Just... UGH.

I love my boys, I really do. You know I do. But sometimes...  I tell ya, that old family threat of "I'm going to sell you to the Indians!" (or was it gypsies?) really sounds good.

There is a certain behaviour that children exhibit, more specifically - MALE children, that just makes me want to SCREAM!! And I can't even say that they grow out of it because my youngest brother is a perfect example (and Amber, I know you know what I'm talking about). He still continues to do it to this day, and he flat out admits to doing it!

WIPING SNOT ON THE WALL.

I'm about done, people. DONE. For some strange reason I was in a cleaning mode this morning, took a microfiber cloth to the china cabinet, baseboards, shelves, etc. And then I thought, 'Hmm, might as well do a couple of walls while I'm at it.' Bad idea. Bad, bad idea.

You know, it wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't such a blatant, obvious display of "I-know-this-is-wrong-and-gross-but-I'm-still-going-to-do-it". You don't accidentally wipe snot on the wall. Doesn't happen that way. And if I've told them once, I've told them a thousand times: WIPE IT ON YOUR DAMN SHIRT.

Which may horrify and disgust you but think about it. That way, you never have to see it, never have to touch it, you don't even know its there. The shirt goes into the wash, comes out clean. Easy. Done.

On the frickin' wall? Try getting that stuff off with just a cloth, I dare you. Its impossible. No, you have to wrap a cloth around your finger and then SCRAPE with your fingernail. And the entire time, your brain is stuck on repeat: This is snot. This is snot. Dried, hardened snot. This is snot.

And also, its frickin' embarrassing! Try explaining THAT to guests when they come over. "Oh, don't mind that. Just leftovers from last month's cold. Sorry you leaned against it, though."

And another thing... it also wouldn't be so bad if it was just one or two snots on the wall. But I counted six! And that was just on one wall, in one general area! Not even the entire wall! If I did the math (which will probably come out wrong, I don't claim to be Einstein), that small area was about 1/6th the size of the whole wall. So multiply that by 6, you're looking at at least 36 snots! Just on the one wall! I have like a billion walls in this house!

What the hell is wrong with my children? No, seriously. Levi, maybe you can explain to us in the comments the mindset of a snot-wiper. Is it just habit, or a deeper compulsion? Like, 'you didn't buy me the video game I wanted so ha-HA!'

I don't get it.

But I tell ya, I'm about at the point with those boys that I'm going to threaten that they have to scrape those snots off with their TEETH, every last one. And when I have them utterly believing, crying and begging, promising on the birth of their firstborn that they will never, EVER snot-wipe again... then, I will hand them the putty knife.

I need a cigarette.

I Love my Husband (and Kayaking)

Tyler and I went out on the lake kayaking last night. It was my very first time on a kayak, I was very nervous about tipping but once I found my center of gravity, I was fine. Took me about five minutes of wobbling and gasping and frantic paddling, but I got it. Then another five minutes to figure out how to use the paddle efficiently (read: not dousing myself with water every stroke) so I could keep up with Tyler. But boy, did I ever wow that husband of mine when I zipped right past him and he couldn't keep up! Haha.

We had a truly wonderful time. Started out on the far east side of the lake, Petro Beach I think its called; paddled into the reedy area and saw a mama duck with her babies. Ty was of course looking for schools of perch, no luck. Then we cruised along the shore, looking at all the cool houses and cabins and mini-mansions. On a side note, how lovely would it be to own property down there, your own personal private beach with sand and all that water right at your backdoor. We chuckled with evil glee at all the bird poop on the boats docked in the water, especially to see the black protective coverings just covered with white streaks.

Interrupted a young couple's canoodling when we drifted by, they frantically put their clothes back on and hustled away, har har har. We had a little race, and by 'little' I mean a full-on frantic mad dash to the finish line. Which I won, of course. Ty attributed it to my "much faster" kayak, but come on, we all know it was due to my awesome arm muscles, haha.

My kayak kept having a tendency to crash into Tyler's, and honestly I wasn't even trying to do it. Every time we tried to paddle nicely beside each other I would somehow end up bumping into the side of him. In retaliation, he thought it would be downright hilarious to try to tip my kayak by pushing mine with his oar or grabbing the end rope handle and shaking me around. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't tip me. Revenge was sweet when I did the same to him and he almost DID tip, teetering back and forth, madly trying to regain his balance. Muahaha!

We floated side by side and watched the sun set, it was glorious and romantic and just simply heaven. The sun was a brilliant red and set in a matter of minutes, and just as the last rays reached us he grabbed my kayak, pulled me closer and kissed me. *sigh* What a man!

On our way back to shore, of all things a bagpipe started playing. And not from a radio or recording, someone was actually on the beach playing a bagpipe. It was cool for the first five minutes, listening to the haunting music as we paddled, but after ten minutes, then twenty, all we wanted to do was find that damn bagpiper and fill his instrument with sand! Finally we floated by the musician, only to see he was playing to an audience. A group of people were sitting around a fire listening, but it was hilarious, you could tell they were thinking, 'Ohmygod, when is it ever going to end??' It was truly painful. High-pitched squees and tribbles (that's what I call them, ha), going on forever and ever and ever. My eardrums almost exploded. We were never so happy as to reach shore and quickly pack up and get out of there.

I am definitely in love with kayaking, though. We can't wait to get out again, next time maybe we'll go to Kuusamo Beach, now that I'm considered capable enough to handle the kayak without tipping myself. The water is much deeper there. So ya, that was our version of a wonderful romantic evening. We're the Kayaking Kashas!

Some people are dinks

While driving around and around the public parking lot at the hospital today, looking in vain for a parking space, I noticed several vehicles parked like, well, assholes. I mean, I realize the ground is covered in snow and you can't see where the yellow lines are but it should be obvious when you are taking up two spaces by parking in the middle or crookedly. Some vehicles were even parked up against the curb, right on the little driving-road. (Did I just make up a new saying? Little driving-road? Do you know what I mean when I say that? Don't mock me, its late, all right? But I digress....)

Eventually I had to give up and leave that area and just find a parking space on the street, then just walk the distance to the hospital.

But it got me thinking, wouldn't it be cool to have like a little card or something you could keep in your glovebox for just such instances, that you could put on a person's windshield letting them know they're a dink?

So I googled it. And found a little website, Wry and Ginger, that sells totally awesome and hilarious cards, for all occasions, but also for bad parking!! I really want to order some but I'm too cheap. Got me to thinking about making my own little cards.

Which led me to this website, http://www.youparklikeanasshole.com/. You can download two different notices that you can then print out and keep in your vehicle. Although, after reading some of the hate mail that website receives, it will make me think twice about the severity of the bad-parking job and whether it really deserves a notice.

I still might make my own little cards though. I like how Wry and Ginger made their cards cute and funny yet still get the point across that the person is a douche.

Don't mind me, I'm just having a mental breakdown...

I love my life, my kids, and Hubs. I DO. Really. But sometimes I feel like my head is going to explode, and on my gravestone will be written, 'She was a good girl, but sometimes she went a little mental.'

It was Father's Day night, we'd just returned from camping and finished eating supper, and I was getting Ryder ready for bed. As I went to place him in the crib to get him changed into his jammies (makes it easier if he's confined and can't constantly run away from me), he started to gag. I had literally like one second warning, just enough time to tip his upper body toward the bedding (so much easier to clean up when all you have to do is gather up the blankets, take note), and he let it loose. Only, I had angled his body in such a way that not only did the puke spray his entire bed, but all the bars of the crib, the wall behind the crib, AND...*drum roll*... my Ed Hardy purse. Which had just happened to be on the floor beside the crib (I use it as a diaper bag).

Now, if you know me you know that that purse is my most prized possession, I take it everywhere and love to act smug when people comment on it. What can I say, I'm a wannabe fashionista.

At this point, my brain was already smokin-hot with disgust and rage, so I wasn't thinking too clearly. If I'd had a working braincell, I would have placed Ryder in the soaked crib to finish his puking episode. But I wasn't thinking. And I put him down on his green shag area rug. Which he promptly covered in more puke.

I lost it.

Stripped the kid down to bare skin, gathered up all the nasty bedding and clothes and threw them in the hamper, then used like a hundred babywipes to wash him down. Put a clean diaper on him and foisted him off on the boys, so I could concentrate on wiping down the crib, walls, and area rug. I wasn't even going to let myself think about my purse at that point.

I realized after a few seconds that the mess was simply too much, too chunky, to use a dampened cloth. So I filled an icecream bucket with warm water and started scrubbing. At some point I noticed that my shirt was wet, but what I thought was puke spray was actually tears. I hadn't even noticed that I was sobbing my eyes out. I saw something out of the corner of my eye and turned to look, and saw Gunnar standing at the bedroom door, staring at me with obvious concern. He must've heard the insane wailing and wanted to see if I was okay. I couldn't even talk to reassure him that no, I wasn't in the midst of a mental breakdown (which would have been a lie), all I could do was weakly gesture to my purse. He got it.

And so during the half hour it took to wipe everything down, I just let myself cry it out. I was muttering, I was cursing, I was outright screaming at one point (probably when I realized that no amount of picking and scrubbing was going to get the chunks out of the shag area rug). I knew I was acting completely insane but I didn't care. It was so unfair! Why did this have to happen to me? Why did Hubs get to sit out in the livingroom and not even extend an offer of help? Just because it was Father's Day? Why should he be so special? Why was I cursed to have a child with such a sensitive gag reflex? Did he have to puke on every single bar of the crib, when they are impossible to clean without dismantling the entire thing and hosing it down? And for the love of God, why did he have to get my Ed Hardy purse?!!?

By the time I finished, with the cleaning AND the crying, I was in that hiccuping phase of crying and all I wanted to do was just go to bed for the rest of my life. But, being a FREAKING MOM, oh no, I had to remake the bed, get the little brat in his jammies, frantically spray the room and carpet with Febreze, make the brat's bottle and put him to bed, THEN and only then could I let myself think about my purse.

I was dreading to even look at it. How bad was the damage? I'd only seen the puke on one side of it, but what if it was entirely covered? What if the puke got inside the purse? What if it was all in the zipper and buckles?

My relief at seeing the actual damage was overwhelming. It wasn't that bad at all!! None got inside, and the zipper was safe. Still, there was enough on it that I had to spray it down with the shower nozzle at full-blast. Took a while (I had to obsessively go over every inch of the material), but it actually looked brand new when I was finished. I hung it up to dry.

Then I went into the livingroom and because misery loves company, and I was a miserable bitch just then, I let Hubs have it. In that super-sweet voice most men have learned to fear, I said "Thank you sooo much for all the help in there, I really appreciate it. It meant so much to me that you cared about my mental state and came to see if I was alright and needed some help." Of course, he blustered and got defensive, typical man. But I'd said my piece so I just let it drop and went to my room to read and chain smoke and chill myself out.

But I got my revenge an hour later when Hubs went out to unload the bikes from the trailer and all the other gear that was in there. Because we'd driven home in the rain on gravel roads, everything was covered in grimy sandy dirt, including the motorhome. Rather than go to the carwash to clean it all (and end up spending like a hundred bucks) he washed it himself with our little pressure washer. It was raining outside, and between that and the backspray from the pressure washer, he was soaked in seconds. He was out there for over an hour. And did I offer to help? NO.

What goes around, comes around, baby.

Take a trip with me down Memory Lane...

Tell me you've been here before: you've been working on a project on your computer and literally just as you were about to finish and hit 'save', something happened and you lost everything? Well, that was me today. My computer had been running real slow all morning but I was determined to write a post about our weekend camp trip. It took forever to get all the photos uploaded, then in order to post the videos I had to upload them to youtube first. Then, I typed in all the text. Keep in mind this was done in fits and spurts, over about three hours, in between having to be a mom and work around the damn slow-ass computer. And for some reason, Blogger, who normally autosaves your draft every few minutes, wasn't working properly and so all my work was not being saved. And literally, the second that I hit 'publish' on the post, a window popped up informing me of an internet explorer error, and poof! Just like that, all windows closed and I was left with my wallpaper, a really hot pic of Adam Lambert, staring at me with dark intensity. I could have screamed! I was this close to picking up the monitor and throwing it out the window.

So, now that I've had all day and night to chill out about it, I've decided to hell with the post about our camp trip (even though it totally rocked as all my posts do, right?). I'll do it another day. I'm just not up to trying to remember everything I had typed down and uploading all those pics again.

Instead, I'm going to do a post about my all-time favorite camp trip, ever.

It was way back in 1998, eleven years ago, during the early days of Hubs and I being a couple. We were just young punks back then (I was 18, Ty was 20), crazy in love, and I was about 3-4 months pregnant. We hadn't told anyone about the baby yet due to a multitude of reasons, but the main one was that we were simply enjoying having this wonderful, exciting secret all to ourselves.

It was early April and we decided out-of-the-blue to take off one weekend for a camp trip up at the Brazeau. The few people we told about our trip thought we were insane to go camping in April, when there was still snow on the ground and temperature was around 0 at night. But we didn't care. We were looking forward to a weekend of peace and quiet (and fishing of course, on Ty's part), and just being together on what was our very first time out camping together as a couple. We packed up our stuff, loaded it in the back of our cute little blue truck, picked up the boat and trailer from Ty's dad Ed (who also thought we were nuts, I'm sure, though he was too kind to say anything), and made the long drive up there.

It was the early afternoon when we finally arrived, and seeing how I was pregnant and Ty treated me like a fragile piece of china, I got to sit and watch while he unloaded the boat and parked the truck. Ty had decided to surprise me with the fact that we wouldn't be camping in an actual campground, but on a secluded island out in the middle of the lake. I was utterly charmed by this, of course, and thought that he was just the most wonderful, sweet, romantic man ever. So we loaded all our stuff into the boat and took off across the lake. I should clarify -- he loaded up the stuff while I watched. That 'fragile' thing again, typical protective father-to-be, eh? But very sweet. Nowadays I'm much too independent and determined, to sit like a lump while someone else does all the work, but back then it was a novel experience and I was going to enjoy and take advantage of it. Hah!

The view of the lake from shore.

Look at that gorgeous man working up a sweat while I sit and watch.

So away we went, zipping across the lake in our boat, enjoying the crisp air whipping through our hair (Hubs was a long-hair back then). We approached the island slowly, as there was a narrow strip of deep water surrounded on both sides by shallow sandbars and Ty didn't want to catch the boat motor. We set up camp, and it was heaven. Just our tent, our gear, a couple of lawnchairs, the cooler, and each other.

There's our cute tent. Nowadays, I'm used to the motorhome but back then that little tent was a spacious palace for the two of us. I remember that I was a little uncomfortable with the fact that we were out in the middle of Bear Country with just this nylon tent enclosing us at night, but Ty reassured me that he had brought along a little something to take care of any wayward bears that may come along (NOT a gun, don't worry). "My hero" I called him and his chest puffed out in that typical male way of self-pride. "Gotta take of my little lady", LOL.

Inside our Tent of Iniquity.

Look at his long hair! And that was actually after he'd had it cut shorter, to shoulder-length. When I first met him in June '97, he had waist-length hair and he was a carbon copy of Anthony Kiedis from the Chili Peppers. Lust at first sight.

Aren't we adorable? And so young! (I had a touch of a cold, which is why in all my pics I have a big stuffy red nose; and I was still having morning sickness, which is why I'm so pale. It was kind of a secret embarrassment for me, to be with this total hunk of man who was all tanned and full of vitality, and I looked like a limp noodle.)

Ty hated that I took this pic of him, he said he looked "like a doofus" with the goofy grin, so I let him take a revenge pic of me...

...and here it is. I'd literally just woken up and was on my way to take a pee in the bushes. I was not amused.

I spent most of the weekend just in awe of our beautiful surroundings. Every morning Ty would wake up super-early to go fishing in the boat while I slept in. He'd usually return just as I was waking up, and he'd crawl into the tent and join me in our warm, comfy nest. That's the great thing about camping on a secluded island with no one around for miles and miles, and no one but the wildlife to hear anything, heh. Afterward we'd eat breakfast then go for a hike and explore the island. We'd come back to camp for lunch, then I'd crawl back into bed for a nap (I tired so easily during that pregnancy) while Ty went out fishing again. When I woke up he'd be making supper for us and then we'd just chill out around the fire, talking about nothing and everything, making plans for the future, thinking up potential names for the baby, imagining everyone's reactions when they found out, and sometimes just staring at each other in a daze, like 'I can't believe I found this person who is my other half, and that we have all the rest of our lives to spend together.'

The view from our campsite. Gorgeous, eh? Our own personal paradise.

One evening we were coming back from a little hike and noticed that a beaver was swimming to shore, right by our boat. We snapped picture after picture, giggling like idiots as we stealthily stalked the beaver while it waddled around, doing its thing.

This picture is dark but you can just barely make out the beaver coming ashore by the boat. See him there? That black lump?

We gave the beaver a silly name like 'BillyBob the Beaver' or 'The Beeve', something like that. Ty wanted to call him 'Beau's Beautiful Beaver' and I had to swat him for that. Men!

BillyBob disappeared back into the water shortly after this pic was taken, and we didn't see him again. But we kind of took it as a sign, that we were meant to be in this particular place at that particular time, and BillyBob was the proof of that.

Our very last night there, we decided to head out early the next morning so we could make it back home at a decent time. (Nowadays, we wait till the very last minute to leave camp so we can wring every last moment of enjoyment out of our trip, and we usually arrive home around midnight with the kids fast asleep. Funny how time changes you, eh?) But upon awakening we discovered, to our shock and horror, that overnight a stiff wind had pushed a large section of ice on the lake and carried it to our island. We were trapped! Unable to drive the boat (is drive the right word? Steer? Pilot?) until the ice floated far enough away for us to maneuver around it. We ended up waiting about four hours, and let me tell you, there were moments we thought we'd be on that island for the next month, living on twigs and grass and the occasional beaver (haha).

You can see the ice there at the far end of the inlet. We snapped this pic just moments before heading out in the boat. We knew no one would believe us about being stranded unless we had proof. And here it is!

And so there you have it. Pictures and memories from one of our most special outings as a young couple and we treasure the fact that we had that time together, before all the babies and the dog and the house and the responsibilities of having to be "the adults" and "the parents". Just the two of us, together forever (our motto since day one), young and crazy in love.

April Fool's!

I friggin' LOVE April Fools Day. Its like the one day a year a parent can get away with pulling pranks on their kids, over and over, or until the kids wise up and quit being so darn gullible. Hah! Usually I have some sort of prank in mind and carry it off successfully, but then some years I completely forget and try to get away with pulling my prank at night-time. Of course, everyone knows the pranks are only "allowed" until noon, so they never let me get away with it.

But today, this morning, oh man, it was great! Actually, I had forgotten until Gunnar said something in response to a question Ardan had and he mentioned the date. Then I trotted out my prank and it. was. AWESOME!

"Oh hey, you guys, you'll never guess what happened last night! I thought I saw a cute little black cat coming up to our front door, I thought maybe Pabs got out, right? It came right up to the front door and huddled there, because it was so cold. Then, a whole bunch of its little tiny kittens came up, too, and cuddled into their mother. But good thing I noticed before I opened the door, that it was a family of SKUNKS! A mother skunk and her babies! It must have got so cold last night that they made a little nest up against our front door to stay warm! And you guys, they're still there! You're going to have to leave for school using the back door. You guys can go ahead and try to get a peek at them, the babies are sooo cute, but don't open the door okay? Well, okay Gunnar, if you really want to open the door that bad to see them, just open it reaallllly slowly, okay? No sudden movements or loud noises or you'll get sprayed for sure. [By now, all three kids had been contorting their necks, trying to see the baby skunks through the glass. Gunnar had them all stand back, warning them to stay quiet, and he slowly starts opening the door....]

BOOOOOO!!!!!"

(Oh yes, revenge is soooooo friggin' sweet!!)

When I yelled 'Boo!' Gunnar's knee-jerk reaction was to fling the door open wider, then all three kids squealed, ducked and covered, fully expecting an enraged mother skunk to spray them with pee. When nothing happened, they opened their eyes and looked, only to see... nothing. Then they realized they got PUNK'D!!

"APRIL FOOLS, SUCKAS!"

Oh yeah, they were sooo impressed with me. What can I say? No one can match the wily, twisted, evil mind of a mom. Mua ah ah ah!

Oooo, those rotten kids!

I guess you could say I've always had a slight case of the "nerves", you know, jumping out of my skin when there's a sudden loud noise. For some reason, its gotten worse over the years. You should see me at the arena when the kids are blasting pucks at the sideboard. I probably look like a marionette being jerked around on its strings. Its so embarrassing. I try, really I do, to brace myself for it if I know the noise is coming, and yet... BANG! And I'm outta my seat.

Of course, Hubs and the kids are fully aware of this. Its especially bad when I'm in the laundry room, back facing the door as I stand folding laundry, and suddenly one of them will be behind me, "Mom" and its like I've been poked with a cattle prod. I'm not the nicest person either when they do that to me. "What the?!? Don't DO that! You know I'm jumpy!" and they'll laugh hysterically and run off.

One time, during our early days as a couple, Ty thought it would be funny to hide behind the shower curtain in the bathroom when I was going to take a shower. I'm sure you can imagine my reaction. Ya, hardy har har! Bet he didn't like it too much when I whipped my towel at his ass and took off a layer of skin! Muahaha. Served him right.

And it seems like the kids will go through phases, where they'll forget about my nerves and leave me alone, then one of them will remember and for the next week, all of them are constantly jumping out at me. "Got her again! Hahahaha!" I've been lucky for the last few months that they were in that 'forgetting' stage, but last night it all started up again.

I was at the computer, quite involved in what I was reading, and suddenly there was a loud "BOO!" right in my ear! I probably jumped two feet in the air, arms flailing, "Whaaaa......!" Oh, Gunnar thought he was the king after that. After I finished yelling at him (I may have told him to piss off, I know, I'm a horrible mom!), I settled back in, sure that no one would even dare to try it again. You'd think I'd know better. Not two minutes later, "BOO!" right in the same ear, only it was Ardan this time. Even the threat of grounding didn't halt their maniacal laughter.

They got me again a few hours later, as I was about to sit on the couch. "BOO!" "Okay that's IT! Get your butts in bed. Right. NOW!"

Then again this morning as I was, you got it, in the laundry room folding.

So that's it. Time for a little revenge, I'm thinking. I seem to remember an old trick Trapper and I would play on little Levi, involving a wolf-pelt and hiding at the bottom of the stairs waiting for an unsuspecting victim. Muah ah ah ah!!!!

Oh, its ON.

My Little Black(mail) Book

Lena's birthday party was today, and we had a houseful (even though many people couldn't make it due to the INSANE snowstorm we had today that made most roads treacherous). My beautiful sister-in-law Julie was there with three of her five boys (I know, right? She's a saint. And don't you dare ask me when I'm going to "catch up to her"! LOL).

She told us how she has kept kind of a 'little black book' over the years of all the crazy, horrible, hilarious things her children have done. Such as her boys opening every single one of her just-made jars of homemade jam and smearing it all over the cat and the walls downstairs. Or them getting a hold of a 5 gallon jug of cooking oil and pouring the entire thing on the carpet. *laughing*

All mothers have had experiences like that, myself included. And so that got me to thinking that I should start up my own Little Black Book. But whereas Julie is doing it as a remembrance of her children's antics, my own motives are less noble. Blackmail, baby!

Oh yeah, I'm planning on making my kids pay for all the angst they've inspired over the years. Muahaha! When Gunnar and/or Ardan is in the NHL or are a world-famous dirtbiker (monster truck driver in Ard's case) or in a rock band -- and these are all real aspirations for them -- I'm going to pull out my book and remind them of a few certain things. If they have any sense of guilt, they'll repay my mental and emotional trauma with something a little more substantial. Like, oh, say, a cabin-mansion. Or an all-expense paid trip to wherever. Getting to name their firstborn (I like Rhannon, don't you? Its from Willow).

Here's a few...

** When Ardan was a toddler, he "christened" his newly-painted-and-decorated bedroom by removing his dirty diaper and grinding the contents into huge patches of carpet. When I walked in and discovered this, I realized that no amount of scrubbing or pulling or even a professional cleaning (which was definitely out of the question, money-wise, back then) was going to get rid of it and I did the only thing I could... I had to get a box-cutter and CUT OUT those huge sections. Then try to find an area rug in that particular shape to hide the giant holes in the carpet.

** Around that same time, Gunnar (who was probably five or so) accidentally destroyed a huge pile of his dad's prized dirtbike magazines when he spilled a jug of juice on them. He had been too impatient to wait for me to finish folding laundry in my bedroom and took it upon himself to pour a cup. Unbeknownst to me, he then (frantically, before it was discovered) came up with the brilliant idea to dry them all out in the microwave. The smell of burning brought me out of the bedroom in a rush. Thick black smoke was billowing out of the microwave! Just as I was about to open the door to make the microwave stop cooking, fire broke out inside. I quickly filled a cup with dishwater from the sink full of soaking dishes, opened the door and dashed the water inside. When the fire was finally out and the smoke had somewhat cleared, I noticed that the time display was off. The machine was completely dead. Gunnar was so terrified of what my reaction would be, and I knew he felt so bad, and had gotten a real scare by the fire. So I didn't freak out. But I did tell Hubs that the machine mysteriously died for no apparent reason. Eventually I 'fessed up, and now we all laugh about it. But at the time it really sucked, because Ard was still on bottles and until we could afford to buy a new mikey, I was having to heat up his bottles in a pot of hot water on the stove.

** We were at Family Dinner at my mom's one time; it was summer and everyone was in the backyard on the deck, chatting and visiting. The baby was being fussy, I think it was Lena but it could have been Ryder (think I can get double blackmail from this if I tell each kid it was them that did it? lol). Suddenly, the baby sprayed my entire front with puke!! It was sooo gross. Everyone was laughing hysterically at me while I just stood there like, "Now what?" Got the baby changed into fresh clothes and calmed down, then palmed it off on someone and went inside to find something of my mom's to wear. Now, she's tiny so I knew there would probably be nothing that would fit, but she went through her closet for me anyway. She brought me out a pile of clothes which I could tell from looking that the majority would be too small. One shirt in particular looked like it might fit but I was so torn! It was the ugliest shirt I'd ever seen in my life! I mean, seriously. A cross between mustard-yellow and burnt-pumpkin, with ruffles around the collar reminiscent of Shakespeare's ruffed collar. A slick, slimy feel to the fabric. The fabric itself was vertically crimped like a fan, with thousands of tiny pleats. PLEATS, people! I looked at my brother's girlfriend, who had come into the house with us. She looked at me. Both of us were thinking the same thing, "Hell no!" But did I really want to stay in my puke-soaked shirt? It was a real dilemma. Finally I couldn't stand the smell of myself any longer and went to try the shirt on. It fit and so I really had no excuse not to wear it. Mom was ecstatic, "Oh, you look so nice! Don't you love this shirt? Its so beautiful!" Becky and I both did double-takes at her and she noticed. "What? You don't think so?" Mom, I hate to break it to you, but... honestly, that shirt is just... ohgod, its bad! Its so bad! Its ugly! She was shocked, couldn't believe I thought that. "Do you think so too, Becky?" Yeah, Kelle, its... bad. Like... BAD. She thought we were nuts. Becky gave me a look like "Poor you!" and I nodded back, "Yes, poor me!" So I had to wear that circus-clown-freak-on-a-bad-acid-trip shirt for the rest of the night. And so JUST FOR THAT, I don't even care about the actual puking (although it IS what led up to having to wear that shirt!), that is what is worthy of blackmail. If I had a picture of the shirt to show my kids, they'd double the payment, I'm sure.

** Speaking of puke, there's the 100+ times that Ryder has upchucked during the last year and a half. Sometimes on me, but mostly on himself, the carpet, his bedding, the carseat, other people's carpet... Now, a baby's involuntary puking would not be considered blackmail material, unless said baby had actually developed a highly-sensitive gag reflex in order to get attention and his own way. This is how Ryder came to be known as Exorcist-Boy. He gradually stopped doing that (on purpose, I mean) and now he only hurls when he's having a coughing fit or tries to swallow huge chunks of food. Because he's a boy, impatient with the process of eating. He wants that food in his tummy now! ("Get in ma bellah!" -- anyone get that reference? 10 points if you do!) So last week, we were driving to Wetaskiwin for Gunnar's league play-off game. We were on Hwy 2 just out of Red Deer and the rush-hour traffic was INSANE; seriously, when did everyone in the world move to Red Deer? It was very stressful. Before we'd left Sylvan I had picked up sandwiches and Timbits for the kids, and even though the donuts were supposed to be saved for the arena, you know what kids are like. They had that box opened and half-devoured by the time we left Red Deer. So we're driving along about 20 minutes out of Red Deer and suddenly I hear Ardan yell, "AAAACKKKK! Moooooommmmm! Ryder puked!" The traffic was so terrible that I honestly could not take my eyes off the road for one second, so all I could do was ask Ardan, "What? Why? You gave him a whole Timbit and he shoved the entire thing in his mouth? How bad is it? Bad? Really, its that bad? Well... use the spare blanket in the back to wipe most of it up! Oh, you already did that and there's still major puke? Uhhh, okay, there's wipes in his bag, use those to wipe it up!" Poor poor Ardan. Because he was sitting next to Ryder he had to deal with that traumatizing mess. And it wasn't like I could even pull over at a roadside stop, because I never would have been able to merge back into the non-stop traffic. So little Ryder had to sit in his puke-soaked clothes for the entire way to Wetaskiwin, windows cracked to let in the fresh air, all of us breathing through our mouths. When we finally got to the arena I changed Ryd's clothes but realized I hadn't brought a spare coat. And even after cleaning his coat as best I could with wipes, it still reeked and was soaked. So I had to suffer the indignity of rummaging through the arena's lost and found, in front of all the other hockey parents, to try to find a spare coat or sweater he could wear. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not a high-and-mighty priss, in fact I love going through lost-and-founds, looking for "treasures" -- but only when I'm alone and no one can see me. I felt like I had to make a big deal of the fact that I needed something for Ryder to wear, so they wouldn't think I was a poor desperate slob. Found him a hoody that required multiple sleeve roll-ups and looked like a dress on him, but hey it was warm. And even after all that, the stink of puke still clung to me for the rest of the night. I felt sorry for anyone sitting near me. But mostly I felt sorry for myself, haha. So yes, that is definitely blackmail material in my book.

** Here is a story that gets told often in our family. Milena had literally just been born, she was days old, and we were at the mall getting our taxes done. Ardan had just turned three and was entering a real talkative phase, where you never knew what would come out of his mouth. We usually got quite a kick out of him. Kids really do say the darndest things. Or, in some cases, the most incredibly embarrassing, awkward, rude, oblivious, innocent things. The lady doing our taxes was quite a, um, big lady. Like, really big. And she had some sort of speech impediment which honestly made her sound like she was mentally challenged. It became a real test of my endurance to show no reaction. Anyway, there we were, sitting in our chairs facing her, when Ardan looked at me and muttered something. I only caught one word, "fat", and having just birthed a child days before and feeling slightly self-conscious about my flabby tummy, I winced and said, "Ardan, you know Mommy just had a baby, that's why I'm fat." He stood up on his chair and turned to face the lady, pointing his little finger at her, "NO! I SAID THAT SHE'S FAT!" Oh... my... Gawd!! What does a person even say in a situation like that? "ARDAN! Sit. Down. And. Be. QUIET! Oh god, I'm so sorry! He's at this stage..." She handled it very gracefully, "That's okay. He's an honest boy." Well, what do you say to that? I think we all chose to just ignore what had happened and finish the taxes, but every so often I'd cut a glare at Ardan, telling him with my eyes: You sit there and be quiet and don't even move! At one point, after the tax lady had finished a lengthy speech about something, a speech in which her impediment was glaringly obvious, I was sitting there trying to keep a straight face, and Ardan pipes up, "She talks..." My head whipped toward him so fast, eyes probably looking like fiery lazers, and he got the message. Whew! Close call. This incident is the one that earned him the nickname Mouth.

Wow, that's... irrational

Have you ever had a dream where someone close to you did something that made you feel so angry or betrayed or jealous or hurt, that when you woke up you were utterly enraged at that person? You KNOW you are being irrational, it was a dream! Yet, you can't help feeling like that. If that person's dream-transgression was really hurtful, you might even find yourself being mean to them or trying to pick a fight so you can accuse that person of doing something that they didn't even do!

That's what I'm going through this morning. I went to bed last night a little ticked off at Hubs, so maybe that's what brought the dream on. I had a very lonnngggg day yesterday, spent two hours with Ardan and the two little ones in the walk-in clinic (Ardan has strep throat) and you know how hellish that is. When we finally got out of there, we had just enough time to whip home and get ready to make the long trip to Wetaskiwin for Gunnar's afternoon hockey game. When we got home later that night around 7pm, all of us were starving and dead tired. I mean, I was so tired at the beginning of the day I fell asleep two times in the clinic's waiting room. I have no idea how I drove to Wetaskiwin and back without falling asleep at the wheel. It was a nightmare.

Early yesterday morning Tyler had taken Ardan to his hockey game, so that was nice of him, but when we left for Wet. (I'm tired of typing it out) he said he was going out quadding with all his buddies. Okay, fine, didn't really care, have fun babe. But when we got home and I saw that Tyler was there, I was like "Phew, he's here. He probably has supper ready for us so my dog-tired ass doesn't have to deal with that." Um, no. Why would I think that? He'd been home for 45 minutes but had laid on the couch the whole time. What the heck is wrong with men? Why can't they ever take the initiative and do something nice or thoughtful for us women? I just wanted to cry. I was so tired, the house was a mess, and I had to scrounge up something for supper.

So that is why I went to bed a little ticked off with the guy. Slipped into a peaceful slumber where I had the most amazing dream that my entire family was at this ten-star hotel and we were treated like royalty, it was awesome. Halfway through the dream, things started to change. Tyler's buddies showed up at the hotel, wanting to party with him. They all went to this huge hotel room and partied like animals, while I stayed downstairs with my mom and brothers and we had dinner. A while later I decided to slip up to the room and surprise Tyler by partying with him and his friends. Well. BIG SURPRISE! There's my hubby on the bed with his buddies all around him, hooting and hollering and cheering him on, while some perfect-ten blond bimbo was going down on him! OMFG! I'm sure you can all guess my reaction. I didn't realize how bloodthirsty I am, at least in dreams. People were screaming and running out of the room, the blond was begging for her life, and my dumbass hubby had the incredible nerve to tell me, "Honey, we agreed that that's not considered cheating!"

WHAT?!?! NEVER in my life, real or dreamland, have I EVER said or agreed to that. I kinda went medieval on his ass. Dream-Tyler was minus a precious asset.

So needless to say, when I woke up I was out for blood. Even more enraged when I realized he'd already left for work. So I couldn't even take out my totally-irrational-and-insane anger on him. Argh! I even contemplated sending him a text like "Met any blond bimbos lately?" Then I calmed down, a pot of coffee and a few chain-smokes later. Which is why I'm writing this blog post, its acting as therapy for me right now.

In my heart I KNOW he would never do that and I have trust in him, completely. But dreams like that, they do something to your psyche, find those little chinks in your emotional armor. So I'm choosing to look on the bright side -- how lucky am I that I am not in that position, like so many wives out there are.

I think I need to stop reading all those celebrity blind items. (To see what I mean, click here.)

I'm being held hostage

Okay, so some of you ladies will know EXACTLY what I mean when I explain. I am married to an obsessive fisherman/hunter, and every November my house becomes over-run with hunting gear. I've told Tyler (ranted, raged) that all that stuff needs to be contained downstairs, I WILL NOT have it upstairs. That's my space. But downstairs, what do I care, right?

Well, he listened, though he seemed to ignore the part where I said "contained" -- I was thinking he'd keep everything in bins or at least black garbage bags. No. Instead, he chose to drape all his hunting clothes and gear over every available surface in our downstairs livingroom. The desk -- covered with no-scent stuff and ammo, etc. The couch and the lamps -- covered with camo clothes, pants, shirts, gloves, coats, etc. I couldn't even look at that area whenever I'd go downstairs else I'd have an anxiety attack about the mess. I told myself "Just get through November, you can do it, when December rolls around it'll all get put away."

So its now December and just as I'd thought (hoped, wished, agonized over) Tyler is in the process of putting everything away. But FIRST, he said, he has to wash all his hunting clothes. OH GOD, I thought, not this again!!

You see, my hubby is a FIRM believer in using no-scent stuff on his hunting stuff. He's convinced he will never get a huge monster buck if it can smell him coming. So this means ALL his stuff MUST be washed with no-scent laundry soap. And not just that -- the washing machine and dryer CANNOT be "tainted" with regular laundry soap before he uses them. So before he does his laundry, he runs two EMPTY loads through the washer with his special soap to get rid of the "taint". Then, he BANS me from the laundry room (how DARE he?!) because my "woman scent" will somehow magically infuse the room and everything in it and will get on his hunting stuff. AARRGHH!!

So he started this process yesterday and warned me NOT to go in the laundry room for at least three days (just as well 'cause I'd probably have a shit-fit if I went in there and saw the ginormous chaotic mess he's creating). Now, I'm cool with him doing his own laundry and needing some time to get it all done. "Some time" in my mind constitutes one day, maybe two if I'm being nice -- it DOES NOT mean three days. Three friggin' days!! We are a household of SIX, do you have any idea how much laundry is created in three days!?

So I asked him this morning how many loads of his stuff he'd done and when can I expect my laundry room back? I asked quite nicely, in my opinion. He thought I was giving him a hard time and had a little freak out, "What?! I haven't even started! There was a hamper of your stuff in there so I thought I'd be nice and do that for you before I did my own stuff." To which I then freaked out (because I'm picky-picky and I like my laundry done a certain way, like, oh say, NOT putting dirty underwear and socks in with the towels, things like that, lol), "WHAT?!? You haven't even started?! This is day two of your three-day time allowance, there's NO WAY you'll be done by tomorrow if you haven't even STARTED!" Then he got more pissy, "Hey, at least I did your laundry for you! I had to waste my own no-scent stuff on YOUR laundry so it wouldn't taint the machine! You should be thanking me! And I can't help it if it takes me longer than three days, I work long hours so I can only do my laundry before-and-after work!" I replied, quite logically in my mind, "Well then, let ME do it, it'll be done by the end of the day. That should make you happy, right? I'll even fold it all for you!" (See, aren't I nice?) He spazzed out, "You are NOT allowed in that room, remember! And don't even think of touching my stuff with your woman-scent! I'll have to re-wash everything!"

So at that point, I chose to "exit" the conversation. He took that as a sign he'd "won" (stupid man) and went to work a happy camper (or, hunter, rather). Meanwhile, I'm standing at the sink doing dishes, muttering under my breath, "Stupid man, holding me hostage in my own home. What is the world coming to when a woman can't even go in her own laundry room? Woman-scent, hah! I should rub my boobs all over his stupid clothes! Muahahahaa!!! Ohgod, I can't believe I can't do laundry, I'm going insane! The dirty laundry hampers are piling up and taunting me!"

So that is the situation at my house right now. If you happen to see me and I'm wearing the same clothes you saw me in two days ago and there's stains on the pants and my shirt is wrinkled, have some pity on me, okay? Just say "stupid man" and shake your head, and I'll be happy.