Woe is Me

I'm off to a slow start this morning. Usually, I rise at the crack of dawn, feed the needy monsters society refers to as my children, then plant my arse in front of the computer to compose the literary genius you have all become accustomed to reading.

(Quiet in the peanut gallery. It's hard to type when I'm being drown out by sniggering.)

However, last night wore me out. My son's team got the stuffing knocked out of them again. It was painful. It hurt to watch. I just wanted to run in there, shove some youngsters aside and kick the damn ball myself. There is nothing worse than doing the parental walk of shame past the opposing parents while trying to explain to your son that it is not important if you win or lose, it's how you play the game.

(Bah humbug. I'll take a victory over this shit any day.)

Too make matters worse, my darling children would not stop fighting. They were at each other's throats the moment they stepped off the school bus till the moment they finally fell asleep. Even being separated and threatened to be hung by their toes upside down so Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. could have his way with them was not enough to quiet the masses.


 They were still arguing and making jabs at each other through their bedroom walls when I tucked them in at night. I was tempted to duct tape some mouths shut, but I don't think that is a government sanctioned course of action for controlling smart mouths with poor attitudes.Generally, Fric and Frac are the best of friends; inseparable like a pair of Siamese twins. But puberty has taken it's toll on them. Victims of raging hormones, I stand back (read: watch while cowering in my corner, hoping not to make direct eye contact with either of them for fear of provoking the beasts) and try to play peace maker from afar.

I remember the days of not getting along with my big brother, Stretch. I lived in fear of being thrown through the drywall for provoking him with my smart mouth. (I was kind of a stupid sassy chick, the kind who never knew when to stand down or shut up.)

But I honestly thought I had this sibling gig beat. Fric and Frac are so very different from Stretch and myself, that I never really worried about buying any spackle. I'm starting to wonder now, though.

Stretch always tells me I am the foolhardy naive one in the family, ready to believe almost anything.

Surely that doesn't apply to my own children. They won't fight like cats and dogs forever, right? It's just a phase. It'll get easier from here, right? When they are 14 and 15 they will be braiding each other's hair (Frac is trying to grow his long) and dating each other's friends with their  respective blessings. They may even wear matching shirts. Right?

Your silence is deafening. And you there, in the back. I don't need to hear about the sale on drywall compound at the local hardware store.

Smart asses.

A Bad Night, But a Good Morning

The cost of two tickets to the blues legend, B.B. King: $140

The cost of accidentally flushing your car keys down the toilet: $0 and wounded pride.






The cost of calling a tow truck to pry open your car to fish out your wallet, phone and jacket: $48.00

The cost of having to listen to best friend, the Piano Man, laugh his ass off at your expense: $0 and wounded pride.

The cost of having to phone husband (long distance) and explain said dumbass move: $2.00

The cost of replacement keys and clicker: $121.00

The cost of sleeping on Piano Man's couch because I was stranded: Never ending backpain.

The cost of waking up and prodding the Piano Man's lazy ass out of bed to make me coffee: Totally worth being called a pain in his ass.

The cost of walking outside to find my car in Piano Man's driveway with a new set of keys: Priceless

The cost of having a husband drive five hours and missing his sleep to fix my fuck-up and bring the Piano Man and I breakfast: Invaluable and worth every blowjob I could ever offer.

The cost of fixing the Piano Man's kitchen faucet which has been broken for a year and a half: $0, five minutes of time and a genius husband.

That's right, I accidentally flushed my keys down the toilet at the concert, suffered the indignities of having to admit said dumbass move, pay a tow truck driver to break into my own car, sleep on the Piano Man's lumpy couch, only to wake up to find my problem solved, my beautiful husband at the door with coffee and bagels in hand and to top it all off, after driving all night to surprise me, he plays PLUMBER GOD and fixes the Piano Man's sink.

A husband like this: Worth it's weight in gold.

I must go now. Somebody has earned a special treat...

Special thanks CrankMama to for nominating this post for a ROFL award. Need a giggle? Check out the other winners over here or here.
I heart you all.



Updated: I just realized that Ali at Cheaper than Therapy nominated the same post for the same award. Damn, I must be sick to have overlooked something like that. My sincerest apologies for overlooking that. Go on over and spread some love. She's part Canuck which means we're soul sistahs.

I heart you too, Ali.

Of Mice And Men

My house is in panic mode, currently under lockdown. Why? Because there is a mouse in my house. (Hee hee, that sounds so dirty when I say it.) And there is only room enough under this roof for one type of rodent. One of us has to go. And seeing as how I'm bigger, it's time for Stuart Little to pack up and find new digs. I am not adopting a mouse. I spent most of Monday and all of yesterday with one mission in mind: Mouse murder. But I am not exactly schooled in the black arts of pest control, so I had some learning to do.

Warning: be careful of the Google when typing in mouse, mice, trap, or mouse control. You would think I'd have landed on some reputable rodent killing sites or perhaps the odd computer geek site, but no, surprisingly not. Apparently, when someone asks if you've clicked your mouse lately, they are referring to you er, lady parts.

I was educated. But not in rodent control.

Finally, with some luck and some perseverance, I found what I needed to know. Now it was for supplies. After walking into one of the big box hardware stores, I was stunned. I stared at row after row of pest control. Who knew there were so many ways to off a furry little mammal. I wasn't sure if I was up to this.

Poison was out, because with my luck my nephew, the Worm, or Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. would find it and eat it, thereby poisoning themselves, leaving me with untold amounts of guilt, a dead loved one and still a mouse in my house. (Still sounds dirty when I type it, hee hee.)

Those damn sticky tabs where the mouse walks on them and is stuck, starving to death just freak me out. Back in the days of my youth, when I managed a movie theatre to pay for school, we had an exterminator come in once a month for pest control. Those sticky tabs were his weapon of choice. At the time I thought they were cool, until I came upon one, with a mouse attached. Poor thing had ripped off his face in his attempt to free himself. It was an image I could live with out and have no need of experiencing again.

As I sat there, baffled and bewildered by all the choices before me, I was beginning to feel overwhelmed. I shook myself out of my moment of self-pity and reminded myself that there were vermin living in my NEW home; vermin carrying all types of disease and filth. I may call myself a redneck, but I am a clean freak redneck. No mouse is going to tarnish that image.

I had visions of getting out the hubs gun and going Rambo on his furry little ass. But then I remembered reading this article and decided to leave the guns locked up in the gun safe. With my luck, I'd do worse than that dumb ass Donald did. If only I were blessed with my sister's aptitude for rodent execution. She has a gift for being able to off the furry little creatures with out even trying.

It all started when she was eight years old and trying to clean her gerbil cage. She put both her precious pets in a bucket while she cleaned the cage. The little buggers managed to climb out of the bucket and scurry away in a mad dash for freedom. She yelled for me to come help, and me being the darling 11 year old I was, moseyed along, not terribly concerned by the panic in her voice. I happened upon her just in time to see her trip on her socks (which weren't pulled up properly) and land on her knees. With one gerbil under each knee. Twitching. She was horrified and I couldn't stop laughing. I still smile when I remember that image...hee hee.

Alas, that wasn't a gift I inherited. I was going to have to do this the old fashioned way. But I knew that with a regular mouse trap, there would be problems. I'd live in fear of hearing that dreaded 'Snap!' as it crushed the neck of some unsuspecting mouse. There would be no way I could bring myself to dispose of the carcass, and I don't think I'd be able to bribe my chitlens to do it for me.

That left me with only one option. The mouse house. (I can see my husband rolling his eyeballs now.) The little critter can mosey on in, and voila! Problem solved. It will be like a science project for Fric and Frac. They will have an up close opportunity to study some wild life, before I drop him off at the neighbour's yard, I mean outside.

Forty smackers later, and I was the proud owner of my first mouse trap. Now the battle begins. It is on, little mouse. Our own little version of Patriot Games.

Bring it little rat, let's see who wins.

BWHAHAHAHAHA