it's just that, and is not a matter of them not caring. However, when I fall more deeply into that black hole of depression, my vision narrows, and suddenly I am entirely alone in this awful world, and I am sure everyone out there is against me. It's not a rational thing, and cannot be explained away. It just is.

I am fortunate to have a good group of friends around me who, when I am once again in this place of unforgiveness, pick me up and hold me until I can once again stand on my own. I know how fortunate I am, and I do remember. But I also worry that one day, they too will disappear. There's only so much anyone can do for another person, I reason. Only so much before they have to escape to save themselves. Their hold on me will one day weaken, and I will once again fall. This hasn't happened yet, and for that I am eternally grateful.

But the worry is there, and is very real, that one day my friends, and my family -- my entire support system -- will just vanish, leaving me alone to deal with my life. And that is a very scary feeling indeed, akin to death really.

Please don't let me die.

Sunday, February 21, 2010

Twelve

Today is a special day. Today is the day, 12 years ago, that our son was born.

A squawling, raucous, chubby boy with ruddy curls greeted us after only three pushes. Three pushes to bring to this world an almost-10 lb.package of pure love and joy.

I was so excited when I became pregnant with Dee, because now Em wouldn't be an only child, and because now we'd have a girl AND a boy, and I felt like it was finally "right". And it was right. So very right.

Four months into his life, we were devastated when our cherub was diagnosed with cancer. And our lives changed forever. I cried every day during that year of chemo treatments and surgery after surgery. Somehow I had enough tears.

One of our greatest fears through all this was that, although he was just a tiny baby, he would somehow retain memories of this most awful time in his life (if he even survived), and would forever be marred in unforgivable, haunting ways. As it turns out, Dee is one of the happiest souls traipsing through this world. He has a thorough and deep love of life, is excited at every new adventure life hands him, and, although he does have some fears, they are in no way out of the ordinary.
Dee is in Grade 6 now, plays hockey, is as athletic as they come, and sings when he does his chores.

I often wondered if we would ever even reach Kindergarten with him, his health being as precarious as it was. We almost lost him more than once back then.

But here he is, giving his sister grief at every opportunity (as is his job as little brother), giving me hugs, still snuggling up to me whenever he gets the chance.

He's growing up so fast, and I often can't believe he's now 12. I suppose that's because he will always be my baby. Happy Birthday, sweetheart.

Thursday, February 18, 2010

A Study In Dichotomy

Conversation with Dee while on our way to Toronto in the car:

Dee: Mommy, are you a virgin?

Me:Wwwwwhhat??

Dee: Are.You.A.Virgin?

Me: *silence* Uhhh, wellllll, what do you think that means?

Meanwhile, in the back seat, Em is screaming, "This is TOTALLY inappropriate!!"

Dee: If you're a virgin, it means you don't have a mate.

Me: Well then, I guess I'm not a virgin. Right?

Dee: Yeah. (pause) I know Em is though.

Em: INAPPROPRIATE!

Another pause, then ...

Dee: You know what? I LOVE that show Franny's Pants!

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

The List, Or How To Do Toronto Real Good With Lots And Lots Of Puke and Poop

Our weekend in Toronto:
  1. Leave Ottawa at exactly 10:04 a.m Friday.
  2. No traffic the entire five-hour trip. A first in the history of all our trips to Toronto. Awesome.
  3. We see this:
  4. And this:
  5. And then there was baby puke, and mega crying.
  6. We realize the baby is sick.
  7. More baby puke.
  8. More baby anguish and screams.
  9. We realize the air mattress we brought along has a major hole in it. Not a good thing.
  10. My arthritis decides to get extra nasty, with more backache than I've had in a long time.
  11. Saturday, we go to the CN Tower and see this:
  12. And this:
  13. And this:
  14. And then Dee looks like this:
  15. And has to go to bed filled with Gravol, Advil and hugs.
  16. And the baby lays an eight-inch floater in the bath.
  17. More baby puke.
  18. Em has a mega headache and goes to bed with lots of Advil. I go to bed with doses of medication so I can sleep through the arthritis pain.
  19. Sunday brings us much more fun, minus any Valentine's Day celebrations, since Mr. Handsome was in Ottawa, and I was in Toronto.
  20. Dee and his uncle and aunt go skating on an outdoor rink while Em and I babysit.
  21. Gryphon pukes all over the hardwood.
  22. And then baby goes to bed and pukes again.
  23. Gryphon suddenly has a bout of diarrhea, some of which lands on the off-white carpet in the living area. Nice addition to the rather clean environment, I think.
  24. I proceed to wipe the dog's ass for the next half hour because the diarrhea has not only gone down his legs, but also is stuck to his ass hair. We even use dish soap, which makes his ass very sparkly.
  25. The baby pukes again, and this entails stripping his crib for the third time that night.
  26. We go to bed, feeling weary and a bit under the weather. We pass it off as exhaustion.
  27. Dee cries and moans all night long. He has a sore throat. I pop an Advil in his mouth.
  28. Em coughs all night long. She's sick too.
  29. Monday morning.
  30. We're all sick.
  31. We go home, where Mr. Handsome has prepared us a nice dinner.
  32. No one wants to eat because we're all sick.
  33. Mr. Handsome becomes disillusioned.
  34. I email my sister-in-law for photos of me wiping the dog's ass so that I can publish them here. They have not yet arrived.
  35. Em and I watch The Bachelor before we both fall into our respective beds, drugged into oblivion.
  36. And a good, productive long weekend was had by all.
  37. Please send chicken soup. Again.

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Tripping

So, we're heading to Toronto for the weekend, sans Mr. Handsome, which some would say is a vacation in itself. Which is to say, Mr. Handsome *I* would say that. Not really.

Maybe.

We haven't seen Mr. Handsome's sister's baby "Oscar" in a few months, and that was when they came up here at Christmas time, which means we hardly saw them at all because we were all sick with  The Plague of Disney World and were, as a result, quarantined by the laws of Mr. Handsome's family. Also, Mr. Handsome's sister wanted us to come down to Toronto and babysit visit, so we're going. She's also pregnant AGAIN, so this is my chance to make fun of her ever-expanding body.

I'm taking Em, Dee and Gryphon with me (why yes, as a matter of fact, I do like horrific car rides), and we're leaving Friday morning and coming back Monday afternoon, which means that, not only am I missing Valentine's Day with Mr. Handsome, but also that I'm posting my usual Friday post today instead to screw with your heads because if I tried to post this on Friday, I'd probably screw it up royally since I'd be in the midst of packing the car and arguing with the kids and putting Mr. Handsome in his place, and I'd totally forget to hit "publish" until I was past Napanee, and then I'd get so upset I'd have to pull over at some roadside Wendy's and fill my face with square burgers and then I'd most probably forget one kid back at the roadstop bathroom, and we all know what a bitch it is to try and turn around on Highway 401 and get back to that spot again from the OTHER side of the highway, even if you wanted to.

The drive down is only a little over four hours, so it's no big deal. Unless, of course, you've got two children and a very large dog in the car with you, and the children think it's all fun and games to scream nasty words to one another, and the dog thinks he's a human and believes he should sit in the front seat, so he keeps sticking his rather large nose too close to your face, creating quite a problem when you attempt to slap a child in the head shoulder-check.

As an aside, lest any of you think it awful that Mr. Handsome and I won't be spending Valentine's Day together, it ain't no big deal, because V-Day is really a Hallmark Holiday, as we like to call it around here, and Mr. Handsome and I show our utter and complete love for one another every single day of the year.

I'm just hoping the storm that is enveloping the northern States in blizzardy snow doesn't affect the Toronto area too much because it's hard enough to expect me to be able to drive safely in good weather when I'm filled with medication and whatever alcoholic beverage I can get my hands on before we leave. People are so judgmental.

Miracles do not come easily, my dears.

I'll of course be bringing my laptop and my camera, and plan on putting up some amazingly professional photos of our weekend sometime next week. I won't even have to Photoshop them or edit them in any way, shape or form because I still don't know how to use Photoshop and am way too lazy for that kind of crap because they will be just THAT amazing.

UPDATE: Holy crap, Batman! Guess who just started following me on Twitter, guys! Fran Frackin' Drescher, that's who! You know, THE FAMOUS ACTRESS. Even MORE famous than Gowan, I'd have to say. Remember her, from The Nanny? What is happening here?! Am I more well known and desired than I think I am?! What does the world know that I don't know? Excuse me now while I go buy myself a boa.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Gowan Loves Me

You are not going to believe this, guys!

Gowan's my Facebook friend! I KNOW!!

Who's Gowan, you're asking? Before I tell you, let me just say that I seem to be the only one around here who is the least bit interested in this, which just makes me very, very sad and disillusioned, actually, with the whole family dynamic. When I found Gowan on Facebook, I decided to "friend" him because, in my tiny brain, he is my friend. I actually met him when he was all hot and sweaty after a show at Barrymore's many many moons ago and I think I may have even touched him and gotten a tiny drop of sweat on my left forearm. So, yeah, I am his friend, and he's really famous, so suck it, all you jealous and envious Gowan-wannabes.

No one in the house seemed to care in the least that Gowan friended me back ALMOST IMMEDIATELY. Not only was this guy insanely famous in the 80s and maybe even the 90s, but he's now part of Styx,
This is Styx.

which makes him even more of a somebody, if you ask me.

When I told Mr. Handsome and the kids with a trembling voice what had just occurred, Mr. Handsome was silent, but his right eyebrow raised a tiny bit, so I knew he had heard me. Em said, "Wow, that's great," but I know she didn't really mean it because -- hello! -- she's a teenager, in the midst of her own world of angst and sarcasm. And Dee said, "Who's Gowan, and why do you care?" So, for Dee's benefit, I started a rendition of  "You're a Strange Animal," but then everyone ran out of the room with their hands over their ears. Rude people.

Whatever, guys. I see your ruse, and I rise above it.

You see, they are oh so jealous of me because it's obvious they've tried numerous times to friend Gowan but have been unsuccessful. If you ask them, they'll deny it, but don't let that fool you. Because I know. And I especially know when it comes to both Mr. Handsome and Em because (1) Mr. Handsome has a whole TWO friends on Facebook (he claims that's all he wants, but I know better), and one of them is ME, and (g) Em Facebook-friends anyone who even looks remotely familiar to her (yes you do, Em, don't even try to argue with me about this because YOU WILL LOSE). Dee doesn't have Facebook, and wouldn't know what to do with it if he did, which he doesn't, because he is too young for those kinds of shenanigans.

Seeing as Valentine's Day is just around the corner, I might just send my new friend Gowan some roses, just as a thank you for dripping that sweat on my forearm, because that is more than anyone in my home gave me. I mean, nobody even bowed or genuflected.

Monday, February 8, 2010

Family Night

We decided to have a nice family night on the weekend, and ended up watching Deliverance.

What? We played Hearts afterwards, so it's all good.

Mr. Handsome (who is apparently reading my blog again -- read it and weep, buddy) said the movie was entirely inappropriate, and he walked around all serious-like and feigned authoritative license, and then said dinner was ready and we were to shut off the television.
I let him know, in no uncertain terms, that the stuff he has allowed the kids to watch (including all those video games that do nothing but glorify violence, blood and gore) is so much worse than anything on Deliverance. Oh, and we won't even go into watching Die Hard on Christmas Eve, and stating that it's a perfectly fine movie to watch on Christmas Eve because -- hello! -- it takes place at Christmas time. Or, how about WWF Smack Down wrestling matches? Or those caged wrestling matches you and Dee seem to adore? Yeah, let's talk about that for a moment, shall we, Mr. Handsome? Yeah, didn't think so.

But no, Mr. Handsome could not accept my logic as enough reason to leave good enough alone. Oh no, guys, he had to go so far as to ban the children from watching what is one of my favourite movies ever. Because, really, think about it. Who thinks wild hillbillies are going to come out of the woodwork in the middle of the forest and shout, "Soooey!! Sooooooeeey!", which actually, now that I think of it, could be kind of fun. This film is pure awesomeness just because of its total unexpected creepiness. And, because Burt Reynolds looks really hot. He pretty much went downhill from there, which was 1972, so he's been going downhill for a loooooong time.

I even told Mr. Handsome that the part that he was most worried about (you know, the "soooeeey!" part where Ned Beatty gets done up the cadbury's) isn't even shown in the movie because it's censored (duh!!), but that didn't deter Mr. Handsome. Oh no. He just had to see for himself, he did. So, he proceeded to go through the film and fast-forward through the bit where Ned is rolling around in the leaves and mud with the hillbilly running around him, and they're both screaming like tiny piglets (which, actually, I think is kind of cute).

So, that part he would not allow the children to see (it actually was completely edited out of the tv version anyway). But the part where the hillbilly (is it even PC to call these people hillbillies?) gets shot through the chest with an arrow, or the part where Burt Reynolds' leg bone violently comes out through his skin and there's blood and skin flapping in the breeze. Or, how about a couple of hours of brutal boxing, where the guy's bleeding profusely out of both ears and half his nose is shifted over to where his left shoulder should be? No, that's fine, according to Mr. Handsome.

I guess we did our children a great disservice, then, by allowing them to watch Charlotte's Web and Chicken Run and Dumbo, because yo, the animals are all over the place in these movies. How disgusting and inappropriate. Our children are scarred for life.

I would just like to see Mr. Handsome take on the career of a film censor in his next life. Yes, all violent scenes and disgusting bits of blood, guns, swear words and complete and utter nastiness are all totally fine, but we have to cut out that bit with the two people playing farm animals. Because pigs are very, very dirty.

Friday, February 5, 2010

A Right-Handed Hook

"What's a prick?" Dee asked me, all nonchalant-like as he cuddled beside me on the couch, watching Jersey Shore (what?!). And let's stop right there for a moment and ponder this moment of extremes: a cuddling cherub, full of life and innocence, asking me what a prick is.

I did a double take as I looked at his innocent, little, chubby, freckly face. Did this child just ask me this question? I asked myself, feeling a hot flash overwhelm me.

"Ummmmmmmmmm, a prick? Uhhhhh, why are you asking me this?" I said, hoping he'd change the topic and forget all about it. But, a part of me was curious, truly wondering.

"Jake called me that the other day," Dee said.

And then Dee explained. Apparently, Jake shouted out some embarrassing words to a girl Dee likes, something to the effect of, "Hey *** ! Dee wants to kiss you!!" You know, stupid and embarrassing kid stuff that makes a child want to cry. Not sure why Dee is so often the butt of bullies' jokes, but he is.

So, Dee went inside the school and sat on the stairs, very upset and embarrassed. The principal found him and asked him what was wrong. By the way, I love this principal. He is the best thing to have hit this school in a long time. Dee told him, and the principal dealt with the problem.

Jake is now upset with Dee because Dee "snitched" on him. Hence, the word "prick".

Aren't kids adorable?

So, of course I told Dee what it meant: "It's a bad word for the word 'penis'."

"Oh," Dee said, all serious. "That's not very nice."

I agree.

So, what do you do? As a mother, it's such a hard thing, knowing that your child is going through something that, in the grand scheme of things, isn't really that big a deal, but for him at this time in his life, is absolutely monumental. I can hug him all I like, he still has to face things on his own in the morning.

In other news, my right hand is swollen and in pain. Arthritis sucks. It zaps me of all my energy and makes me cry. I woke up the other morning with a hand that would not close. The joints on that hand are getting worse. I'm just glad I'm going to a new rheumatologist in April, albeit in Toronto. Yes, Ontario's health system is so awesome, one has to travel almost five hours in order to be able to see a doctor. I suppose it could be worse. The worst would be that I couldn't find a specialist at all. I already have one here at home, but I don't like her, and I needed a new one. My current rheumatologist was useless. Very pleasant, nice smile, dressed well, but I'm not dating her. She had no interest in me at all. I even went so far as to print off a pile of information for her regarding my special genetic issue that causes me much of my grief, and she told me, in no uncertain terms, that she didn't have time for that. Really? I felt like saying. Is that why you get paid $200,000 a year?
The most unfortunate thing in all this is that, now, I have to wait to use my right-handed hook on Jake. April can't come fast enough.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

Stupid Rules And Stupid People = Bad Bad Things

You know what I absolutely hate? Stupid rules, that's what. Stupid rules that stupid people believe they have no choice but to abide by, and then transfer their idiocy so that it greatly impinges upon your life and makes things that much more difficult for you.

Like going back to college at my age isn't hard enough. Like knowing I might be the absolute oldest person in all my classes isn't making me want to vomit. As if knowing that the next two-and-a-half years may be some of the hardest years of my life isn't.bad.enough.

More about idiots in a moment...
So, I did it. I registered for college, for both the paramedic and the practical nursing programs. I should know in a month whether or not I've been accepted into either. In the meantime, I needed transcripts from university and high school to go with my registration, and as luck may have it, I could do it all online, with only a few phone calls to get my student numbers, and a few hundred thousand bajillion minutes being put on hold. I don't mind the hold so much. It's the Barry Manilow musak I can't handle.


Now, for the idiots.

I called the continuing education program through our local school board so that I could sign up for two high school courses I apparently need in order to get into the practical nursing program. However, you can't actually speak to a live person when you phone the number on their site. Oh no, that would be too simple, too easy, too freakin' straightforward. No, instead, you have to leave your message, and they call you back whenever.

This happened last week, and of course, I wasn't home when they called. So, I called them again on Monday, and left yet another message. Well, this time, they actually called me back when I wasn't either sitting on the toilet, using my neti pot, or lying in the fetal position on the couch wrapped up in blankets and ignoring the world. The girl (and I call her 'girl' because she sounded like she couldn't have been older than three) asked me which courses I was interested in taking.

'Interested' is probably too strong a word for what I was. The word I'd use is perhaps 'coerced into taking' or maybe 'screwed over', but whatever.

"Grade 11 Biology and Grade 12 Chemistry," I told her.

"Okay, so, like, you have to make, like, an appointment to, like, see one of our counsellors and go through your application. I can give you Feb. 17."

I sighed heavily, tapped my foot impatiently on the dirty carpet, and tried not to sound as aggravated as I was. "Well, that's fine, but isn't there anything earlier than Feb. 17? I'd like to register right away so that I'm sure to get into the courses."

"No. There's no other way," Girl replied. "Is Feb. 17 good for you?"

No, I felt like saying, what would be good for me is for you to get away from the phone and let me speak to someone else. Instead, I said, "Ummm, yeah, it's fine. Isn't that the last day to register for courses though?"

She didn't answer me.

"Umm, do I have to see someone? I mean, I know which courses I need to take and everything. Can't I just go down to the school and --"

"No, you have no choice. And, we have to get your payment anyway," Girl spewed, cutting me off.

Heavy sigh.

So, now I have to wait until Feb. 17 to meet some counsellor who probably knows less than I do about the courses I need in order to get into the college program, just so that I can talk to him for a few minutes, show him the money, and sign papers saying I will not draw pictures of throbbing penises in their text books. And hope that there's still room in the courses, because if the counsellor tells me there isn't, I might knee him in the groin, pencil poke him in the eye, and spit on his shoes.

And that is why I hate stupid people.

Then, yesterday, I had to go to my old high school to get an actual paper copy of my high school transcript. I walk into main hallway, and come face-to-face with a skinny girl in painted-on jeans who spits out as she walks by, "Yeah, I'm a bitch, and that's all there is to it." Yeah, she went there. Scary shit, high school is.

I make my way to the guidance office, and it's chock full of pubescent boys and girls who think they're waaay cooler than they really are, and I'm trying not to feel out of place and think that maybe I'm not really that out of place because I actually have a tiny zit on my right jowl. Finally, the secretary comes up to me, and I tell her what I'm there for. And she says, "What year did you graduate?"

So, I tell her, "1981." And I say it pretty softly, because I'm surrounded by youngsters and, if they hear that, they'll all try and touch me because I'm, like, an antique to them.

And the secretary screams out, "Did you say 1981?? Wow. Don't think they even have transcripts going that far back! Hmmmm...."

Well, isn't that just dandy. And I look at Em, who was with me because she wasn't feeling well and was coming home with me (yes, she goes to my alma mater, how exciting is that?!), and she's smiling, trying hard to stifle a huge laugh.

Anyway.

Today, Mr. Handsome, who no longer reads this blog because it's inappropriate and disgusting, has gone to Toronto to give a speech at some big association luncheon, so he thinks he's all special and stuff. I drove him to the airport early this morning, before the sun was even really up.And now I'm going to the dentist to get my teeth cleaned and listen to my dental hygienist ream me out because apparently flossing once a day isn't good enough for Patty Perfectionist. Yeah, another awesome day in the neighbourhood.

Monday, February 1, 2010

Porn In 3-D?! Wait 'Til Mr. Handsome Sees What He's Missing!

Because Mr. Handsome is no longer reading my blog, I feel entirely free to talk about this. In fact, even if he were still reading my blog, I'd probably end up talking about this, because it is THAT awesome.

Yes, my friends, the moment I've been waiting for it finally here. I couldn't believe my eyes when I read that the world's first 3-D porn movie is being planned! OH.MY.GOD.

Just think about it, people. The implications are enormous (pun intended, but only by mistake, because I only just noticed it).

Apparently, the man responsible for Caligula, which I know all of you have on your shelves (wrapped up in a Teletubbies faux-cover) has decided to produce what he calls "the world's first 3-D pornographic production". Apparently, the recent success of Avatar has convinced Tinto Brass that the time is right. Really, there's not much difference between the two genres: save a world, pork a girl. 


What Avatar and porn realistically have in common, I am not sure. But I do know that if Tinto says the time's right, it's gotta be right.

Speaking of which, doesn't "Tinto" sound more like a name you'd call your pet chinchilla, and not the producer of one of the world's most (in)famous sexually suggestive movies of all times? 


Does this look like a Tinto to you?

So, let's now allow our imaginations to run rampant for a moment, shall we? Running naked rampant is always fun, I think. So, we've got a porn movie on the screen. Always a good thing in our house. Now, take that porn, shove a pair of sexy 3-D glasses on your proboscis, and you've got an abnormally large male genital that could very likely and literally poke you in the eye.

If you've ever been to Disney World, you can now imagine the likes of It's A Bug's World, where the take on 3-D is really 4-D, because the show has the added dimension of the audience actually being able to feel, taste and smell different activities taking place on the screen. So, for instance, say someone on the screen sneezes. The audience would get the added effect of "snot" actually being sprayed on to their faces. It's pretty cool, although somewhat disconcerting, unless you like getting showered with snot.

Now, take that little tidbit and add it to the 3-D porn phenomenon, and what have you got?

I'll wait right here, with my 3-D glasses on, while you picture this. And I'm ordering spray nozzles on Ebay as you read this.

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