I am a really nice person

Things I learned after Mr. Apple whisked me away from the brood for the weekend…

• I’m very nice and calm.
• sometimes I use very bad words, and start talking like a street hooker to be funny.
• I like being outside in cold weather when not charged with the care and husbandry of small children’s cheeks and toes.
• silence makes me jittery
• the fella I married goes like a motherfucker (pun intended) not stopping until he starts to quiver from low blood sugar. We tromped up and down the frigging Niagara Escarpment, skiied and snowboarded, and ran and did push-up’s in between. I caught him doing chin-up’s in secret, and waved a Steam Whistle under his nose to make him stop.
• I can keep up. Hella yeah bitch. I can.

Back home and the offspring hemmed me into a corner. Mom look! Mom look! MOM LOOK! Abby waved a birthday party prize in my face…a bug filled with liquid guts. It exploded. Red goo from China spewed everywhere, burning my eyes, dripping into my ear.

Abby and I were scrubbing toxic red dye off each other three minutes after I came home. I was no longer the ‘fun-fun party’ mom I thought I’d turned into. I was ’stressy-stressy soak-the-damn-clothes and get this shit out of my eyes before I go blind’ mom.

pineapple chunks

Purpose: reduce food waste.

Hypothesis: when presented nicely, library staff will eat nasty dried bits of pineapple that came in my bag-o-salad. Seemed a shame just to toss them in the bin.

Procedure: chunks  in ceramic cereal bowl nabbed from staff dish cupboard. The band of blue highlighted the yellow of the dried ‘fruit.’ Subjects not in staff room when bowl deposited. Timer on. An hourly check revealed the bits of pineapple eaten — secretly, never was a subject caught with hand in bowl — at an alarming rate of consumption, (6:hour).

Conclusion: Possible rate of consumption due to high levels of caloric need in subjects. Staff room table usually laden with sugary goo. Not a lot of sugary goop lately, and staff blood sugar levels are plummeting rapidly. Also proof that library people are highly underpaid and rely on foodstuffs destined for compost as part of their daily diet.

hate, spite and malice

The day began with a spicy dish of hate, spite and malice served in runny newsprint on the letters page. Potter of Orillia wrote a letter musing on the library. He thought it would be neat to rennovate the old Carnegie Building downtown, saving us from a modern facility and restoring an existing building.

Great idea! We’ll do that after he tears down the open-pit housing site he plunked in a farm field and takes the 100-year-old crumble-down rabbit warrens and restores them to their original happy sheen.

He’s running for mayor, this bad man is. I went to his Christmas party one year and sang Whitesnake with his body-guard. I thought we connected. He’s a cheater.

Thanks to him, however, we only had 24% of today’s patrons make a dumb joke about the temporary library being an old strip bar. One patron shouted out “The last time I was here, I was on stage!” without a note of decorum nor irony. She did have a nice ass.

Oscar’s day was equally shite. Mrs. Simpson made new groups, but it still went south. Oscar said his “legs were wiggling because I was so nervous she’d put me on yellow.” What the hell is this? Put my kid on yellow because he doesn’t want to play Little Red Riding hood during some fecking group work?

She threatened them all with bad report cards.

He drew a picture of her. Abby saw it and said: “That’s Mrs. Simpson, isn’t it?” Oscar said, “I wonder a lot who she got to marry her.” Abby said, “Someone who really, really likes fat nipples.” Sarah report card time…A’s all ’round!

Then Mr. Apple pulled a chicken out of the oven and made us all feel a bit better.

bejinxed

The trials of Grade One take over at 9 p.m. EST in my bed. Oscar, lids half-closed and mouth opening only to the left he gives me a laundry list of woes. He sidles up to me like his future drunk adult male will sidle up to the pot-bellied bartender downtown.
Today it was Mrs. Simpson, the once-weekly drama teacher. Mr. Lightfoot’s replacement — marked with the taint that she bumped the aforementioned man into .5 teaching oblivion — she’s been accused of carnal sin, and now worse. The breathiness and revealing strip of skin at her bosom do nothing to distract from the anger she holds loosely in check under clingy tops.
Tomorrow, she will force Oscar and his group (including the kid who wipes his poo and shows it) to re-do their interpretation of a fairy tale. Last week, the two class prima donnas pretended to be Hannah Montana while my son and his friend (winner of the Smudgiest Kid award dubbed by Oscar) tried to corral the poo-hand while Mrs. Simpson lost her cool.
“Tomorrow is going to be the worst day of my life,” Oscar cried in despair while he dropped off to sleep.
“Tomorrow, Mrs. Simpson will go to anger.”

better than wanking

Did you think the diobolical Snuggy was the pinnacle of my birthday? Think again. I am presently surrounded in infomercial gluttony!

The offspring feted my 35th time around the sun with the Slap Chop, the Graty, and some form of potato torture device that quickly disembowels said veggie in a single swing of the lever!

Is it me? Have I yearned for the likes of them?  Do I recite the infomercial over, and over until someone screams? Nope. It is me, however, who flicks on the t.v. every morning at 6 a.m. for a bit of study time. It is me who sits a room away while that lunatic man screams at the offspring mantras of slap-chop-bliss, and it is me who is complicit in the slow leaching of my kid’s consumer skills…and likely master of their future credit crunch.

A big shout-out to Mr. Apple from my thighs — who have now formed two independant republics after said man baked a record number of white cakes (Good Housekeeping, Cakes, first recipe, 320 calories a slice if you pretend there are 12 servings in a cake…say what?).

Four cakes baked in a week. One for my status as full-time wage earner, three for my ability to stay alive another year.

Oh, but they are so egg-y and slick! I marvel at soft denseness of each slice as it pretends to hold zero caloric units as it stumbles into my mouth time after time.

Grand finale…

Dying to know the levels of romance now reached? Mr. Apple got me my best gift ever. A wireless weather station! I ran out in his ten-league boots to tuck the sensing device in a pocket of calm on the porch and fired it up. Right now? A balmy -6.6 C outside. I’m on tenderhooks to see where this is going.

but, that is impossible

Still recovering from a wicked piss-up Friday at the library, I am physically bedraggled and mentally horrified. Possibilities of deviant behavior detectable only via semen-seeking spray are likely. Said deviants are not related to the babe we feted and sent off into a life of retirement. Deviants are afoot, however, and I plan to make use of my info-gathering skills tonight, trolling the Internet for semen-seeking spray recipes that I can casually tuck into a travel-sized hairspray bottle.
Tomorrow, after I comb for evidence, I will have a birthday.
How do I know life ceases to have meaning when you cross into 35?
My mom gave me a ‘eve of birth’ gift. A Snuggy. Which I put on, and in that moment closed the door on any need for SSSpray in my house. The Man who bore witness to three live shows of birth at the gates of my love machine, and survived with libido intact, crumpled into the land of the lost when I donned the Snuggy and forced him to waltz.

why lazlo?

Martha asked me to doll her up. For all her snapping and hissing, she isn’t a tough like a Jet. She decided to play on her looks. Alice, the stray sister, returned from her wonderland in Laos. Bulging with gifties galore, she bedecked Martha with a rice-picker hat. Martha is trying for peasant chic. I got a scarf. Alice met the silkworms who made it, and they said it was one of the best things to come out of their asses all week. (I like the way it pops out the red veins in my eyes.)

Our new dog. The name Lazlo. Why Lazlo?  Lazlo is Mr. Apple’s grandad’s name, and uncle, and cousin, and great uncle. Because, I discovered there are only, maybe, five first names in Hungary, because they all just make up nicknames. Some might think that it would just be easier to name your baby the nickname. Some people also drink pee for their health. Chacun a son gout.  It’s close to native spirituality. You earn your name. I’d be something like Stumbly, or Screechy, or Spittle.

My Best Lurker, Norm, admired my orange scarf, but said not ‘boo’ about this one from Alice. Maybe the giant price sticker on his left lense distorted my image. Maybe he thinks I have a big white pom-pom on my face. Polite Lurker, never mentioned it. I’m a hair’s breath away from reaching across the circulation desk to peel of the the price tag. But, these lurkers, you don’t want to encourage them with soft touches. Or eye contact. Next thing you know you’re in pieces in the bag in his back pocket.

Drippy.

lazlo, a new apple

I’d fed the offspring full of tiny bits of sugary toast cereal and smiled and trilled, and might have been a bit shrill, as I hustled and packed them out the door. Sunday morning we loaded into the big, red truck and drove two hours east.

The cacophony of ‘where? what? why?’ rained down and I knitted quietly on the Mary Maxim classic sweatercoat and murmured about seeing an alpaca farm. The back seat was silent.

-Oh. An alpaca farm. Can we get an alpaca?

-Nope. Does anyone want a Timbit?

That stopped-up their gobs, and off we drove to the Alpaca farm to see a woman about a dog. Which we thought we might buy, but didn’t want to say we were going to buy, because then we’d have some sort of massive revolt and possible violence on our hands.

An aside: Now that the nerves are bo-jangled all to hell, and the guard dog bought, Martha is starting to strut around and posture like a Jet. She came snapping into the kitchen today looking for trouble. I’ve tied a mop to my foot to get her used to Lazlo, who will be here soon.

beneficial

Out x-country skiing and retraining my brain, getting my legs in shape to kick narsty ass, going over all the ways I can kill a big man with a ski pole when…suddenly…I was going downhill. Martha hadn’t warned me, she was off following her nose to a trail of snowmobiler piss that spelled Joh, or maybe Job*. My little wee skis named Picnic were out of control. I was going like a bullet. So busy formulating self defense moves was I, that I hadn’t planned to Podborski it.

Ass over tea kettle I went, landing with my nose next to the tiniest little breastbone ever. Licked clean. I imagine the fairy war has indeed begun. Or, the coyotes and foxes have given up on the turkeys, and are hunting chickadees. I should leave out some carrots to help my black-capped friends.

good news – The long hand of Mr. Fate has plucked me out part-time dooldrums and placed me gently on the feather bed of full time status at the library. Notice the genetic predisposition to scraggly teeth, and you will join me in the dance of the dental benefits package. Rock it.

*the life of Job must have included snowmobiling. There is no more profane way to ruin a winter’s day.

distractions

Something came and turned the world on its ass last week. Narsty beasties are crawling out of holes in the floors, and tiptoeing down the hall at night — we sleep with flashlights under our pillows and hands held.

What else is there to do?

distractions

Send psychic love my way.