Make A Wish....

It's my birthday today. Well sort of. It's my first ever blogiversary. I feel so old. So distinguished. So respected. Snort. Well, not really, but I am marvelling that I have been plugging away at this little blog for so long. As most of you know, I started this blog as a means of therapy. A way to get through the day, and shine some light through that terrible blanket of depression and grief which had wrapped it's self around me and threatened never to let go. I didn't give much thought to what blogging would mean to me, other than it's purpose of keeping me busy, distracting me from my pain.

I didn't realize the community my blog would foster, or the embrace I would receive from the blogosphere. Who knew how powerful a virtual hug could be, how far a few kind words from a stranger could carry you in day. I didn't honestly think I would be blogging for this long. I simply thought I would power out, run out of stories, stop caring about my invisible friends, fade slowly into the cyberspace of the internet until I was nothing more than an old stale URL that nobody visited.

Perhaps that is my fate still, but for now, my blog, my blogging community are very much an important part of my day. I enjoy getting up, pushing my kids out of the house and cuddling up to the computer. I enjoy reading the antics of the daddy bloggers, and marvelling at the mommy bloggers who actually parent. It inspires me to stop ignoring my own children and to actually feed them non-processed foods.

(Well, up to a point - after all, who am I kidding? My love for Kraft dinner runs deep.)

I like tiptoeing through my bloglines, and leaving bits of myself through the interweb. Discovering a new blog is like finding a pair of jeans that don't give me muffin top or camel toe. It makes me want to shout from the roof tops with joy. Or run naked through a meadow of wild flowers, but I live in the arctic. The roof top idea is much easier.

I thought perhaps once my blog was made public that I would loose my zest for sharing. I would clam up and start censoring my thoughts, in a desperate bid to avoid embarrassment. But then I started thinking about all the ways I embarrass myself in my real life. How I talk too loud, bray like a donkey when told a good joke, play with my nose ring constantly, and suffer from that dreaded foot-in-mouth disease, and blogging hasn't much changed that. I have just given my friends, family and neighbours another opportunity to be embarrassed for me. Really, I like to think I'm providing a public service for those I love. I'm giving them someone to pity, make fun of and poke at, so they can avoid the misery of their own lives.

Because I am thoughtful like that.

On a serious note, blogging here on RM has helped fill the vacancy left in my soul when my youngest died. I honestly didn't know how I would survive his death, find my way through that loss. I felt nothing but pain. I knew I was still blessed with two other beautiful children, but I couldn't feel anything except a soul-wrenching hurt. There was no room for love, or humour or happiness. And that was unacceptable to me. I couldn't live like that and I didn't want my children to have a mom who was an empty shell of the person she used to be.

So I started remembering my Bug, and his beauty, and it helped to share him with the world. I made a point of picking out one point of the day, something little and finding the humour in it. To remind myself there was more to life than this fog of grief that had wrapped itself around my heart.

At first it was hard. But with each post, each day, it gets a little easier. I can't say I'm back yet, because I never will be. But I can comfortably tell you that in this past year I have grown into a new person, one who can look at her daughter and see the beauty shining through. I can feel my love for her once more, not just simply remember that I love her. I can see past my son's increasingly long hair and see through his resemblance to a dandelion puff and find humour in his desire to grow his hair long like his little brother's. I can feel something other than pain. And it feels good.

Don't get me wrong, dear internet. There is still not a moment that goes by that I don't wish I had a g-tube to plug in, or a string of saliva to wipe away. I miss those hesitant high fives, and that sweet spot on the soft curve of his neck. I still ache for him, probably always will. But as my daughter Fric, summed it up: It's hard to wish him back when he's in a better place. So I don't. I just merely send him kisses on the wings of the angels and ask him not to forget us.

And then I sit at my computer and tell you about the World's Greatest Dog, Ever. I write about Bug's siblings and his daddy, Boo. And I read about your lives to remember that I too, have a life. One that doesn't revolve around one little boy and his cement marker.

So thank you for that. There really are no words adequate enough to express my gratitude, or my love for all of you. Thanks for propping me up this past year and helping a girl out while she was down. A special thanks to Liz for being my first commenter ever. I have stalked you regularly since, and will continue to do so. (And not just cuz you were nice to me, but because you freaking ROCK!!!)

I am going to spend today, my bloggy birthday, doing what I love. Ignoring the dust bunnies (and my still-present mouse), sit on my ever-increasingly large bottom and reach out to touch someone.

Because I like it when you all touch me. I'm dirty that way.

Cat on Hot Tin Roof

Everyone is born with talent. Generally, more than one talent. Obvious talents and hidden talents, like being able to twist the stem of a maraschino cherry into a knot (yep, I can), the ability to touch their tongues to their nose (nope, can't do that), or being able to belch out the ABC's, twice, in one burp. (Nope, can't do that either. But respect all who can...right, Tulip?) Some people search their whole lives to find their hidden talents, others discover it immediately. I knew when I was 15 that I have an ear for learning foreign languages. I didn't find out until I was 26 that I am a natural born killer on a paint ball field. Men fear me. I am the surprise warrior, the one every boy figures will be an easy target, right until the moment I shoot them between the eyes. They never see it coming. I am also exceptionally talented at picking off tin cans on a fence with live ammo. Much to Boo's disgust.

I can also draw stick figures well, and paint like Picasso. And I am exceptionally talented at spurting milk through my nose. Ask my kids. They have been sprayed. As I grow older, I discover new hidden talents, whenever I try new things. I also discover what I suck at. Which, as it turns out, is quite a few things. But no one is perfect, right?

As a small child, I harboured secret fantasies of becoming a famous rock star and marrying Michael Jackson and going on tour with him and our children. I used to listen to his music on my radio, and sing into my hairbrush while envisioning our future together. Of course, that future didn't include him feeding his Jesus juice to young boys, or forcing his children to wear table clothes over their heads, but hey, I was eight.

That dream was quickly squashed the moment my dad burst into my room with a panicked look on his face. As I was singing my heart out to Billie Jean, my daddy thought I was torturing our family cat. Apparently my singing sounds much the same as when a cat's tail is caught in the door.

That wasn't the last time my budding singing career was over before it began. I was once asked to sing softer in the school choir so the more gifted voices could be heard over my caterwauling, and my husband threatened to leave me if I persisted to screech If I had a Million Dollars while I showered.

I have made peace with my inability to carry a tune or even recognize the note. I know I am horrible sounding, I accept it. That doesn't mean that I am going to stop singing though. I just do it quieter, and generally, when I'm alone. Or trapped in the car with my kids. Because nothing is more punishing than listening to your mother belt out Respect while you silently cringe and hope none of your friends are in the car next to yours. Right?

Of course, there are millions of people who don't accept their vocal limitations. Thus, American Idol was born. The viewing public (i.e. me) loves to sit at home and toss popcorn at the telly whenever those bozos screech sing to the judges. And it thrills me when those dopes have a tantrum when they are told they aren't fit for human consumption. I want to ask them if they have working ears. Because really, how can you mistake that horrible squealing sound for music?

Last night, I was invited out. Tricked really. A friend called up and asked if I needed to get out of the house, have a drink, discuss grown up issues. What he failed to mention was the fact that we were going to a karaoke bar. Imagine, my horror (and secret delight) to realize I would be stuck in musical hell. And no one would laugh at me. I could finally be free with my vocal abilities, embrace my natural, God-given er, talent and let it all hang out.

Picture Cameron Diaz in My Best Friend's Wedding. That could be me.

Of course, it wasn't. I'm too uptight classy for that. Plus, the owner of the pub is my friend, and I wouldn't want to be singly responsible for driving away his paying customers. Which I was not. (I wouldn't want my access to free booze dry up.)

No, instead, I sat back and watched the crowd take turns at the foolishness. I quickly discovered there are three types of karaoke singers. The Good, the Bad, and the very, very Ugly. Every one loves watching the Good ones sing, as it inspires us, makes us sit up and take notice of that particular person and wish we sounded that good while belting out a tune. The Bad singers aren't so bad, they just sound awful. But they are having fun doing it, and hey, that's what counts, right?

But the Ugly ones, those are the ones to watch. These are the people who take this public singing phenomenon very seriously. They dress up for the part, totter about in their leopard print stilettos and their tight green skirt with hot pink belt, with their shoulders back and boobs out; while looking you in the eye and daring you to laugh at them.

Which, of course, I do. But only when they aren't looking, because I am a bit of a pansy that way. These are the ones who truly believe they sound good, and they are just waiting for their big break. These are the ones it hurts to watch. Unless you are intoxicated, in which case, it is just plain fun. Especially to heckle them.

Which I would never do. At least not drunkenly. If I'm to heckle, I'll do it sober.

I never did work up the courage to step up to the microphone. The voices of my past kept ringing in my ears. That, and the sound of a cat screeching. I decided my life was too short for that sort of public humiliation.

I would much rather humiliate myself in other ways. Like talking loudly about my vagina in a public place or walking around with toilet paper stuck to my shoe.

But you can bet your ass that last night inspired me. When I step into the shower today, I'm gonna belt out a tune. And maybe with enough practice, I can convince myself that the world is wrong. I don't stink.

At least, I won't when I get out of the shower.

Pass the Puns, Please

I have nothing interesting to blog today. I've hit the blogging brick wall. Perhaps it is because I slept in the same position all night long with out moving and now feel like I've been run over by a big truck driven by a jilted wife. Or perhaps it is because my darling children decided today was a good day to sneak into my bed, slide under the covers and put their icy little toes against my warm body at six-thirty this morning. If it were legal to drown them, I would have seriously considered it this morning.

As I sit here, waiting for my beloved java to wake me up and jolt me back to the land of the living, I offer you this piece of cheese. It is old, smelly and definitely not of the finest quality. Kind of like me. Which makes me love it even more. Enjoy!!


The world expert on European wasps and the sounds that they make is taking a stroll through his local town. As he passes by the music store, a sign catches his eye: "Just Released - New LP - Wasps of the World and the sounds that they make - available now."

Unable to resist the temptation, the man goes into the shop.

"I am the world expert on European wasps and the sounds that they make. I'd very much like to listen to the new LP you have advertised in the window."

"Certainly, Sir," says the young man behind the counter. "If you'd like to step into the booth and put on the headphones, I'll put the LP on for you."

The expert goes into the booth and puts on the earphones. Three minutes later, he comes out of the booth and announces, "I am the world expert on European wasps and the sounds that they make and yet I recognised none of those."

"I'm very sorry, Sir", says the young assistant. "If you'd care to step into the booth again, I can play you have another track."

The expert steps back into the booth and replaces the headphones.

Three minutes later, he comes out of the booth shaking his head. "I don't understand it", he says, "I am the world expert on European wasps and the sounds that they make, and yet I still can't recognise any of those!"

"I'm terribly sorry, Sir" says the young man, "perhaps if you'd like to step into the booth again, you could hear another track."

Sighing, the expert steps back into the booth. Five minutes later, he comes out again, clearly agitated.

"I am the world expert on European wasps and the sounds that they make and yet I have recognised none of the wasps on this LP."

"I really am terribly sorry", says the young assistant,


"I've just realised I was playing you the bee side."