Friday, December 23, 2005

Merry Christmas to All And to All A Good Gut...

December 23, 2005

Okay, so the house is finally decorated. I started it last night, and finished it up this afternoon. Yup, I’m aware of the fact that it’s only two days before Christmas, and all of the “good parents” had their houses decorated weeks ago. I’m a terrible person, and I am scarring my daughter for life by not putting out brightly colored poinsettias earlier in the year. Fortunately for me, I’ve learned to live with the guilt, and am quite comfy in my defiance; so to all of you that are convinced I’m turning my little one into a hooligan by not donning a Santa hat and hanging lights from my ears in Mid-November, please feel free to kiss my anus.

Now I’m left with the issue of gift wrapping. I hate gift wrapping more I can adequately illustrate using mere words. Suffice it to say, there are few things in this world that can put me in a coma faster than taping brightly colored paper ( proudly featuring an old fat guy dancing around a reindeer with a severe cold) to boxes of crap I didn’t want to spend money on in the first place. Don’t get me wrong, I love to watch little one’s reaction when she opens gifts. She squeals with delight and jigs about with the new plaything she’s just been given, which of course gives me that warm and fuzzy “happy Mommy” feeling. Five minutes later, the object that caused Puddin’ to convulse with sheer ecstasy is now on the floor in the corner of her bedroom never to be glanced at again until she has her own children. My short-lived “Happy Mommy” fuzzies are replaced with the dread of realization. I have just added to the pile of things I live in constant fear of; yes that’s right, I have a deep-rooted fear of Puddin’s toys.

Let me explain to you why that is. First and foremost, I am on crutches and likely will be for the rest of natural life. (I’d explain why…but I really don’t feel like it at the moment. Speculate your hearts out, internet!) As such, Puddin’s toys are a very real hazard in my world, causing me to nearly lose my life on a daily basis. There is simply nothing more thrilling than inadvertently placing the tip of one’s crutch onto a toy equipped with wheels. Frankly, I believe it tops bungee jumping for both the thrill and the danger factor. Many has been the time my life has flashed before my eyes as I careened down the hallway on the hard plastic back of Mr. Snoogles. Fortunately, my daughter’s concern over the situation eases the pain. As she looks down at my sprawled body on the floor with tears in her eyes, she utters words that would melt any mother’s heart; “You hurt Mr. Snoogles, Mama. He’s crying!”

The problem is that my loathing of gift wrapping has led to a shameful procrastination of wrapping duties. As it currently stands, I have several gifts in the closet that require a mother’s loving hands to properly dress them up for the holiday season. Tragically for these gifts, mother’s loving hands would rather be holding a cigarette than taping elves on paper to brightly colored bracelet making kits. In the true spirit of the holiday season, I’m seriously considering putting the presents under the tree completely unwrapped, and then just telling little one that Santa had a hell of a lot on his mind and couldn’t get around to it this year. Unfortunately, given that Pudding knows exactly who Santa is, I’d still get in trouble for the oversight…I remember fondly the good old days, when I could happily blame that fat dude for all of my holiday negligence. I long for those days…I really do.

Even the cat is happily getting into the Christmas spirit. This morning I found a box of sea shell chocolates half way across the living room. Though a valiant attempt had been made to open the box, the cat was not afforded the time he required to complete the task at hand. As such, all the chocolates were still thankfully in tact, and completely untouched by cat lips. (I was greatly relieved by this news, as chocolate and Bailey’s are truly the only things that get me through this ‘oh so joyous’ holiday season. Frankly, the happiest Christmases I’ve spent are the ones that have rendered me blacked out under the Christmas tree.)

Soon enough, all this glitz and commercialism will be safely behind us as we boldly face the challenges and tribulations of yet another year. The hubbub of the season forgotten for another year, we will bravely raise our glasses and make promises to ourselves and others that everyone knows we are not going to keep. Gym memberships will be bought in large quantities as many nurture the dream that one day they will one day re-capture their ability to see their toes. I, on the other hand, will be eating New Year’s dinner left-overs in vast quantities in front of the television set. What’s the point in even trying to fool myself?? Given I’m on crutches, the best I can really hope for is muscular wrists and armpits…and the creation of both of those will only be aided by an increase in body mass.

Monday, December 05, 2005

Of Fur & Feces

December 5th, 2005

For the past several months, I have been suffering from a leg problem that prevents me from walking unaided, or without pain. It has been almost like having to learn to walk all over again, getting used to these crutches, and I have developed a brand new empathy for children struggling to take their first steps. On Saturday night, I had to go to a function without my daughter, in minus 25 degree weather. (For you Americans out there, that is Celsius, not Fahrenheit, which loosely translated, means: “FUCKING COLD MAN!!”)

The function was supposed to be a sort of appreciation dinner for those individuals in the housing block that volunteered their time to make it a better place. How I got invited is, frankly, beyond us all, as I tend to crawl under my chair and suck my thumb when they request volunteers for various functions/committees. However, as Ginny had spent quite a bit of time doing various jobs about the complex, and required a date for the evening, I went along with the whole thing for her sake out of a) the goodness of my heart, and b) the fear that she would hit me if I didn’t. For a four foot shit Grandma, Ginny has a formidable left hook! I opted not to take my chances as I’ve always been rather fond of my nose just as it is, thank you.

Let me pause here to explain the dynamics of this happy little housing complex, and its residents. The vast majority of individuals living here are either a) seniors, or b) individuals like myself, with little income and even less common sense. It is, for lack of a better description, a small town within a small town where your neighbors congratulate you on a bodily function well performed if you forget yourself and release your flatulence too loudly. Not only does everyone know what everyone else is doing, they are also more than happy to tell you how you can improve your way of life to best meet their expectations of you. A day doesn’t go by without gossip being spread about the complex like wild-fire, with reality and truth playing only a minor role in their utterances. Try as you might, you can not escape being the target of their pious views and slanderous tongues; as such, most resign themselves quickly to hearing things about their lives of which they were previously wholly unaware.

That said, you can well imagine the trepidation with which most of us attended this wee event; each one of us terrified someone would notice our underpants protruding from our trousers, making us the target of gossip for weeks! There was no smoking in the banquet hall, and as such, all of us puffers had to head out doors in the freezing cold to satisfy our nicotine cravings. I, personally, was living in fear the entire evening that someone would lick my crutches, and become permanently affixed. The highlight of the evening, which consisted primarily of people making small talk with false smiles pasted on their faces so widely I feared their dentures would pop out, came at the time of the Christmas toast.

Lou-Anne, a rather large girl with a face reminiscent of a basset hound and a personality liken unto a polar bear, had been asked to say Grace prior to the meal. She stood shakily on her sausage legs, looked around the hall sourly (causing me to vaguely wonder if she’d eaten something that had turned), and grabbed for a shot glass. “I can’t do this without taking a drink first.” Lou-Anne explained flatly, and then she downed the shot and belched loudly. God and His Son were smiling down lovingly and proudly at this moment to be sure, unbelieving in their good fortune at being given such holy recognition.Six seniors at my table clutched their chests in agony. One only man, a dear old soul by the name of Denis, sat benignly smiling as Lou-Anne stumbled through her sacrilegious tribute. (I found out later that he’d taken the liberty of turning off his hearing aid the moment she’d stood up in an effort to avoid another stroke.)

The rest of evening was relatively uneventful; blessedly coming to a conclusion a mere two hours after it had begun. (I’ve had bowel movements that lasted longer…) Ginny and I loaded ourselves in our cab, and headed for the home of my best friend/babysitter for the evening... My daughter was ready to go, having had her radar go off the moment I got into the cab heading her way. I am unsure to this day how precisely she manages to do this. My theory remains that the doctor placed a tracking device in my cervix shortly after I gave birth, and cheerfully handed her the control panel. The cab ride was short, and soon enough, my daughter, Ginny and I were released back into the annals of the housing complex.

For some reason, at this point in the evening, the skill of walking completely eluded me, and I tumbled headlong into a fresh drift of snow. Only my feet and crutches were visible, sticking out pathetically atop the massive snow mountain. My compassionate daughter was unable to assist, as she had peed herself laughing at my predicament, and now stood by the door crying and steaming in the cold night air. (She almost looked like an angel descended from heaven, with billows of mist surrounding her in this fashion. The only elements shattered the illusion being a) her howls of indignation at having made such a drastic bladder misjudgment, and b) the strong smell of urine emanating from her every pore.) I finally managed to pick myself out of the snow drift by rolling through it and squirming upwards. This scene cheered little one immensely, causing a few more hot dribbles to hit the porch.

When we finally got ourselves into the house, I crawled into my bed and pulled the covers over my head, much to the disgust of my cat. ******** wanted to be fed, and couldn’t understand why I was stubbornly ignoring him. Realizing that my indifference called for drastic measures, he resolutely crawled under the covers and bit my toe. Fortunately for all concerned, Pudding had gotten over her indignation at wetting herself, and fed the poor beast prior to joining me in bed. “Mama?” her little face was inches from my own. “Ugggh.” I moaned, hoping that my incoherent nature would cause her to give up and go to sleep. Pudding poked me in the ribs and put her nose on my check, “MAMA?” I jumped slightly, and sighed.

“Yes dear?” She hooked her little leg around my own. “********’s litter stinks, Mama.” I nodded, “Mmmmm.” Not that easily dissuaded, she took my face in her little pudgy hands. “Do you think I should have a box to pee in for when I’m outside?” My eyes flew open, and my mother alarm bells immediately began to ring. “Why are you asking me this?” Pudding put her head on my bosom and sighed, “Cause it worked when I pooped in it…” I felt the room growing dark.

“When did you poop in it?” The little imp curled her fingers lovingly through my hair, “Now…cause ****** was being mean to me.” I suppressed the urge to pass out. “Just now?” She nodded. “Is that why his litter stinks, Pudding?” Again, she nodded. “Go and scoop that out…NOW!” All the calmness had left my voice as my mothering instincts entered full panic mode. “I can’t.” Pudding replied simply. “What do you mean you can’t??” The room fell silent for several seconds. “Cause he ate it.” She replied simply. I began to hyperventilate.

“Arrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrg!!” Pudding sat bolt upright in bed, obviously shaken. “What’s wrong, Mama? Where are you going?” I crutched my way firmly out of the room. “Nothing, and I’m going to boil my lips; the cat just licked me.”

Sunday, December 04, 2005

When looking like Kurt Browning doesn't help you in life...

*Disclaimer*This is a work of non-fiction, (unless you are planning to sue, in which case it is a work of pure fiction.) I have changed the names to protect myself from the guilty and their subsequent wrath. Should you feel I am writing about you, “Owen”, due to the remarkable similarities between the character’s immense stupidity and your own, please understand it is NOT about you. Rather, it is about me, and my general loathing of you. Absolutely no Kurt Browning’s were harmed in the creation of this article.***

December 4, 2005

I didn’t sleep again last night…but not because of insomnia. Rather, at about 12pm I made the fatal mistake of logging into FSU, and reading some of their threads. I stumbled across this fabulous ice dance scandal, and began to read with that special kind of desperation only afforded those of us with incredibly dull and lack-luster existences. (I get orgasmic when the cat farts and/ or my daughter finger paints tuna on the walls, both giving me good reason to a) flee, and b) feel as though I’ve had an event in my day.) I read and read, not knowing who the hell they were talking about, and really not caring. This was, after all, a scandal~~~and not just any scandal, but a figure skating scandal!! I was thrilled, and feeling exceptionally proud of myself for “being in the know” on this one. (Despite, of course, my lack of knowledge regarding who in the hell these people involved were...)

At roughly 3am, I noticed the time and felt the urge to bang my head against the monitor while cursing figure skating and all it’s participants for causing me to once again lose sleep. (The first time being when I went to Stars On Ice, and spent the better part of three weeks prior to the event plotting out how best to embrace Kurt Browning’s bum without causing him any undue alarm.) Now, let me re-iterate…I do not KNOW OF, nor had I heard of ANY of the skaters involved in this all important scandal 24 hours ago; and thus, as the morning sun streams through my window reminding me that God is trying to burn out my retinas, I can not fathom WHY this was of such paramount importance last night that I was willing to risk turning into the swamp monster around my daughter this morning. (Which I did~~~poor thing, I have her programmed. She can now look into my eyes, and knowingly shake her head “You are going to have your period soon, aren’t you Mama?” Yes, baby, I am…and as much as I love you, you might want to run away from home for the next two or three days…I’ll pack you a couple of lunches…)

However, for lack of a better person to pin this all upon, (and I'm certainly not going to blame ME!!) I’m going to say that Owen must have been the cause of my restless night. Owen is a complete and utter asshat that I had the misfortune of meeting about four years ago. At the time, I was convinced that the Lord had sent me a great gift; as Owen looks remarkably like Kurt Browning, and yet, not being the skating legend, afforded me a much greater chance of warmly embracing his bum without the need for security involvement.

Sadly, as the years have dragged on, his resemblance to the skating star has diminished in light of his inanity, and now, every time I look at him, all I can see is a giant dildo with eyeballs. Let me enlighten you. In the course of our friendship, Owen has confided many a thing to me. For your amusment, entertainment, and general understanding of why I loathe this man so much I'm now seriously thinking of erecting a billboard to warn the masses, I have included some of these confidences below.

Confidence One: (made shortly after we met four years ago, yet jarring enough I still remember it clearly to this day...)
“I am going to open up a business where I take people fishing and get paid for it. I’m going to fly them out to the lake, (*Author's Note#1 (hereafter referred to as A.N): *Owen can NOT fly, either on his own power or with the aid of an aircraft...unless you take into account the copious amount of mind-altering drugs circulating his system at any given moment...*) and take them on their fishing trip. They will be so grateful to have a guide in this *oh so* dangerous sport of fishing on Canadian lakes (*A.N#2:*Which no one could possibly do without a learned guide given the vast perils involved with sitting in a boat with a rod in your hand...*) that they will happily finance the twenty-five other stupid ideas that currently excuse me from finding plausible and lucrative employment."

Confidence #2: (Made after about 2 years of friendship when I ought to have known better, but was still hanging on to the whole "hug a celebrity bum without getting arrested" novelty..)
“I am going to take pilot lessons. (*A.N#3: *I could literally hear the sound of the pilots of the world uniting to put a stop to this.*) I have just now paid $300.00 for a picture of a cockpit and accompanying explanations. Granted, to actually get into a plane and fly it, I have to give them $10,000, but I’m sure by some holy miracle, I’ll shit that money out, and then I’ll put that $300.00 picture I bought to good use.”

Confidence #3: (The novelty of him looking like Kurt has worn off. He does not look like Browning anymore anyways...the dildo in him is beginning to shine through...)
“I’m not taking pilot lessons anymore. For some strange reason, when the time came to pay $10,000 for my pilot training, my rectum refused to relinquish the funds. This, of course, is the fault of God, who ought to have known that He was supposed to line my intestines with $100 bills for just such an occasion.” (*A.N#4: *Pilots across the nation have to start going to church because of the countless promises they made to God whilst Owen studied his cock. (pit picture).*)

Confidence #5: (Kurt Browning's resemblance has left the building, having been now fully replaced by a giant dildo with eyeballs. I am starting to think seriously of causing him bodily harm every time he enters a room...)
“I’m going to go to Africa and be a missionary. Yes, I know that I’m not religious, and nor am I thinking on becoming religious. However, I have it on good authority that missions given out by the LDS Church are not in any way, shape or form connected to religion.” (*A.N#5: Mormons of the world curse the pilots for giving them this burden and then quickly ask God to forgive their unpure thoughts.*)

Confidence #6: (I am only letting him in to the house anymore because a)I am moving soon anyways, and b) having not had sex in a million years, dildo's are starting to look pretty damn good...)
“I’m not going to Africa. The bastards insisted I join the church before they would even consider it!! I don’t understand this…because I smoke enough drugs to be incredibly holy…even if it is only my lungs and my head that have the holes. Besides, I’d like to see one of those sanctimonious LDS pricks hold in a hoot for a minute straight!! (A.N#6: *Can't you just see the Mormons turning green with envy over THAT talent??!*) God, I’m sick of people overlooking my talents!!” (*A.N#7: *We are not ingoring your talents, Owen. We are simply trying to keep from beating you.*)

Confidence #7: (I am seriously considering suing TELUS for putting my new number on that automated thing that tells people what your old number was changed to...)
“I’m going to go and work on a farm in Saskatchewan and make a ton of money. I know this because a girl I work with, that has the brains of a small pea and the looks of a dump truck, told me so. I, in no way think this is connected to the fact that bribery is likely the only way in which this particular girl would ever see a man naked.” (*A.N#8: *I wonder if she knows that she will have to share him with the eighty other personalities in his head?*)

Confidence#8: (I am upset that the call block feature is not stopping him. I wonder vaguely if he has friends at TELUS...and then I remember that no one has friends at TELUS... My law suit is taking longer than I hoped...)
“I’m not going to Saskatchewan. I talked to this girl's parents and they have no idea what in the fuck their daughter is talking about. (*A.N#9: *I surpress the urge to send these people a card. I am in total sympathy with how Owen's phone calls can leave an individual in the "WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT!!" state. Owen is, after all, president of the WTF State Of Idiocy...*) In fact, they really don’t think they have a damned thing for me to do down there, and only agree to go along with the whole thing if I marry their ugly daughter. I can’t do that!! You and I both know I’m not really the man they think I am at home…oh no no no, I’m a rocket man.” (*A.N#10: *I am phoning Sir Elton John to let him know this song is being used for evil.*)

Confidence #9: (Why hasn't Sir Elton John put him in jail for copyright infringement yet??)
“I’m moving back in with my parents, and going to work at the mill. This will allow me time to get my head out of my asshole, while saving money for my next brilliant scheme. My mother, of course, is only doing this because she feels strongly that if I stay here, I’m going to marry some butt ugly chick so I can work on a farm in Saskatchewan.” (*A.N#11: *Good, cool...fantastic!! He goes home, and he's not here. Life is looking up. I break into a jig to celebrate...*)

Confidence #10: (Why in the hell isn't he gone yet?? I was promised a departure here, God damn it!)
“I’m going to go to South America for a year to backpack around and sleep in tents... I think it will inevitably make me feel much better about myself to be in constant fear of being knifed to death whilst sleeping. Something about that adrenaline man…really does it for me.” (*A.N#12: *I packed his bags last night preflight, zero hours, nine am. My jig is more pronounced and I am pouring champagne out to total strangers on the streets.*)

Confidence #11: (He's still here. I am at the point of screaming and running from the house when the phone rings. My neighbours grow frightened of me...)
“I’m not leaving the city at all. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and have come to the conclusion that going home will only result in my parents realizing my brains are now more crystal than grey matter. (*A.N#13: *Keith Richards is turning green with envy...*) I have convinced my landlord to let me stay, but that’s only because he’s my brother, and Mom said she’d spank him if he didn’t. I am, however, now unemployed. (*A.N#14: *I can't hide my shock...someone hired him!!??*) I’m thinking this isn’t too big a deal though, right?? I mean, this time God’s sure to help me shit out $100.00 bills, right?? He does owe me one after letting me down on the pilot school, after all.” (*A.N#14: *No...God owes ME one. Fuck! Fish Guts!! I wasted all that money on champagne and he isn't fucking leaving??! Great! What was I celebrating then?? Clearly the loss of the last shred of my sanity...*)

Confidence #12: (Just when you think things can't get any worse, the Universe takes a shit down your throat...)
“Good news, I am dating my good friend’s young sister. She is very mature and intelligent…in fact, she’s nearly done her grade nine now, and her friends totally think she is the best player at intramurals. I got a job to help her buy school supplies, and am now training to transport highly flammable gasses." (*A.N#15: *Our Father, thou are in Heaven. Harold be thy name. Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done, As this idiot blows us all from earth up into Heaven...*)

Confidence #13: (My neighbours think I'm beating my daughter because they keep hearing my head banging against the fucking wall...)
“Because I have now been dating this girl for 3 whole days, I know that I am in love. I also know that Cassie feels the same way about me because she gave me a friendship bracelet that she made in art class. I’m still going to South America, of course, but because I am so in love, I think I’m going to take Cassie with me. I’m sure her principal will give her leave…besides, there is nothing that says love quite like putting your girl-friend in fear for her life. Cassie thinks this is a great idea, because all she had planned for this year was, you know, finishing junior high and stuff. Seriously man, she’s so clever and mature. I can’t get over it! Why, just the other day, she told me that she’s pretty sure the world is round!! It's going to be great...and I know it will all work out because, know...I'm the rocket man!! (*A.N#16: *Yea, but Mars ain't the kind of place to raise your kids, Owen! Fuck, where is Sir Elton John when you need him??! That lawsuit should have gone through by now!!*)

Owen is currently trying to puzzle out why it is I no longer want him around my daughter, or for that matter, myself or my cat. (Especially the he has always wanted to go to South America, and absolutely adores Rocket men.) For my part, I’m drafting a letter to Mr. Browning’s lawyers, advising them to take action and remove Kurt’s face from Owens body before the good people of South America begin questioning why it is the four-time world champion is tenting in their backyards with his child-bride. I’m willing to gather all the evidence they need for conviction…all I ask in return is to be allotted five minutes of quality time in which to hug Mr. Browning's bum. Personally, I think it’s a more than fair trade.