Friday, November 2, 2012

Another Reason to Ignore My Kitchen

This week, my 7yo daughter asked me to make baked goods for her school's Halloween party.  I have done this for school parties in the past, which is kind of ironic, given that I am not really the Suzie Homemaker kind of a mom.  My daughter loves offering the goods to her class though, so I continue to bake, if for no other reason but to bask in the mommy-ness of the task.

I was hoping to get out of cookie duty this year but on the morning of the party, my daughter freaked out on me for not having made anything.  Being the sucker nice mom that I am, I sent her off to school with the promise that I would make cookies that morning, and bring them to the office at her school before her party started.

The cookies had to be nut-free of course, but also egg free for this particular class.  I, Super mom, made cookies like mad that morning.  I ran out to the store for ingredients and churned out a few trays of cookies that had to be cooled down and delivered before noon that same day.

Wow, I thought to myself, praising my awesomeness.  

Once I got to the school office, I explained to the secretary why I was delivering the cookies.  She asked me if we had any peanut butter in the house, to which I replied 'yes', but didn't think it relevant since the jar had not been opened in over a week prior to this baking session.

Not good enough apparently.  My cookies were denied!  

Still not wanting to disappoint my daughter, I ran over to the grocery store and found some boring shortbread cookies that were free of offending nuts and eggs.  She was apparently happy with this.

So the bad news is obvious.  The good news:  No more baking!  Woot!

Thursday, November 1, 2012

No Faux Good Deed Goes Unpunished

Today I rescued a lost dog.  He wasn't actually lost as it turned out, but he was alone in the ravine, covered in burrs when I stumbled upon him while walking my own dog.  It was easy enough to put a leash on him, so I walked him up to my house and called the number on the dog tag.

After reuniting the dog with his owner who was doing maintenance on a nearby golf course, I bragged to my neighbor that God was definitely going to look after me for the rest of the day.

Maybe that only works after rescuing a dog that is genuinely lost.

After being out and about for most of the day, I returned home to find that my dog had had explosive diarrhea all over my kitchen floor.  I'm talking EXPLOSIVE!  There was more brown, watery crap in my kitchen than actual visible floor!

I glamorously cleaned that up while a construction crew in my back yard pretended not to watch.  At least the guys in the yard didn't have to watch me clean up the dog vomit that ensued in the living room about 15 minutes later.  They did however catch a glimpse of me cleaning up my younger daughter whose nose started bleeding profusely at about the same time for no good reason whatsoever!

Exasperated, I shouted out to the guys in the back yard "for the love of God, could there be any more disgusting substances for me to clean up today!???"

They all smirked.  


Wednesday, July 18, 2012

The Average Person Spends 16 Minutes a Day Looking for Things

Last year when I got my current car, I had a hitch receiver installed such that I could attach my bike rack to it.  The car was fitted to receive a 2" hitch, but my bike rack has a 1-1/4" insert on it, so the hitch people gave me an adapter piece and sent me on my merry way.

When the huz and I set out for a morning of biking one day last summer, the adapter piece was nowhere to be found.  This of course prompted a futile, frustrating, search.  Then I convinced myself that I had left the adapter piece attached to the car without a fastener, which would have resulted in said adapter plunking out on a highway somewhere, wreaking havoc on someone else's vehicle upon their driving over it.  I've experienced some guilt about that.

Since the hitch store was out of the way, we ended up removing the children's car seats, folding down the actual car seats, removing the front wheels from the bikes, and stuffing our bike pieces into the hatchback in a way that prompts people to buy bike racks to avoid such hassle.  We did this several times since I could never seem to remember to go buy a new adapter.

Nonetheless, I have always found myself scanning the interior of my garage, looking for that piece of black metal, 2" square by 4" long.  Or 6" long depending on who you ask.

Finally, just last week, I remembered to go to the hitch store and buy a new adapter.  I paid my $45, and was handed the adapter in a small white box.

This morning I decided to take the bikes in for a tune up since we could now use the rack to drive to the repair shop.  I grabbed the adapter from the small white box that was sitting top of a crate in the garage, and used it to install the bike rack onto the car.  Then I noticed another small white box sitting on the passenger seat inside my car.




Had I actually known that all along I should have been looking for a small white box instead of a small piece of black metal, I'm pretty sure I would have found it a year ago with absolutely no effort.  And I'd be $45 richer.  And their would be fewer scuff marks inside my car...

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Because Everyone Should have an Embarrassing Fifty Shades Story

I resisted reading the Fifty Shades series, not because I was put off by the erotic nature of the books, but because the media had coined the series, 'mommy porn', which sounded about as sexy as oatmeal to me.  The summer TV schedule, however, had me looking around for alternate forms of entertainment one night, leading me to a copy of the first book of the series that my mom had cast off to me.  FYI, being given second-hand 'mommy porn' by one's own mother is also not terribly enticing.

Walking through Costco a few days later, I noticed that they carried the other two books from the trilogy at a good price.  I understand that I could have downloaded the e-book versions for free, but I am still a fan of paper, and the books were right there, so I threw them in the cart.

At the check-out, as with any Costco I have been in, there was an employee stacking each person's order onto the conveyor belt, ensuring that the line moved quickly.  He piled my order quite high so as to leave space for the next person's order.  The books were on top, and I admittedly bothered to turn them face-down to avoid possible embarrassment.

The conveyor belt lurched forward as the cashier scanned items for the man in front of me, causing one of the books to slide off of my pile of goods, and over the scanner.  The man in front of me with the mullet and beer shirt now had my pornographic novel itemized on his receipt.  The cashier quickly remedied the situation, and I grinned, imagining this man explaining to his significant other why it appeared that he made an attempt to purchase that particular book.

The man then grinned at me, and commented that his wife was currently reading the same series.  "Oh... well... hopefully that's working out well for you.", I muttered, while looking down at my feet, wondering why I don't seem to have a filter that prevents me from saying such things to strange men at check-outs.

I just kept willing for the line to move faster so the man in front of me would leave.  I could imagine what he might have been thinking, and I didn't want to continue to stand there, watching him possibly think it.

Finally he was on his way to the parking lot, leaving me to regain my composure.  Then the matronly looking woman behind me tapped me on the shoulder and asked, "Is it a worthwhile read?  What's it about?"

E-books.  I get it now.

Thursday, March 15, 2012

Freudian Paydirt

In my dream, I was on my way to an appointment with a life coach, (something that I have done in real life).  The Huz was accompanying me, (which he never has).  For some reason, we were unable to take the car, so we had to cycle to the appointment. (We actually used to be avid mountain bikers, pre-parenthood, and this past week-end we saw an old video of a bike trip we went on in 1998).

Somehow, I managed to overshoot our destination by a long shot, and we had to back-track.  At our turn-around point, I ran into a guy who, in real life, I once dated, and who ultimately wasn't that into me, and who caused me great heart-ache back in the day.  He saw me and called out, "Hi Rachel", which would have been fine if my name actually was Rachel.  We had an awkward conversation, then started our trek back to the life coach's office, with enough time to make it to the appointment.

At this point, it became winter, and the cycling became more difficult with all the ice and snow.  Not only that, but the streets had ceased to be recognizable, and there were no signs to help us along.  We started up a hill that was too icy and steep to even walk up.  I knew that I was definitely going to be late for the appointment, which had me feeling extremely nervous and anxious. (Typical for me if I am late for something.)

Eventually, we stumbled upon a house, and let ourselves in with the hopes of finding someone to offer us directions.  The person we found had no idea how to help us.

We walked through the house and found a mother and her two children.  The mother was dancing around in her son's underwear, trying to make him laugh.  I gave her a hug and then went to find our bikes.

When I finally found the bikes just outside one of the doors, I was unable to go out to get them given that I wasn't wearing pants.  The mother who was dancing in her son's underwear walked into the room, and I had to assure her that I was just trying to leave, and that she shouldn't be concerned that I had no pants on.

The Huz showed up, also not wearing enough clothing, but he braved the cold to get us our bikes.

The End.

So analyze that!

Tuesday, March 6, 2012

Eye of the Beholder

Yesterday my 6yo daughter ran and grabbed me in a panic and pulled me into the washroom.  She positioned herself in front of the mirror and pointed to her eye, expressing concern that there was darkness under it.

"Oh, those are called dark circles.", I explained.  "You get those when you don't get enough sleep.  I haven't had enough sleep since you were born, and look at MY dark circles!"

She just stared at me with great concern.

Later, my daughter was in front of a mirror again, pondering what she might look like when she's grown up.

"I'm sure you'll be as beautiful as you are now", I offered.

Pleased with this response, she put on a big smile, which suddenly dropped as she looked over at me and said, "Uhhmmmm, ok, but I'm going to make sure that I get more sleep than you're getting."

Tuesday, February 7, 2012

Kinda Gross

Back in the summer, I noticed that my dog was having an issue with her nose.  It appeared that she was shedding a partial layer of it over one nostril.  The piece fell off, then I noticed it happening again a few weeks later.  Naturally I Dr. Googled my way onto a page that discussed canine nose cancer, which landed us at the vet's office.

"Whoa!", exclaimed the doctor.  "Check out these boogers!"

Really? Boogers.  They ought to ban medical information from the Internet.

Anyhow, a few months later, the booger phenomenon continued, so we dealt with the canine tooth below the snotty nostril, and treated it for an infection.  The boogers kept coming.

Recently we did a swab of that nostril, and guess what?  Strep.  Yep.  Strep.  Not strep confined to dogs only.  Strep that a dog can give humans.  We got her medicated right away, and didn't worry a great deal about ourselves since we had been living with this for months, and no one had been affected.

I guess it's the power of suggestion or something, but boy did I have a nice round of strep throat over the week-end.

So let's do a tally.  I ended up with strep throat twice in the past year.  Once right after a massage therapist remarked to me about her having strep lady parts, and now once right after discovering that my dog has strep nose.  I am currently on medication for strep dog nose.  Think about that.

If you happen have strep in any weird places, please don't tell me about it.  I seem vulnerable to these things.

Sunday, January 29, 2012

Temporary Occupants

Last Monday, I noticed a really old car on my street.  Not a classic, but a 20 year old Civic that somehow still runs.  Later in the day, I saw that same car driving out of the subdivision, with three dogs in the hatch.  At the time, I was amused to see all the dogs, but then I wondered who they were actually visiting on my very small street that would let anyone visit with three dogs.  We only have two dogs and have no takers in terms of anyone wanting us to visit with them.

The car was still there on Tuesday.  It was still there on Wednesday.  By Thursday, I had concluded that the owners of the car were actually living out of it, and possibly camping in my local park.  I mentioned this to a neighbour, who had seen the couple and their dogs emerging from a wooded area that morning.  We agreed that we should alert the police to their situation since they made us nervous for our safety.  My neighbour also noticed a campfire behind her house that night, which isn't really awesome in a residential area.

I didn't call the police on Thursday.  The car was gone when I returned from taking my daughter to school, and I crossed my fingers that they would not return.  They were back that night.  I didn't make the call.  My husband wasn't really on board with me harassing these poor people when they had nothing but a shitty car and a park to camp in, while we sat in our warm house, eating bon bons.

I agreed with him on that level, but I couldn't help but feel unsafe.  I really wished they'd leave so I wouldn't have to feel guilty about having them removed.

On the Friday, I did a really wimpy thing.  I mentioned the situation to another neighbour, who I knew would call the police.  The police were there that night.  From what I witnessed from my darkened living room, the cops let them reside until morning, when I saw them packing up their gear into the car.

I was glad that they were leaving, but still felt horrible for their situation.  More than likely, they were just people down on their luck, not wanting to lose their pets, trying to stay alive as a family.  I wanted to help, but was afraid of them at the same time.  What if I helped and they came back and asked for more?  What if they posed a harm to my family?  They had to go, I figured.

The huz walked our dogs that morning.  On his way home, he encountered the female occupant of the old car, whose dogs were looking to say hello to my dogs.  The huz and the woman had a brief conversation.  She flat out told him that she and her boyfriend were camping, but were now on their way to Thunder Bay to visit someone in his family.  The huz wished her well, and offered her whatever cash he was carrying as a way of helping out.  I'm proud of him, but feel pretty ashamed of myself

Intellectually, I know that this was not a stable situation and could not persist.  They would have been removed from our street/park eventually.  I also know that if I had approached them to diffuse my fears, probably nothing bad would have happened, but there was no way of knowing that.

I still feel like an asshole.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

I Would Have Paid a LOT More!

I actually offered my daughter money to make her do her homework.  I'm not even joking.  After three months of failing to get her to focus and be serious, I just gave up and tried to throw cash at the problem.  Guess what?  I also seem to have failed to get her to value monetary reward.

I'm not sure that I can adequately describe what happens to my six year old when I try to get her to do her homework.  She starts talking like a baby, she scribbles, she jumps around, she belches, she laughs maniacally, and she manages to get me to bang my head on a wall.  The work is always a mess, and I can't imagine that any learning goes on during what has become a nightly, excruciatingly long battle.  This is just grade one!

At the start of this week, I made her a deal.  I told her that I would mark her calendar with a happy face on each day that she behaved well and made an adequate effort during homework time.  I told her that each happy face was worth 25 cents, and that I would double the amount for each week where she managed to earn five happy faces.

I tried to explain that she would have enough money to buy a Barbie after a month of good behaviour, but she couldn't seem to grasp the concept.  The homework on that particular day was as bad as ever.  The rest of the evening was even worse!  Homework initiates the bad behaviour, and once it starts, she can't seem to stop.  Just before bed time, I made another futile attempt to explain my reward system.

"I have enough money!  I'll just use the family money!" she argued.

"Wanna bet!", I angrily retorted while the huz poured me a glass of wine and escorted me into a quite room.

The next morning, my daughter was looking through the Scholastic book catalogue, and found something she really wanted.

Aha!  Leverage!

"Ok, sweetie.  All you have to do is earn ten homework happy faces, and that book is yours!"

You would not believe how furious she got in the face of the daunting task of behaving well during ten homework sessions!  I stood my ground though.  She was in tears when she got on the bus that morning, and turned the tears on for me when she got off the bus after school.  And then something neat happened!

She earned a happy face!  And then another!  And another!

I'm realize that I'm still throwing money at this problem, but at least it's under the guise of the gift of literature.  So what if it's Barbie Surf Princess!

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

DASH of Something

Last night's dinner was a disappointment for me, as have been many of my meals over the past year.  This is yet another obstacle, albeit a minor one, that I've recently had to tackle.

The Huz came home from work one day last year and said, "I met with my Dr. today, and he said that because of my high blood pressure, I have to follow the DASH diet".  He said this like it was no biggie.  Aside from having to worry about his health, I gained an immediate challenge.

The Dash Diet is essentially a high fruit/vegetable, low sodium, low fat, low flavour diet that incorporates none of the things I've ever made in the kitchen.  Let me further add that cooking has proven to be the bain of my existence ever since I entered the realm of motherhood.  Before I had kids, cooking was a relaxing thing that I did after work in anticipation of a nice meal with my man.  Now that time has become what I have heard referred to as the 'Arsenic Hours'.

This is not a fun time of day.  Homework has to be done, two meals have to be made, dogs have to be fed, (and encouraged to eat, if you can believe that), interruptions are guaranteed, and the general noise level is enough to put me in a foul mood.  Then I learned that the DASH Diet meant that I had to learn to cook all over again.

I won't say that I actually followed that diet perfectly, since lowering the sodium intake seemed to be the only issue.  Lowering fat is of course desirable, but the Huz is not overweight.  He's actually in better shape than most men his age, so we just focused on the sodium.  (See how I incorporated a back-door compliment here?) The first thing that I learned was that bread was a killer.  So now I bake my own fucking bread.  I am not the kind of person that bakes bread.  I'm really only into baking cookies, and that's based on not having to share them with anyone.

There have been a lot of shitty meals served around here with new recipes and experiments.  With flavour being the goal, I've tried a lot of things that just didn't work, at least not for us.  Last night's disappointing meal was an example of what happens when I take a perfectly good recipe and replace the broth with a zero sodium version.  Not all meals translate well, no matter what you try to replace the salt with.

The good news is that the Huz has what he calls 'lumberjack mentality' when it comes to eating.  Apparently, lumberjacks are terrible cooks, and none of them wants to take on the job of cooking.  That is why they will eat anything without complaining, even if manure is a known ingredient.

He's a keeper, right?

So here we are, six months later, and my efforts have proven to be fruitless.  The Huz is not salt sensitive since his BP is a genetic thing, so he is now taking meds to deal with this.

Well that was fun.

Sunday, January 15, 2012

I Shaved My Legs for This???

Last night was to be a birthday celebration for my brother-in-law, but all it ended up being was a blog post.

The huz's immediate family all gathered at a nice restaurant downtown for a gourmet meal.  I had checked out the menu on-line, and salivated in anticipation of my future piri piri shrimp dinner.

When we got there, I looked at the five steps leading up to the dining area and wondered how we were going to get my father-in-law in his wheelchair into the restaurant.  The maitre d more or less absolved himself of any responsibility, and got kind of defensive about it.  Regardless, we had enough strength in our party to lift my FIL in, but it kind of set a negative tone for the meal.

The huz and I ordered some wine and got over that issue easily enough.  The others dwelled on it for a bit.  They really should drink more.  Then we ordered from our seemingly eager-to-please waiter, and we waited.  And waited.  And waited some more. I started looking for Chef Ramsay, wondering if he was sending food back into the kitchen, but food kept coming out, heading upstairs to the party room. 

Finally, my BIL asked what the deal was, at which point we were promised food in 10-15 minutes.  My nephew set the timer for 15 minutes on his smart phone, happy to prove the waiter to be a liar when time ran out and we were still unfed.  We inquired again as to the timing of our food, and were told five more minutes.  My nephew's phone once again proved to be more accurate than the waiter's promise.  By this time, everyone was playing with his or her phone since conversation had run dry, and we had no food to stuff our faces with.

The huz and I were hungry, but weren't overly concerned.  Waiting over an hour between appetizers and main courses wasn't awesome, but we were happy enough to wait. We had nowhere to go but home, and still did need to eat.  The menu was said to be worth the wait.

The next thing I knew, my BIL was putting on his coat, announcing that the wait was ridiculous and that he had cancelled dinner. 

Huh?  I'm hungry mofo!  You can't just do that!  It was too late to protest.  I saw my BIL clear up the bill for the appetizers and wine, and he beckoned for us to leave.  I've never done that before and was feeling insanely awkward.

We ended up driving my BIL, his partner, and ourselves over to my BIL's place, where we were served a bowl of chips and some frozen pizza.  Happy birthday to you, buddy.  Too bad you cancelled your own cake!

Tuesday, January 10, 2012

Obsession and Name Calling

My mom is known for her obsession with getting things done.  She isn't as bad as Dolores Herbig's character on  Dead Like Me, and doesn't have a webcam such that everyone can observe her completing mundane tasks around her house, but she would give Dolores a run for her money.  If an appliance breaks, my mom is out the door to buy a new one within five minutes of it breaking.  When the laundry cycle ends, those clothes are folded and put away before anyone has a chance to bitch about doing laundry.  When I lived with her, I recall a few occasions where the newspaper was thrown in recycling before 10am, and before I had a chance to read it.  Don't even talk to me about what waiting in line at a restaurant does to her.

My mom is aware of this quirk, and accepts that it is the subject of mockery within our family.

Just after Christmas, my mom and I both went to a rug store to take advantage of a sale. Since we were both in need of an area rug, it made sense to buy them together, hoping for an even better deal.  We each made a purchase, but neither of our rugs were in stock.  The plan was to wait for both rugs to arrive at the store, and pick them up in one trip.

My mom's rug was ready first.  She really wanted to have it in her hands.  I encouraged her to wait until mine was ready, which would have been a few days later.  She couldn't deal with that.  She announced that she would just go get hers on her own that day.

"Mom,", I began, "You really need to try to get this obsession under control!  It's just going to get worse and worse as you get older.  I actually think that it has already started!"

"Well,", she replied, "If that theory is true, by the time you're old, you're likely to be the biggest bitch on the planet!"

Now was that called for???

Friday, January 6, 2012

One Reason for My Crankiness in 2011 Part 2

If you're just tuning in, read my last post first.

Have you ever heard of post viral arthritis?  If not, you might be in the company of my family doctor.  To be fair, he wasn't the doctor who saw me for my sore throat since that happened during the holidays and he was likely playing golf somewhere hot and sunny.  Had he been the one to treat me, maybe he would have made the connection between my throat virus and the fact that several weeks later, I was unable to move any joint in my body without a crazy amount of pain.

Every joint was f*cked!  It was so difficult for me to go from sitting to standing because of how bad my back was.  Mom mom commented that I looked like Tim Conway when I tried.  We're a such a compassionate family.  Even worse, I was old enough to get the reference!

In addition to popping knuckles and crackling knees, the arm pain that I had been dealing with prior to all this was intensified to the point that I couldn't sleep more that three hours at a time without being woken up by it.  So my first call was to the physiotherapist, who was baffled by my issues, and couldn't do a thing to help

Next I was back at the doctor's, who also seemed baffled.  I begged him for drugs, which he reluctantly prescribed, and which helped somewhat.  Regular pain killers didn't help, but something called Lyrica made it such that I was stoned/sleepy enough to not care about the pain.  I only took them at night, btw.  There was some daytime parenting being done during these times.  

Note:  this is not an endorsement for recreational use of Lyrica.  It dulled 'other' nerve sensations that had no business being dulled, and I never felt clear headed during the time I used it.  Recently, a friend of mine said that her mother was using it but had to stop because it induced suicidal thoughts.  Don't use it if you don't need it!

Then came a round of medical tests.  Blood tests revealed nothing.  MRI's revealed nothing.  Thankfully though, an ultrasound at a sports clinic revealed inflamed bursitis.  Hmmmm.  Bursitis.  Where have I hear that before?  Oh yeah, in my opening paragraph when I asked my doctor about it more than five years ago!!!

I asked to see a rheumatologist, who offered me cortisone shots for bursitis, and diagnosed most of my other pains as post viral arthritis that would go away on its own.  She also said that I had a touch of carpel tunnel syndrome and that I should sleep with wrist braces.  This rheumatologist became my favourite person of 2011.  I had six solid weeks of no pain.  The arthritis is gone, although it did make a second appearance, I almost never need to use the wrist braces anymore, and my bursitis is mostly under control.

So yeah, my arms still hurt but are cruising at a level of 3 out of 10 on the pain scale.  I'll live with it for now.  Sorry for sounding like an old lady complaining about my health, but the old lady version of me was definitely along for the ride last year.  And what a bitch she is!

Wednesday, January 4, 2012

One Reason For My Crankiness in 2011

Shortly after our first daughter was born, I began experiencing pain in my arms.  My husband suggested that it might be bursitis, which is what I suggested to my doctor when I eventually went to see him.  He said that the pain was actually from tension in my neck, and suggested massage therapy.

I had a few massages, but the pain was always there.  I also tried my husband's physiotherapist.  I ended up sticking with physio.  My husband and I spent so much time in physio during this time that we actually got invited to our therapist's wedding! And we found it appropriate to attend!  That aside, any benefit I got from physio was always temporary.  I did end up with a lovely centre piece from the wedding though!  The suckers who actually won it couldn't fit it in their Porsche, so they offered it to me.  Score!

After about five years of living with arm pain of varying degrees, I woke up one day with no pain at all.  This lasted about six months, until last Christmas when I woke up all messed up again.  Being Christmas time, my physiotherapist was on vacation, although my massage therapist was still around.  I went to see her instead.  In retrospect, I'm thinking that this was a bad choice.

I don't want to accuse the massage therapist as being the cause for any of my subsequent woes, but boy did my life start to suck large after seeing her! I distinctly remember last new year's eve being unable to extend my right arm in any direction.  I also remember a throat infection that I sincerely hope had nothing to do with my massage therapist, despite the onset of the infection being just hours after my massage.

My massage therapist is rather chatty, and often tells me waaaaayyyy to much about herself.  On this particular occasion, she was telling me about how she was on antibiotics for an infection in her 'area'.  Her doctor told her that it was strep.

If you know me at all, you'll be aware of my germaphobia, as inconsistent as it is.  Picture me lying on a table while the hands of a woman with strep woo woo rubbed my neck and shoulders.


So yeah,  I really hope that the timing of the massage and the onset of my throat infection were purely coincidental.

To put your mind somewhat at ease, I don't believe that I had strep throat.  I went to a walk in clinic where the doctor admitted that my throat looked terrible, but he didn't see the telltale signs of strep.  He gave me antibiotics to take in case white spots emerged, realizing that the lab might not get back to him fast enough given that it was during the Christmas holidays.

The pain compelled me to take the antibiotics without confirming that I had strep.  The doctor/lab never called to tell me to go ahead and take them.  Either way, I recovered, but not before breaking out in an itchy, red rash caused from an allergy to the antibiotics.  Awesome!

Then the real fun started!

To be continued...

Tuesday, January 3, 2012

Blog Revival

For those of you who followed me over from my old blog, you may have noticed that I haven't been writing much over the past year.  I can probably attribute my break from writing to the fact that last year really sucked donkey balls for me.  I never wrote about my real life issues, but instead continued on with my usual attempts at comedy, which became a bit tiresome when I wasn't feeling all that funny.

So here I am at the start of a new year, embarking on a new blog, hoping to be a little more real.

I'm not going to bombard you with my emotions right now all in one post, especially given that spilling feelings has never been much of a strong suit for me, but I will let you know that everything really is ok over here.  I have learned to cope with some new challenges in my life and will be writing about them eventually, but for now you should know that the laughter continues, and that this blog will still offer up its fair share of fart jokes.

Happy New Year!