A Portrait of Elegance

I like to think I am a classy gal. I cross my legs demurely when I sit, I don't chew gum and I lift my pinky finger when I am drinking my tea. It has taken three decades to perfect my vision of demure elegance but I had a strong incentive to do so. When your family looks to be the poster family for the movie The Deliverance you try hard to not to look like the neighbourhood hillbilly. (In case you think I am exaggerating, let me describe my pops for you. Picture black, rotted teeth and stained grey tighty whiteys. Which he has no problem walking outside in. With nothing over them...But really, he is a nice fella.)

With my family portrait on my wall and in my head, I have worked hard to make sure my children aren't mistaken as those from a cabbage patch. They keep their elbows off the table, they don't (always) talk with food in their mouths and they say please and thank you like little pro's. I am very proud of them and their manners. I mean, they even clean behind their ears with out being told to. It is a constant battle but I believe that one day my children will be the poster kids for Miss Emily Post. That is my dream.

And they have me to set an example for them. Their classy mother. Who was playing with her nose ring as she sat and waited at a red light after their soccer game last night. As I sat there with my finger up my nose, scratching my itch and twisting my jewelry, I neglected to notice the car off to the right, which was full of teenage boys watching me pick my nose. There I sat, oblivious, until my son Frac cracked up when he noticed the car of boys pointing and laughing hysterically at my nose picking prowess.

I did what any classy mother would do. I flicked an imaginary booger at those giggling hyenas in the car next to me and gunned it as the light turned green.

And then I lectured my kids on the perils of nose picking in public. Because I strive to set a classy example.

The Forecast is Hot and Dry

My beloved is leaving me. Today. He is packing his bags and heading south. No, he's not off to fight for freedom. No, he's not trading me in for a newer, kinder model. The bastard is chasing the almighty dollar. And this is one momma that is not to thrilled about it. Oh, sure, it's not like he won't be back. In six weeks he'll arrive on my door step, eager to please, with his fists full of cash. Well, not really. Much more likely, he will slink back in the middle of the night, drop his luggage (in the middle of the living room,) and sneak into bed to cop a feel. Truthfully, I look forward to that cheap feel. Six weeks is a long time for this momma to not have her "cake."

Six weeks of soccer games solo. Six weeks of parenting Fric and Frac. Six weeks of not having any one farting in bed. Or leaving his dirty, balled up socks for me to find. Six weeks of not having an armpit to stick my nose into when I climb into bed. Six weeks of celibacy.

The closest I'm gonna get to getting my rocks off is having phone sex with my hubs who is notorious for falling asleep while on the phone.

Maybe I need to find myself a pocket rocket or a one of those little Rabbits everyone is talking about.

Scratching an Itch

Meet Nixon, the amazing flying pooch. Please note my wondrous lack of technical ability to connect my camera to the computer and retrieve my pics. (My darling hubs refuses to help. He believes the best way for me to learn is to muck it up trying, and he also insists on calling me lazy. He may be partially right.) But I am proficient and somewhat of a wizard using PhotoBooth. Don't you think?

Nixon is my wonder dog. He has only pooped on the floor twice, peed once and puked just a little. In forty-eight hours. He has discovered a taste for my sheep skin slippers and my camera case. He humps anything that is stationary. Or as my daughter says, he is scratching his itchy belly. I don't want to tell her that my puppy is raping her favorite teddy bear.

But aside from his perverted tendencies, his pooping delights and the odd whizzing, I owe this pooch a debt of gratitude. For yesterday was my dear sister's baby shower. Shudder. And if it wasn't for the amazing humping prowess of my pup, the shower might have fallen flat. Only four of my sister's invited friends showed up. It was a good thing I padded the numbers with my best friends and my daughter. Nixon provided endless entertainment and amusement as he itched his little belly all over the place. And in the end, a good time was had by all. (Well, a good time was had by me, due to the booze in my coffee.)

Here's to you, Nixon. You have humped your way into my heart with your itchy belly.