Mommy Gaga And New Year's Eve

This year, unlike every New Year's Eve save 1999 when the world was going to end because computers were going to explode because the date was going to revert to 1900 instead of going to 2000, but then it didn't in a twist of fate that isn't ironic because, let's face it, we all knew it wasn't going to really end.

Wait. What? Where was I?

Ah yes. This year, unlike the past, Husband and I made amazing plans to banish 2011 into the bowels of Hell.  Usually at the stroke of 6, the two of us feed children, look at each other with tired eyes and try to smile weakly.  In fact, usually eye-contact is avoided lest the other misconstrue the look of "I really want to go to bed NOW!" for something entirely more acrobatic; sure the words are the same, but the tone is very different. 

But this year, we've vowed to not only stay awake until midnight, but also to part-ay the night aw-ay.  We secured our babysitter before Hallowe'en; we've have been sending her gift baskets of echinacea and orange juice every day for the last month. I texted her twice daily to make sure she was feeling great and to tell her to keep up the great, healthy, work.

This would be a screen shot if I had any clue how to do that. 

In fact, when the headline of our local paper read "Foul Flu May Postpone New Year's Eve" and "Out with Intestines, In with the Flu" I felt twinges of extreme panic in my stomach.  Then, instead of panicking, I rationalised that we wouldn't get sick-- we'd been walking around with SARS masks since Rememberance Day.  Yet, the twinging in my stomach would not abate.

See, this New Year's Eve wasn't just going to be some great end to a hard year; it was to be a party to triumph over all oppressors!  I mean, I had not only a new dress, but new shoes. Both? For one event? Surely I jest-- but no, this is truth!

I bought The Dress during a Black Friday frenzy. I threw an entire, grand-ay, extra hot, no whip, no foam, 2-pump, triple shot caramel latte at the teen that got to the sale rack before me. The scalding coffee not only got her off my potential dress, but it also got a bunch of people out of line to help her. Teens and their melodramatic tendencies! For all the wailing and the "Why? Whyyy? Why me?" you'd think I'd sprayed Nancy Carrigan, not some kid at a 4am Black Friday sale. Hello? Black Friday-- you should know what you're getting into. Anyway, I scooped up the dress and two carts worth of stuff that cost, in total, $53.71 (God Bless America) and claimed victory.  Oh, and some of my coffee bomb splashed onto my New Year's Eve dress, making the cashier zombie give me an extra discount for damage. Say whaaaat? Boo-yeah.

The Shoes I bought from www.YeOldeTownProstitute.com.  They carry Tranny-friendly shoe sizes and styles which is important to me.  See, I've got the impeccably dramatic style of a transvestite and the shoe size to match.   After I had the perfect (coffee-stained) dress, and the perfect shoes, and tickets to the perfect party, and a sitter for my perfect children, I knew nothing would keep me from celebrating the death of 2011.

Perfect.

Nothing on earth could keep me from that party, until my entire town started down a path of extreme illness that you could only begin to understand if you read the first 200 pages of The Stand by Stephen King. And, the worst part is that having your flu shot didn't make you immune to the New Year's Eve Super Flu. No, I think the only thing that would make you immune is Death itself--here's why.

How You Know You're Minutes From Wishing For Death From The NYE Super Flu

1) You start dripping sweat while sitting down for breakfast.
2) You have blurred vision and general dizziness, yet you're stone sober.
3) You get the "I'm horribly sick" breath that people get when they're truly dying of internal illness, yet you're still (outwardly) feeling (mostly) fine.
4) You have intestinal cramps that are as sharp as labour pains-- and you know this is true whether you've had kids or not. You just do.

Fast forward to December 30th. The sitter is healthy, my husband is healthy, my children are whiny and clingy (hmmm) and I've got those four symptoms for no particular reason.  And then, with very little warning (ok, I full-on ignored the warning signs pretending I was both drunk and going into labour) it hit. Oh it hit.

Do Intestines Come In Bucket Size?

In the next 24 hours, I would lose 8 pounds between what was flying out of my ... opposing ends with jet propulsion.

Oh, what? 24 hours? Oh yeah. By noon on the 31st, I was feeling less close to the brink of death, however, the rest of the family succumbed to the germs.

To celebrate New Years Eve, 2011, I put on my [coffee stained, and now puke spattered] dress and swanky heels. I brought clean buckets to my husband and Kiddo #1 in their respective bathrooms.  I lit a sparkler in an attempt to festively ring in the new year, and kill off the offensive odours being produced.  Kiddo #2, in case you're wondering, was in the shower. It was easier to just hose him down after every episode.

Did you know catering to your family while dressed in a fantastic dress and amazing, glittery shoes, does not make you feel like Cinderella, but it does wish you could fit inside a pumpkin.

And, did you know that taking just 1 tablespoon of Gatorade or pedialyte every 5 minutes of continuous barfing will keep even a grown man hydrated? Did you know you can make your own when you run out of both and it's New Year's Eve and nothing is open? (it's not as tasty as the real stuff, but when you're dying of flu, no one will complain. Much.)

From our house to yours, Happy New Year.

T'was The Week Before Christmas

"T'was the night before Christmas" is a very long poem. 

This is especially true when you think it'd be faster to do a parody of that poem instead of working and working to write a blog. You'll find yourself working just as hard, if not harder, to write that parody and you'll want to give up about half-way through only to realize that you're too far in to quit now.  

Merry Christmas;  may your stocking be filled with Starbucks Instant Coffee and big, food grade steel buckets. Without further ado, I give you the poem. 

Love,

Does Coffee Come In Bucket Size

(aka Elizabeth)

T'was The Week Before Christmas

T'was the week before Christmas and all through the city,

Everyone was stressing and acting quite shitty.

The local biz-owners pretended not to care

That citizens were grumpy with vim and with flair.

See, money was nestled all snug in their hands; 

Nervous vendors awaited each woman and man.

With kids in their carseats, and I in mine, too,

We headed Downtown with our list, Yeehoo!

When out in the street there arose such a clatter, 

I laid on my horn to see what was the matter.

Away down a side street I turned like a flash,

To avoid getting into a holiday crash.

The sun in my eyes, while it rained and it snowed,

Made me hustle inside with my kiddies in tow.

When, what to my half-blinded eyes should appear,

But a guy on a bike shouting swears-- that was clear.

But why was he shouting? What was the trick?

"You knew you were cutting me off, you big dick!"

More rapid than eagles, his cursing, it came,

And he flipped me the bird while he called me these names:

For the sake of the children I shall not repeat them.

But suffice it to say -- we're not going to be friends.

My eldest asked Mommy, "Mother dear, what's a "hoe"?"

And the youngest pulled out a tool to show.

As we left the toy store with some bags and a sigh,

I decided that weird guy was probably high.

Down the street we walked with more shopping to do,

While cars honked and others stopped being nice. Boo!

And then, with a twinkling, we opened a door--

And we were accosted with meanness once more!

As I sucked in my breath and was turning around,

A little old lady pushed me to the ground!

She was dressed all in fur, from her head to her feet,

But her disposition was not happy OR sweet.

A bundle of bags she had in her hand,

And she said "Hurry up! Move over! Don't stand

Right in the doorway! Move along! Now scoot!"

And I knew nothing I could do for this old coot.

Her mean mouth was pinched in a permanent frown.

(I took joy in the long nose hairs that fell down

And tickled her moustache, which covered her teeth.

And those teeth! Oh those teeth! Oh, those terrible teeth!

She had a broad nose and a rather large belly,

That shook when she bitched, like a bowl full of jelly!)

She was clearly impressed with her important self,

So I laughed when she said that, to spite herself.

With a huff and snort and a twist of her head,

She pushed on by me and away that jerk sped.

I said not a word, but went straight to work,

And crossed off the names on my wish list of quirks.

And laying my Visa in the debit machine,

I accepted the purchase-- made the vendor's eye's gleam.

We walked back to the car, and spotted the ticket.

Out of time was my meter? That Reader can lick it!

I'm sure he heard me exclaim, as he drove out of sight,

"Merry Christmas, my ass! Meter Reader, let's fight!"

Santa, Baby

Dear Santa,

I hope you are doing well. It's been quite some time since I last wrote; in fact, at the time of the last letter I thought a semi-colon was simply a fancy comma! Ha! Yes, I know! It's been a very long time.

I usually send correspondence to your email address, but this is a last minute thing and I figure since most kids are sending emails, the regular mail might, ironically, get to you more quickly. Yes, I even learned how to properly use the term 'ironic' since our last chat.  Ha ha ha. 

I hear Rudolph's line of tanning beds is doing marvellously well-- you should really not be too upset with him for going out on his own-- it's not like it's super foggy every year and a deer needs to provide for his family. How does the ad go again?  "Unless you're a snowman, there's no need to go untanned. Let the red lights at Rudy's give you back your healthy glow!"

It's nice to know Rudolph's not the "buck-and-run" type-- he supports his fauns as any good papa should. We all know the mess Dasher got into Christmas '03.  Just sayin'.

How's Mrs. Claus? How's life in the North Pole? Sometimes, Santa, I complain that I don't want to cook another meal and can't possibly do another load of laundry or I will scream. And then I remember how far away from fast food that you live, and how Mrs. Claus surely has more cooking and cleaning to do than I do, and I stop complaining. Just keeping you fat and jolly would be more than anything I have to do here.

Anyway, I just wanted to tell you that I need something for Christmas.  Oh, I know you've already read my mind and said, "No iPad!" but really, I need a new case for my phone. See, uh, it's had an accident.

I was changing Kiddo #2. We cloth diaper (as you know, because a couple of years ago I put some TotsBots diapers on my wish list since they're kinda pricey, and you came through for me!) so when Kiddo #2 does a #2, I have to kinda peel it out of the diaper and flush it.  It doesn't take more than a second, and I use a baby wipe as a barrier between my hand and the poop, and besides, that's not the point.

So there I was, holding my cellie in my left hand and the poop in the right hand. I walked over to the toilet, Santa, and plopped the not-quite-solid mass in. Did I mention, Santa, that Kiddo #2 has been teething like crazy (all four eye-teeth at the same time, and they're the only ones he doesn't have) and has been crying and clingy and has a super raw-butt? Oh, well, then I probably neglected to tell you that he's had the runs for over a week now, which is also really awesome.

So I plopped the junk into the toilet while my phone buzzed to tell me I had a text message. I, having dealt with the stinky thing, looked to my left hand, flipped my phone over so I could read the message. This, by the way, was the precise moment Kiddo #2 decided he needed to weave his gigantic baby body between my legs like a cat. Like a CAT, I say.

The dialogue sounded something like this:

Me: Uh, woaah. Woah. Wooooahh, Kiddo, woaah, Number, uhhh, ahhh, Two!
(close-up of phone flopping around in left hand like a dying fish)
Me: oohh, uh, oooooh!
(close-up of phone flipping, slo-mo up into the air, end over end over end over end)
Plop.
(close-up of my face, contorted, screaming, also in slo-mo, "Noooooooooooooooooooooooo.")

And, quick as a wink, before I could think, I plunged my hand into the toilet after my precious baby! Santa, remember how I used to send email after email about how all I wanted for Christmas was an iPhone? And how I promised to feed the dog every day if I got one? And how I promised to not complain about doing the laundry or making dinner if only I could have an iPhone?

Well, those were lies, but still, I love my phone. Really love her.

Into the poopy toilet I threw my hand, with no regard for my own personal safety. I grabbed the phone pulled it out of the toilet. I ripped off the leather case like a daddy pulling a boy off his daughter at the movies, and ran to the kitchen to perform CPR. And, by CPR, I mean "wipe it down with disinfectant while cursing under my breath" and then, I did what any hero would've done.

I, with great sadness and hope, ran downstairs and plunged my phone deep into the centre of the rice table.  I've heard that rice sucks out moisture (apparently it's maybe also good for arthritis? Try it out on your hands on the 25th and let me know if it works for you), so after testing my phone to see that it at least turned on, I buried it in the rice table for the rest of the afternoon.

(Don't wonder why we have a table of rice, Santa. We bring in the water table you brought last Christmas for the winter, and instead of just having it hang out with no purpose, I fill it with rice so the children can still play and if it gets everywhere, the dog can eat it.)

But, Santa. Oh Santa. Upon careful deliberation, I've decided the worst part of that whole scene wasn't the sticking-my-arm-in-a-poopy-toilet part. It was being without my precious phone for the better part of an afternoon. (and using that alone time to scrub "the crap" outta my arm. The shame of my obsessive-compulsive disorder is represented in the bring pink hue of my left hand to elbow. Sigh.)

So, lovely fat man, I need a new phone case. In the last week since "The Incident" I've lost my phone 5 times in the vastness of my (empty, pre-holiday, post-shopping) wallet. I'm not used to my phone being so streamlined and skinny. I need a big, chunky (poop-resistant?) case for her.

I know I'm getting down to the wire here, Santa, baby, but if you could hook me up, I'd be most obliged. I'll even leave those mint chocolate cookies from the Girl Guides out for you. And ORGANIC carrots for the reindeer.

Love,

Sunny




To get automatic updates via email, enter yours in the box under the Gerbera daisy and click submit. If you landed here looking for Tangled-themed Party info, click on the archive for June 12th, 2011. Thanks! Share with friends!

Just Another Angel Forward

Don't tell anyone.

Keep Walkin', there's nothing funny going on here.
Only a crazy Angel forward that will make you cry. 

I'm not kidding. Shhhhh!

Just read this post as though it's another Angel forward from your well-meaning mother-in-law (or mother, whichever one sends you your forwards about angels). Don't tell a SOUL that you're really reading my blog. I'll try to keep this one serious so you don't accidently snort or giggle.  I'll even put a little angel over here in case someone walks by and wonders what you're doing.

I'm writing this from inside the Christmas tree box, in the darkest, dankest regions of my basement. I'm half crippled having wrapped my legs around my head.  Very Best Girlfriend is a yoga instructor and I'm sure even she would be impressed with my bendy-ness. Why?

Because, as much as I love them, I need a break from my family REALLY BAD.  I love them to the moon, to the stars and to the "Maximus" (which is what my Tangled-loving daughter holds as the pinnacle of adoration) but if they even suspected I am in the house, it would be game over.  I'm typing this on my iPhone.  It will surely cause massive carpal tunnel in both wrists, but the click of my keyboard sounds like hammers to my kids and dog.  They can hear that at 50 paces, and from a dead sleep.

I told my family that I was going out for groceries after dinner-- Husband agreed to put the kids to bed all by himself, because there's nothing he hates more than grocery shopping.  I waited until I had the quiet cover of darkness.  I waved to my kids and husband and drove away. Then, like all those cool spy movies, just as my taillights were out of distance, I cut the engine and parked the car.

With the silence and stealth of a 16-year old boy in his girlfriend's parents' driveway at 2am, I tucked and rolled out of my driver's seat, silently shut the door and locked it with the key fob. I looked around, smug with the success of my plan thus far-- I've parked the car 5 houses down from ours and I am wearing my usual all-black attire, which works double time in the darkness. Oh I am SO smart. Smarty-smart-smart.

"Hi Elizabeth."
"Oh hi, Fire Chief Neighbour. I, uh, suppose you're wondering why I'm crouched down here beside my car."
"Oh, not really."
"Well, I uh, um, I just ... am stretching for a run?"
"You don't need to come up with something crazy on my account."
"But this looks weird. I mean, I'm whisper-shouting even. That has to be odd to you."
"Oh, Elizabeth. You do plenty of really weird stuff. This isn't new. Carry on."

Sigh. I wave as my neighbour power walks by. I mean, what else could I do?

Once the coast is clear-er, I duck walk back to the house making sure to avoid all window areas. I listen at the side door for the screech, laughter or general noise of the children, decide they're not on this side of the house and unlock the door. The dog barks four times before she sees it's me and stops. I hear Husband yell, "Rizzo!" from the kids' bathroom. Ah yes! He's giving them a bath. I won't be caught now, for sure!

I slink, less cautiously but still stealthily, down the stairs to the basement. It's dark down here with the lights off. I crunch across the playroom floor. Why was it a good idea to put uncooked rice in the water table while it's inside for the winter? The snap, crackle and pop beneath my feet sounds like tap dancing on sand.

Yet, my heart pitter patters like tap dancing on sand. Ok, that doesn't work as well, but you get the point. I'm ALONE! No one knows I'm here and I'm ALONE! No one is slobbering, sneezing or otherwise showering me with bodily fluids. No one is paralyzed with indecision or unable to think or do without asking me about it first. It is so liberating I almost bust out into song--BUT that would give away my secret hideaway so I swallow my urge to sing, swallow hard, and walk deeper into the recesses of my basement.

I find the Christmas tree box. I climb in.

I turn on my phone and get caught up with email and Facebook (wretched, wonderful thing that it is). The glow is blinding, even with the screen dimmed. I fill up countless shopping carts with the things I'd buy on a whim-- oh the websites and places I go. Yet, I feel strangely sad.

I can't believe this. Here I've been plotting and planning for days to carve out some time for JUST. FOR. ME. To make my own choices, to just do what I want to do, when I want to do it. And here I am, sitting cramping inside the box our Christmas tree goes in every year, with my phone burning profile pictures of people I know into my retinas for all eternity, and all I want to do is be upstairs with my kids and hubby. But I also know, the second I get up there, I will be crabby and annoyed that I wasted my precious and few moments to myself.

What to do? What to do?

Well, for starters, I need to remember that I make the atmosphere in my house. If I am crabby, everyone else will be, too. Sure, that sounds like an overwhelming responsibility some days, but man, it's super empowering. I mean I CONTROL it. So if I want everyone to love life, I need to show them what that looks like. I need to be happy and positive and creative and I can't be that way if I haven't taken time to recharge my batteries.  I fire off an email to my girlfriends: the first two to respond say they'd love to meet me at the park for a quick walk before going for dinner tomorrow night.  Sweet. Just what the Doctor ordered.

But. I'm still feeling a little crabby. I find this time of year is a killer for me. I get to be extra busy making sure everyone's holiday is wonderful by way of baking, running, tradition-making, sewing, ... the list goes on.

Yes, we love it, but it's still extra tiring and extra work on top of the regular super-mom things we do. 

So I've decided to mark, on the calendar, in ink, a night each week from November to December, where I have the night off. I can spend it with friends, getting exercise, reading, or whatever, but I cannot use that time to stare at Facebook, the TV or my phone. I will not squander the spare time I actually have.

I climb gracefully out of the box. Ha. That's a riot. I tip the box over onto its side and roll my paralyzed corpse out. Everything cracks, creaks and groans as I attempt to sit up. My hands are screaming from pain and are freezing to the touch making the sandy, not-quite-painful, not-quite-pleasant feeling of sleeping limbs go from head to toe. GROSS.

I wish I'd thought through how I was going to re-leave the house and return unnoticed, since Husband is now in the basement watching TV (he's watching a scary TV show about the army or zombies, so my hideous groaning and bone popping sounds blended in). I slither up the stairs like the shadow of a serpent, smugly sure of my success. I lock the side door behind me and steal off into the night to return as though I've been shopping for hours. As I come in the garage door, I announce that Husband doesn't need to help with the groceries [that I didn't get].

He doesn't answer.
The TV is noiseless so I shout down again. "No need to help with the groceries."

Nothing.

I head to the basement and find he's not on the couch. I call out, "Husband?"
"Yeah?"
"Where are you?"
"In the Christmas Tree box."
"Wha ... why? What?" I cringe. Frickin' frick.
"The Christmas Tree box."
I walk over.  There he is, exactly where I'd just been.  My stomach freezes and, like a drug addict from some TV show that I can't watch without getting nightmares, I start panicking, twitching and sweating.  

"Um?" That's all my panicked brain seems capable of saying. Nice. Thanks brain. I'll remember that next time I decide to go drinking, jerk.

Husband pops open the flaps and smiles. "Oh, hey. Just thought I'd try it out. It's not as comfy as you make it seem."  He chuckles and offers me his hand to help him get up.  I chuckle and realize maybe, just maybe, he's on my side.

"You know, if you need some time alone, you don't have to pretend to leave and then sneak back and hide in the basement.  You could just say, "Hey, Husband, I need a break. Can you handle things and I'll be back in a couple of hours.""

He looks me in the eyes and smiles and the weather in the basement gets a whole lot warmer in an instant.


To get automatic updates via email, enter yours in the box under the Gerbera daisy and click submit. If you landed here looking for Tangled-themed Party info, click on the archive for June 12th, 2011. Thanks! Share with friends!