Sometimes I will Open the Freezer Door...

Only to find a grisly scene such as this:

Two things:

1.  We are not buying any more paper dolls
2.  I'm not ruling out foul play.

Got a Dog: Cue Anxiety Attack.

We sold the house.

We celebrated by rescuing a dog: Oliver.  Of COURSE we did!  Moving isn't nearly stressful enough!!  I still have a strand or two of hair left, after all. 

It just happened.  It just... happened.

I mean, we wanted a dog, we said.

Pros:  Kids will have to spend more time outside and less trying to get into the televisions; empathy; they want one; we have a really big yard now;  I've managed to put it off for about 8 years. 

Cons:  We are in the process of actually moving; it's a dog. Wait, we're at the Humane Society?

Oliver is a duck tolling retriever and he was rescued from a high kill shelter.  Pretty much we're going directly to heaven, and the swearword I said about my chairs?  Cancelled out.  You know it. 

He follows me like I'm some kind of genius mentor.  Dogs never follow ME.  They usually know that I think they smell and they are dumb and only the mentally deranged would purchase a dog.  Dogs need baths, and walking, and licenses, and dog sitters and attention and training-  these are things I'm generally morally opposed to giving extra creatures outside of my gaggle of offspring.  (Except that I don't need a license for the kids...  seems..... probably fine. )

But Oliver is here and is gentle and quiet and housebroken and friendly and atrocious on a leash.  Atrocious, Readers:  so incredibly bad...  Basically like putting a cat on a leash and expecting it to go in a straight line.

And the kids love him and Neil loves him and I am having a minor meltdown because he's decided to be MY dog.  Me.  The one who is having an anxiety siezure every time I look at him.  I did not have this much anxiety when they handed me a baby at age 18 and said, "You got a carseat to take him home with?"

So what is the deal with me here?  Is it so terrible that I can't just run off for a carefee weekend of reckless abandon now?  Because like.... I don't think I've ever run off for a weekend of carefree abandon in my life.  Getting a dog just kind of seals the deal, I guess.   It's official. 

At least I could sell it by agreeing that I will rarely, if ever,  have to pick up his poop.  Kid job! *high five self*

I picked up his poop twice today.  *sad trombone*

He's pretty much adorable....  and horrendous on a leash.  Did I mention that?  Horrendous.  The worst.

But he's underweight.  My heart broke into 40 zillion pieces.  UNDERWEIGHT?  *bites fist*

I'm not ready for my life to change again, but obviously, it's too late.  Oliver has arrived.  I guess we might as well jump in with two feet if we're going to change our lives, right? 

Good thing about the vodka I have in my cupboard.  I'll pack that last.  Because we are, after all, moving in the middle of winter.  Why the hell WOULDN'T we rescue a dog?

And the kicker?  Oliver speaks French and sneaks onto the sofa and then looks at me like he has no idea how he got there.  Oh he's sly.

Cute little French Bastard. 

New Years Resolutions. Anyone?

Sell this dump

Forgive some jerks

Stop calling them jerks

Maybe one more time:

Jerks. *snicker*

Be more brave. 

Yes.  That sounds so lame.

Stop sounding lame.

Stop worrying about sounding lame.

Stop confusing the issue.

Keep confusing the issue if it's funny.

It probably is.

Ha. 
Ha.
ha.

Finish reading the heap of books before buying new ones; even if there are some boring ones in there.

Stop kidding yourself about finishing the boring ones. 

Buy an article of clothing that is pink.  Pale pale pink.  Not black.  To hell with slimming.

My chairs look like assholes.

That's another nickle in the old swear barrel for me.

Well they do.  I bought a pair of super awesome 1950s chartreuse dining chairs for five bucks at a roadside flea market last spring.  I love them so much.

Chartreuse floral vinyl and Chrome?   Yes please. 

We're selling the house.

My real estate agent told me to hide them because they might "turn off buyers".  PSH.  Buyers don't know what's hip like I do.  Readers, they don't know.

So I had to put these stupid dresses on them.  My breakfast nook looks like a lesbian wedding now.  I mean, don't get me wrong, Readers, these chairs are 60 years old and certainly capable of making a decision together, but where do we draw the line?  Before we know it, chairs will want to marry the garage or my luscious crane mobile.  What then, Canada?  WHAT.  THEN?  It's chairs and the table, not chairs and the stable.  I'm making a sign straight away.   People need to wake up.
 

And then?  Pretend the computer on the table is a kindly priest. 

Actually, I don't know what I'm still talking about.   My point is that my chairs looked better when they were being themselves but I got totally sidetracked pretending to be a furniture bigot.

Whassat?  Oooh!  Beer!  Gotta jet.

Update On my Past Two Days

So I had some books to return to Chapters the other day that I accidentally ordered in duplicate.  So I packed them up and off I went to return them. 

Me:  I need to return these books because I already HAVE them, so I don't need them.  I mean they're great books and everything, Lord knows I've read them to simply pieces, but I just don't need extra copies, you know?  Like I don't know what I was thinking when I double ordered.  They must have been in my online cart and I didn't notice or something.  I should totally be more careful, eh?

Chapters Cashier:  These were ordered from Amazon.com.  I'm afraid that you can't return them to Chapters.

Me:  Uh.  Right.  Chapters.  *expletives*.  Heh... this store isn't Amazon.com.


Chapters Cashier:  *stares blankly*

Me: *strokes beard contemplatively* So I'm going to have to... mail them back to Amazon.com?  Like.. I have to go to the post office?? 

CC:  That would be correct.

Me:  Riiiight... riiight for sure, for sure... but couldn't you just... take them and give me my money back?

CC:  This is the wrong store, I'm afraid not. 

Me:  Yes of course it is.  I know that.  But couldn't you just, you know.... take the books and give me a return anyway?

CC:  No.  We can't.  It's policy.  And ridiculous.

Me:  Oh I see.  It's policy.  But aren't policies more like just general behavioral guidelines?  I mean you could just take these books and give me a return....  I'm sure you just explain it all to your boss.  Hilarious right?  Returning Books to the wrong store?  So how about that return now?  Easy Peasy.  Amiright?

CC.  No, you are not right. 

Me:  Eh?  *eyebrow waggle*

CC:  .

Me:  *chest shimmy plus eyebrow waggle*  Eh?  A Return for me from you?

CC:   ~Security to the cashier please~

Me:  *does the Charleston with jazzhands down the cashier line and out the door with toddler who is also doing the Charleston with jazzhands for effect, although obviously not as well because she does not have the same amount of experience as I do at this.* 

So i guess I'm going to the post office.  Ugh. 



But then today, my kid's teacher told me that not only is he doing really well but that I, Readers, that I look like I'm 22.  Maybe she was a little sweet on me, who knows?  All I know is that I had to come straight home and take pictures of myself for fifteen minutes.  That school rocks.  I totally look 10 years younger than I am.  Shut up I do too.  Just check these puppies out:

Right?  Amazing. 

Now go here and read my review of Twilight.  Yeah.  That's right.  TWILIGHT. 

My New Happy Place.

Everyone?  I have a new happy place.  My new happy place?  Is this photo of my beautiful friends enjoying an evening out.  The longer you look at it, the more you see.  The more you see, the funnier it gets.  I am going to frame it and put it beside my bed.  No, really.  I am.   No that's not creepy, you guys.  It's not.  I love it.  I love it so much, Readers.  It's like one of those where's Waldo puzzles of hilarity.  Thanks Shar & Kels. 

***Also, please don't steal this photo.  They were kind enough to give me permission to post it for the world to enjoy, already.   Shanks.

Bento Santa Sneeze. Yeah.

I just sneezed so hard that the guitars hanging on the wall beside me started ringing.   Neil was pretty amazed, but not amazed enough; which is why I'm here telling you people about it. 

Now I have to think of something better to justify writing that as my blog entry.

....

Um.  I'm thinking about making donuts with the brioche dough that is currently taking it's sweet assed  time to raise.... and I wish I could crochet.    Also, I've become enamored with the idea of making bento lunches for the kids.  I want to make everything miniature. Well  I want to... but I don't want to- you know?  Like.. I wish I wanted to.. or maybe I wish I already had made everything miniature and it would already be done and then somebody else would arrange their lunches in adorable ways.  For free, though. 

D'awwww

I did cut their cheese into triangles, though which pretty much makes me mother of the year.  At least I thought so until I learned that many a Japanese mother spends upwards of 45 minutes making each of her children's school lunches.  Arranging and sculpting rice into adorableness for her beloved children. What showoffs.  Now what, Japanese Bento Moms?  Budget rainbow chip mini cookies wrapped in tinfoil aren't' good enough for you?  Eh?  Well.  Fine.  Fine, Imaginary Japanese Bento Moms. Be amazing.  You'll see... my ham sausage and triangle shaped cheeses will overcome your rice sculpting skills.  You'll see. 

Maybe I could sculpt the cookies into pandadogs if I wet them first.  Delish.

Also, we are going to see Santa today.  Yeah.  Already.  The idea is that we'll go early before the malls turn into the seventh circle of hell.    I wish my girl, Jami lived in this city.  She showed up at my house one year dressed as Santa to surprise my kids.  My son, who was 4 at the time, was completely convinced that her four foot tall, slight little frame was definitely Santa.  Imagine his shock when Santa took off his beard and drank a beer.   And he was a girl.  "NORA'S MOM IS SANTA CLAUS???"  Maybe she shouldn't pursue a career as a professional Santa, but it sure beats going to the mall.  Aw!  I miss my friend.  :(

Ghoulies, Pee and Blueberry Daddy.

I woke up this morning soaked in pee.

Not my pee, thank you very much.  Elly's.  Not Elly, the blogger, either (who, if she has not been peed on, will be soon).  Elly, my 3 year old. 

There are monsters in our toilets now, you know.  This is the worst thing that could possibly happen because I know the terror of a toilet phobia.  I am finally over mine (unless we are talking about snakes in high-rise apartment toilets here, but that hardly counts because we're not talking about that.  Obviously that is different).

None of us can be helped. None of us.

It took me until an embarrassing age to get over my fear of ghoulies in the terlets because when I was a kid, and we went to Frontier Video to rent movies, the Ghoulies movie case was always on display there.  I anticipated seeing that movie case while riding in the back seat of the car on our way there.   Like an attractive enemy, I would seek it out in the horror section; casually so that my Mom wouldn't see me doing it because for some reason she found it annoying.  But I was drawn to it, as if to confirm my fear of evil in the toilet- and I would look at it,  hard, for as long as I could manage.  Then I would walk past and build up my courage to saunter by it again, pretending I totally wasn't scared.  Again and again, I would casually sidle by, staring at the movie cover, eyes narrowing and steady lest the ghoulie with the tiny, wet, black, empty gaze and flashing grin jump from the photo.  I needed to see that movie cover.  I hated that movie cover.  That movie cover was a thorn wedged deep into my 8 year old side.

So I was afraid of the toilet and now it has come full circle and my child is afraid of the toilet.  Hers is thanks to Ghosbusters 2, which she saw at a friend's house.  I'm wracking my brain to figure out a way to help her get over it, but if this child is anything like me (Which she is.   Pretty much exactly), this is going to be a loooooong haul for her.

How do you explain reality to a child who believes wholeheartedly that she has an extra, imaginary friend called "Blueberry Daddy"?  It's weird, right?  I have to explain that Blueberry Daddy doesn't exist to all of her caregivers to ward off concern that her actual father might really let her drive the car and babysit infants, use sharp knives and that she never ever is really allowed to sleep in the dog cages at the pet store and that he has died about 1000 horrible deaths according to Elly.  Car accidents, House fires, diseases, choking, falling off the world.  It's all happened to poor, unlucky Blueberry Daddy.

In the mean time, I have the worst alarm clock in the world.  Will the toilet ever stop ruining my life?

Hey Mickey! HEY MICKEY! WOO!

Hey Blarg.

Seriously, Self?  Who says that?  Blarg.  Sick.

Anyhow, here is an update on me. Whee!  I haven't been blogging lately.  You know why?  I feel like.. I feel like I'm not sharing my bits of life here because Facebook sucks it all up into its facey book of suck-void.  I made that word up, "suck-void".    So you know what?  Facebook is getting less of me.  Take that, Mark Suck-Void-erberg (too much? What?)

Besides, Facebook is broken now.  I can't do my morning scan of status updates, "like" all of them with a clickity-clickity, say "OoooH.. I wish there was a dislike button" a gagillion times for the people with updates about their colds and then carry on with my day.  You know?  Now I have to LOOK for them and go to people's actual pages and see every individual photo that people put up and what their bingo farm score is and wade through all of their high-larious internet travel souvenirs?  Nothanks.  No offense, it's just worky.  It already takes all of my time to put up MY photos and internet souvenirs, you see?  And for what? .....  Exactly. 

Besides, stalking people got less fun when they started ratting you out on their new little minifeed.  I don't want everyone to know when I feel like constantly writing "High five" or "Woo!" on everything Mickey Desadist says on Facebook, thankyouverymoosh.    That is between Mickey and I as strange facebook best friends to deal with.

It's funny because he thinks I've known him for a long time but he just forgot (I'm sure that's what he thinks, since that's what I told him and he didn't like.. argue.)

See?  It's not even fun to stalk eccentric Canadian punk rockers from the 70s anymore. (What?  We have stuff to be outraged about too.   Like how outraged I currently am that I can't think of anything to be mad about.) 

BOOooOOOOoo

Don't worry, Mickey.  I'll still pretend I know you.  Woo!

But I did get a new macbook PRO.  Because I'm a pro, basically and I needed a pro computer to help me look smart at starbucks when I'm googling things and making amazing photoshops like this:

You know what?  I don't judge what kinds of professional things YOU do all day and I would expect the same courtesy, Judgy MacGoo.

Hallo.

Dese is de Pumpkins

Dese is de costumes.   And yes,  I know we are tactless.   Wheeee!