What's mine is mine and what's his is...mine.

Just kidding. We got our house. Our beautiful bungalow is going to be ready in February and although it's not that far from where we are now, it's far enough from the dump we live in now!

Gerry lives...like a guy. Who's not Felix Unger. He leaves clothes on his floor. He uses towels until way past the point where they smell of mildew. Let's not even get started about the shaving hairs in the sink and the fruit flies circling above his kitchen sink. I told him today that in a couple of months, he'll no longer have to worry about this, even if it kills me.

Someone sent this to me today:




The caption read, "If light stays on for more than four hours, call your electrician."

Just WHO is running OUR Country?

I don't think I'm getting the bang for my buck at the kid's school, and they've sucked about two hundred dollars out of me since school began.

My nine year old daughter came up to me the other day and told me that if she'd been able to vote, she would've voted for Jack Layton of the NDP 'cause he's nice. The disturbing thing is that she also thought Barack Obama was also one of the candidates for "President of Canada".

A harmless misunderstanding, kind of cute, and even kind of ironic, when you think about it.

The thing is, when I was her age, I already understood that as Canadians, we had a prime minister running our country, not a president. Although I knew who Ronald Reagan was, I knew at that age that he wasn't the one running Canada. Or so I thought, anyway.

So my daughter and I had a little chat about the whole setup, and who runs where and so on. Too bad her teachers are probably running around screaming "Go Obama" and the students don't know a whit about Canadian politics.

A few weeks ago, at our Canadian elections, the one that decided who our next prime minister was going to be, only 46% of potential voters turned out. Most of the non voters cited they were too busy, or too disheartened to even consider voting for the candidates we had. And now I'm ashamed to admit that I was one of the disheartened. For me, there was no 'lesser of the two evils' to choose between, I just thought all the choices were just plain bad.

And yet, I'm willing to bet that 99% of Canadians had at least one ear tuned to the results of the U.S. election, and would have voted if they could.

And now Obama is president. Good luck to him, and I hope he does a good job, because it seems to me that Canadians are just as desperate for a good leader as Americans are.

This neighborhood sucks, seriously

Ok, so this is a bit of a rant. First off, today Gerry informs me that we are NOT getting the lovely house I've been salivating over for the last month. I was tasting freedom from this one horse fucking town I live in and now it seems I have to wait longer. Sucks.

Last week I put together a 9th birthday party for my oldest daughter. I rented the party room in our complex, made all the food, decorated, and all in all spent a small fortune on loot bags and prizes for about 25 kids. I sent out invitations to all the kids in Scarlett's class. Call me crazy for doing that, but when we sat around and tried to decide who to invite, we discovered that one kid would be left out if we invited another kid and so on. So anyway, I was waiting for parents to RSVP, and only about 8 did. Out of those eight, four of those calls were actually from the kids themselves, saying that they could come. The parents actually refused to come to the phone and have the fucking courtesy to speak to another parent. How fucking rude.

One of the kids invited was a neighbor whose mother refused to say whether her daughter could come or not, even when we asked again the day before the party. Sure enough, the day of the party, her kid shows up, and says, "My mother says I can come to the party if you'll let me." Of course I let the kid in, but the nerve of the mother. No class.

To make a long story short, with the exception of my kids and Gerry's kids and like, two kids from Scarlett's class, the rest of them were rude brats. Demanding, yelling, screaming, throwing things rude brats. My kids can be brats sometimes, definitely. But the difference is, when they attend a party, they know they'd better behave and display their best manners..I don't know where Scarlett's classmates learned their manners, but I have a distinct feeling that the rude parents who couldn't even be bothered to speak to me about the party are somewhat to blame. Not only did these kids trash the party room, they also completely messed up the park right outside the room, and despite the fact I told them several times not to do it, they insisted on throwing juice boxes and candy wrappers right on the ground. Little pigs. I knew the party wasn't going to go perfectly smooth, they are kids after all, but God, I've never seen such mouthy, greedy little ingrates.

I was cleaning up near the end of this debacle, praying for the parents to show up and pick up their little deviants, when the Drunken Lush of the Complex shows up. She's one of the neighbors I don't care to really talk to, the one who starts drinking at 7 in the morning, has four kids to take care of and spends most of her time wandering around the complex bothering the other neighbors. Believe it or not,she walks right into Scarlett's party and asks if her kids can come in and have cake, and a loot bag. Practically speechless, I agreed, and then this woman actually proceeds to start cleaning up and washing dishes and packing away food and tearing down the party, I shit you not.

Being a former bartender, I know that you can't always predict the actions or moods of someone who's under the influence, so I sucked it up and let her stay for a bit -- she seemed calm and I didn't want her to snap or something in the middle of a party filled with kids.

God, I hate this freaking neighborhood.

Oh, yeah. I'm at work today, and we're doing a house that's undergoing a complete reno. It's about eighty years old and totally gutted inside, save for the new framing and ductwork. I'm up on a ladder when this woman appears behind me. "Hi, do you live here?" So I told her, no, I'm working here. Then she starts asking all the other trades if they live in this house. From the bemused looks on their faces I could tell they were thinking the same thing I was. The house is completely gutted, there's no walls inside, holes in the floors everywhere. Why she would think the house was fit for habitation was beyond me. I couldn't resist. "Yes, I LIVE here." She kind of got it after that and gave me a dirty look. Turns out she was canvassing the neighborhood, campaigning for the Liberals. "I'm here on behalf of Marilyn Churley, and she'll work really hard for you, and I hope we can count on your vote."

Obviously she must really believe in Liberal propaganda, because she had to climb on up to a front porch that has no stairs to tell us that. One of the guys tells her that no, none of us live there, at all. "Well, are the homeowners here?" Um, is this thing on, did we not just tell you that nobody lives here?

Parasites.

I know it's my responsibility to vote and all, but I gotta tell you, I don't even want to. I don't like any of the candidates for Prime Minister. I've got the choice of Jack Layton, king of the NDP who doesn't have a chance in hell of winning, ever, then there's Stephen Dion, who takes every chance he can to trumpet about his bullshit policies in broken English, thankyou very much, and then there's Steven Harper, the cardigan clad asshole, and any Canadian knows how that turned out already. I'd rather stuff all my money under a mattress then put it anywhere the government can get their hands on it. Worse than cockroaches.

The stupid woman finally goes away, and later when we're sitting outside taking a break, we see her packing herself and her fellow canvassers away in a car. "Oh hi." she trilled at us, from across the street.

I still ain't voting for you.

Who, me? Meh.

My son, at three and not quite three quarters, is still toilet training. Well, rather, he has people trying to toilet train him. Brody has a rather cavalier attitude toward potty training. He can take it or leave it. We've tried: Bribing (a treat for using the potty). We've also tried reinforcing the idea with books. He loves hearing the book about Henry using the potty. Little man has about 42 pairs of new underwear and is proud to say he has peed in most of them.

It's not that he can't do it. He knows how. He'll walk up to me and announce he's just done his business in the toilet, and then ten minutes after I've finished praising him to the skies he'll take a slash in a corner somewhere. This is the kind of stuff that worries me even more than when his sisters are playing house with him and hand him a purse to carry. I'm getting lots of nosy questions lately about whether I've 'tried' to train Brody, and all I can say is that it's a work in progress, and if they don't like it they can 'piss' off. I just hate it when people offer unsolicited advice about my kids and look at me like I'm a Bad Mom.

A couple of weeks ago, Brody comes over to me and wrinkles his nose. "Something smells bad." I guess this was his way of dropping me a broad hint, or he honestly doesn't know he's the one responsible for creating the stench, or doesn't care. You see what I'm up against?

Other news. Gerry's parents are moving into their new house, are having a hard time selling their old house, and are contemplating renting it out for a while. I love that house. I WANT THAT HOUSE.

Poor Gerry. The man has been having a painful kidney stone attack all day. He thinks it's because he's dehydrated. He seems to think having a couple of beers with the neighbor down the street will help. Whatever works, baby.

A couple of pictures of my little man:
At a few months old

With his sister

Wearing my work boots

I'll take three kids...and a side of guilt, please!

I just served up cans of Alphaghetti to my kids. I couldn't even be bothered to put it in a pot, I just nuked it.

When I found out I was going to be a parent for the first time, I made all kinds of promises to my unborn daughter. Her baby nursery would be perfect. (True, I did most of the work myself and obsessed over the tiniest details, eschewing any advice anyone else had to offer, least of all her father.)

She would always look impeccable and so would I. I saw no reason, pre-delivery, why I shouldn't always look my normal makeupped, curled and styled self.

A few months later, as I was wandering around the house in sweatpants and a puke-stained oversized t-shirt, I came to the conclusion that I had made promises to my kid that even Mother Teresa wouldn't keep. My daughter didn't look much better. Instead of the pink-clad, hair-bowed infant I imagined, my daughter was sprouting cradle cap, yellow as a canary from mild jaundice, and permanently dressed in sleepers that I had to keep changing every five minutes. She was also slightly drunk from all the gripe water for her constant gas. (Actually, I bought the alchohol free kind. If there had been any alchohol in it, there might have been none left for her.)

The first time I gave her a bath was a nightmare. I handled her so carefully and delicately, and when she hit the bathwater for the first time, she went as red as a tomato and screamed until she lost her breath. I started bawling then and my mother had to come to the rescue.

Her baby book had to be maintained, constantly. True. But when I had my second and third kids, the baby books kinda fell to the wayside, and whenever I fell behind in the subsequent books by a few months, I had to resort to cheating by looking in the first one.

Same with the pictures. Rolls and rolls upon rolls of film were used on the oldest kid. Come the advent of the digital camera, however, and all the pictures are now being stored on the computer, and the photo albums are collecting dust.

Everything had to be super sterile. Boiled baby bottles, nipples, pacifiers. If my third kid dropped his soother, I just rinsed it, even if the dog had just licked it.
The 'five second rule' was used regularly.

Everything my kid ate was going to be homemade, nutritious and ultra-healthy. Three kids later, I see no problem letting them have Froot Loops for breakfast.

All toys were going to be the type that were durable, sent a positive message, and called back to simpler times, like when many toys were hand crafted out of wood. These days I'll fight another parent to the death for some popular toy the kids are really hankering for at Christmas, and I don't even blink an eye when my three year old boy holds crash derbys with his toy cars in the living room.

So I deal by occasionally giving my kids canned food or a McMeal. I'll lock myself in my room so I can use the phone for five minutes without some kind of interruption. I'll put on a movie with no positive message just to keep the kiddies occupied for a while so I don't have a complete meltdown. I hoard small amounts of chocolate around the house and I don't share with the kids.

Don't get me wrong. I adore my kids. It's just so..busy. My mother looks after the kids till I get home from work, and when I get home she generally resorts to giving me a laundry list of their activities during the day. "We're out of milk, Scarlett has math, Juliet has a new project to do, Brody squirted toothpaste all over the wall, and DO YOU KNOW what those kids did today?" Kinda makes me glad I 'played' at work all day.

A few questions

Occasionally, I get a little time to just sit back and think. I'll reflect on the day that's just ended. Or I'll sit there and think about stupid stuff, which distracts me from the endless list making that's been going on in my head lately. I, like anyone else, try to see the forest before the trees, but the stupid stuff seems to be taking up a lot of my time and energy and it makes me shake my head in wonder.

For example:

Why is it, when there are children living in the house, seemingly innocuous items like a toilet paper holder (the rolly thing) just up and disappear? And disappear again, after I've replaced it (twice)?

Why, after telling the dog to get off the couch, she has the unmitigated nerve to bark at me like it's all my fault and then rolls over and goes to sleep?

Why do only the most unbelievably stupid songs get stuck in my head? (Bella, Bella, Bella Dancerella..)

And while I'm at it, why don't I just smash the Power Puff Girls DVD into little bitty pieces and tell the kids that I have no idea where it is?

Here's one. Why, when I'm thinking about something really serious, Gerry will voice my thoughts like he's just developed telepathy, but when I try to talk to him about something serious, he gets a blank look and makes like he has no idea what I'm talking about? (Must be a guy defense mechanism)

Maybe a reader or two can help me out.

PMS...the ultimate stealth bomb

I like to think I'm pretty enlightened. I like to believe that in a relationship, the men and the women are equally capable of causing conflict, or being a shit-disturber.

I also admit that I get raging PMS, mood swings especially, for one week a month, and although I try to keep track of it and control what comes out of my mouth that week, my loved ones suffer.

Yesterday, on our drive to work, we stopped at the store, and being how it was nearly payday, I was close to broke. I had a lot of expenses this week, namely the kids' registration fees because of those bastards at their school, and my new external hardrive, my birthday treat to myself.

I was a few dollars short for my purchase, and I turned to Gerry and asked if he wouldn't mind spotting me. No problem. We're back in the truck and Gerry remarks, "Is everything okay financially?" I looked back at him and said, "Yeah, I had a few things to pay for this week..you know that. How far do you expect me to stretch it?" He thinks for a minute. "Well, with all the talk of us moving in together lately, it concerns me. Are we going to able to get something that accomodates everybody?" (Eight people)

I start thinking about this. And start getting mad. Yes, I am close to broke. Yes, it's payday and no one's going to starve. But I'm also a single mom who's paying for and handling everything on her own! What does he think, that because he's the one who gives me the paycheck, he has the right to know everything I spend it on? I stewed on and on, and when we arrived at our construction site, I stalked off away from him without a backward glance.

Three hours later of the silent treatment from me and he noticed that something was up. "What's wrong, I know something's wrong." and so on and so on. I looked at him and glared the best way I know how, and I swear the man backed away. "Do I ask you what you spend your paychecks on? Do I EVER question you about what you do with your money? Do you think that because you're the one who writes out my paycheck, you have the RIGHT to tell me what to do with it? WE DON'T LIVE TOGETHER YET." On and on I prattled until I thought he was going to kill me. "You're right, You're absolutely right, I won't ask again. I don't care anyway.." He yelled, then stomped off.

I continued working, then regret starts to tear at me. I spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between fighting off tears and trying to make nice with Gerry, who by this time was probably questioning my sanity. "I just asked, Tobi, I wasn't trying to belittle you. You're right, it's none of my business. But if we're going to move in together we have to think of how we're going to budget and make this work." We talked a little more and reached a truce, and then everything was okay again, but I could still see him eyeing me warily. Later on I was checking our worklist in the planner and it occurred to me; this is the week before I'm due. Thank god he didn't ask me that annoying guy question "What's the matter, you on your period or something?" or I might have hurt him. Unlike me, he knows how to control what's coming out of his mouth. And give me a raise. Smart man. I'm off to take my meds now!

Birthdays and Debauchery

Over the past weekend, Gerry (best boyfriend in the world, ever) took me to Niagara Falls for my birthday, and it was a surprise! I would normally expect to get taken out for dinner and drinks but he figured it had been some time since we had been away together, alone, sans children, so off we went. My wonderful mother, who looks after the kids while I'm at work, agreed to babysit yet again so we could accomplish this amazing feat.

So Friday night we're all pumped, figuring we'll get to the hotel, check in and pop back out again for the night. Well, we checked into the hotel, went out and ate entirely too much food, then looked at eachother and said, "So we'll rest for a bit at the room and go back out?" We laid down for about one minute at 9:00 pm and woke up twelve hours later in time for breakfast. God, we're getting old, aren't we?

Saturday was fun because we checked out the wonderfully tacky main strip of Niagara Falls on Clifton Hill, and went back to the hotel to have a soak in our cheesy heart shaped jacuzzi, a must have in hotel rooms. Then we went back to the strip, watched 4-D movies, went out for Italian food, my personal favorite, and had a few drinks on a patio. I love people watching, and while we were on the patio, I must say I was amazed at the sheer number of young people running around acting like dumbasses. The guys were walking around like drunken lotharios, and that's the only way I can actually find to express my utter distaste at this. The girls were worse. 19 or 20 years old, and dressed like complete tarts. I saw one girl who couldn't have been more than fifteen, dressed in low cut shirt, shorter skirt, and hooker boots. If she was one of my daughters I would have kicked her ass into boarding school. Oh, my god.
I'm so old!

Well, after this, we hit the casino, and I won big on the slots. Well, winning a hundred dollars on a 2 cent slot machine is considered winning big. Then, at like, midnight we got the bright idea of going on the Sky Wheel. The Sky Wheel is an enormous ferris wheel, 175 feet in the air or seventeen and a half stories, to be exact, in the fucking air. I'm not normally afraid of heights, but going that high, that slowly, and then you stop at the top while they let someone on and your're just hanging there...I would rather scale a 50 foot ladder on a rooftop on a windy day than do that again. Suffice to say, we paid twenty dollars for the two of us to go up in this thing and have me bury my head in Gerry's shoulder the entire time. He was trying to comfort me and saying stuff like, "It's perfectly safe, nothing's going to happen, it's made in Switzerland, see?" and I was wailing "AGAIN?" every single time they made us do another turn. Five revolutions on that thing is a very long time, by the way. Here's a pic of this torture ride:




Sunday, we made our way into town again, but it was a shitty, rainy day and Gerry sweetly held his peace while he got soaked to the skin so I could look for souvenirs. He's amazing, really. Best weekend in a long time.

Pull out the ol' chequebook

My kids still believe in the tooth fairy and lately, it seems to me that she's demanding more than her fair share of teeth. I don't know if they're just eating too many sweets, or if they sit there at night and work on wrenching out their own teeth because they're broke, but for the past year, one or the other of my two daughters have been losing a tooth every couple of weeks. I'm surprised that they have any left to lose.

Anyway, the tooth fairy used to be quite chintzy and leave a loonie, maybe two. She used to scatter glitter all over the bedroom of the recipient (for effect) and one of my daughters was always very excited at the amazing occurence in the middle of the night. In the morning we would discuss exactly how it she'd get in the house. Did she walk through the front door and up the stairs, they'd wonder. No, I'd say, she flies through the window. So then the kids would say, but window's closed, and I'd say she was magic, and so on and so on.

Late one night, I wandered downstairs at 2:00 am because I'd just remembered the damn tooth fairy was supposed to show up that night, when I realized that I didn't have any change in my purse. Nada. Just bills, and the tooth fairy wasn't feeling that generous. I had an idea. I'll leave a cheque! I'll just write out a cheque, black out my name, and pretend the fairy had written it! So I wrote out a cheque, and I made it out for five dollars, because just giving two bucks in a cheque seemed cheesy at the time.

The next morning, I was greeted with gasps of awe. "The tooth fairy left a CHEQUE!!" and "I got FIVE dollars!" There was no wondering how she managed to break into the house, the tooth fairy was a hero. But then, "If she gave me a cheque, how'm I supposed to get the money?" So I said I would take the cheque to the bank for them, and endorse it for her. Great. I 'cashed' the cheque and gave her the cash the next day, and she couldn't be more thrilled, or more impatient to spend it.

Unfortunately, I set a precedent. The next time one of the kids lost a tooth, they wondered aloud, "I wonder if she'll leave a cheque this time? Or will she borrow one of Mommy's again?" I thought I was busted but then I explained that the tooth fairy was out of cheques, and she did indeed borrow one of mine. The kids seemed satisfied with that and said, "I hope she leaves a cheque every time! It's better than when she leaves a loonie!"

So now, I have to leave a cheque every time or there better be a good reason why not, and the kids are making me broke again, this time with their baby teeth.

$chool Daze

There are a couple of things you can count on when your child attends school. Number one: You can guarantee the expensive new shoes your child begged you for will be scuffed from the playground, day one. Secondly, your child(ren) will turn you into a walking, talking bank machine.

From the first day they walk into that school in kindergarten until they leave grad school, the kids have a chronic case of the 'Can I's'.

"I need money for registration fees."
This is all inclusive, and may include fees that you thought might not even possibly be included in this cockamamie registration fee. Fees for 'agendas' that you have to sign every night to ensure the teacher that yes, you have seen their homework, have done their homework for them, and are now cursing the aforementioned homework.

Presentation fee: The fee that includes all performances in the school gym. Sweaty gymsock odor and microphone feedback is extra.

Gym Uniform fee: $40.00 for the gym uniform that you will see once after waiting two months for its delivery, and will discover two years later, two sizes too small, in a crumpled, dirty heap in the lost and found bin.

"I need money for a trip."
When I went to school, it was a big deal for my parents to come up with the two or five dollars required to visit all the places like Pioneer vilage, Ontario Place, or the Science Centre. My kids don't seem to go to any of these places. They visit all these apple farms all the time and it costs roughly fifteen dollars per kid. And payable by cheque ONLY. That really pisses me off, especially when the school doesn't cash the cheque until two months later when I'm least expecting it and it makes other, more important, cheques bounce. Bastards.

"Can I have money for the pop machine at school?" At my kids' school, there is a vending machine in the hallway. It does not sell pop, just water and juice, but for some reason, it is some sort of status symbol for a fourth or fifth grader to be seen with a ginormous bottle of juice that costs $1.50 that he or she will not drink.

"Pizza day"
Again, when I was a kid, it seemed that we had pizza day maybe once every couple of months. It was meant as a treat. These days every little bit of money siphoned from parents' pockets is for some kind of fundraiser. Pizza day is no exception. My kids' school holds a pizza day every week. At $4.00 per kid, times two kids, is $8.00 per week, times 35 weeks, is about an extra $242.00 per year. BASTARDS! That goddamm school is making me go broke.

"Picture day is coming. Tomorrow."
$35.00 for one 8 x 10, two 2 x 3s, and 4,825 wallet sized photos. The 8 x 10 will be displayed (after the retakes because the first set revealed your child's messy hair and something in their teeth) and the first 4 wallets will be given away. The leftovers will be stashed as extras to be given away, wrap chewing gum in, whatever. The rest will be forgotten, never to be seen again.

"The project I was assigned two months ago that I haven't started is due tommorrow. I have to build a castle and a moat, completely authentic. We should go to the store, they close in half an hour."
You will be required to go on a half ass scavenger hunt in Shopper's Drug Mart at 11:52 pm. You will threaten to strangle the hell out of the person trying to grab the last pack of popsicle sticks you're eyeing. You will grow claws and fangs at 3:00 am, when all the popsicle sticks you just finished gluing together with four pounds of glue collapse in a heap from the weight. You will collapse in a heap at 5:00 am, your child having gone to bed 9 hours earlier. Three hours later you will tote with the utmost care the project you have slaved over to school in the family minivan, and will the see it come back 6 hours later when you pick up your child, as they shrug and say, "The teacher liked it.".

And that's just grade school.

Dollarstore bureacracy

I love the dollar store. Unfortunately, every time I visit the dollar store, I walk out with the one item I want, and 99 other items I don't need. The dollar store should really be called the 'hundred dollars plus tax store'.

A couple of weeks ago I went in with my two daughters because they wanted little radios with headphones. Well, they really want Mp3 players because they covet mine, but I figure why spend that much money on something they're going to break the next day? So we buy the little radios, buy the batteries, go outside the store, and they're bound and determined to listen to them RIGHT AWAY. And good thing, too. Neither one of the little radios work.

Back inside the dollar store, I confront the high school punk working behind the cash and politely request a refund. He pointed at a sign that says, "No Refunds". Like an idiot, I said, "But we just bought these 3 minutes ago." All of a sudden this surly woman appears out of nowhere and booms, " OUR POLICY IS NO REFUNDS, YOU SEE?" I can very plainly read the sign, but since we just did make the purchase, I figured what's the big deal, just give me back my four bucks. I boomed back, "BUT WE JUST BOUGHT THEM A COUPLE OF MINUTES AGO, AND THE DAMN THINGS DON'T WORK."

I looked behind me, and the owner of the store is hurrying down the aisle past a couple of nonplussed shoppers. He beams at me, and says, "What seems to be the problem?" Surly lady barked that I wanted a refund and they don't give refunds, and so on and so on. The store owner said to me, "Well, that is our policy, but can we do an exchange or a store credit?" I don't know, can we? I ponder what exactly I can exchange for four dollars in merchandise. Another radio that doesn't work? The butterfly nets in the corner? Perhaps that fabulous painting of the sad clown behind the counter? Except that was fifteen dollars and I would have to pay 11 extraneous dollars and now I was pissed anyway. I smirked at the store owner and said, "No, I can't think of anything I'd want to exchange for four dollars. Maybe you can give me a store credit." And then I beam at Surly Lady, who by this time is huffing and puffing like a rhino in heat. "Oh good!" the owner said, and hand wrote a store credit on a scrap of paper. For four bucks.

I lost the scrap of paper in my big purse the next day. And I still had to fork out for working radios at another store for the kiddies, who still wanted their tunes.

They broke the stupid things a couple of days later.

Faux pas

A couple of years ago, I gave up my illustrious bartending career to go back to school and go into audio. I got a job almost immediately after school with a company that installs home theatre. Much of involved heavy labor, being on construction sites, or doing retrofits in older homes. Alas, the job was not for me, as my supervisor did not see the potential brimming inside me (read: cause I was a girl) and suggested that maybe I didn't have the strength for this particular job. Actually, I am pretty strong, for a 'girl'. I hauled beer kegs around before, what was so hard about this?

As it happened, my boyfriend had just offered me a spot as his apprentice in his company. He is in heating and cooling, but specializes in sheet metal. So I cheerfully said goodbye to the other company, tagged along with him and it turned out that not only did I enjoy this work, but we were also able to work together without wanting to rip eachother's heads off. (You don't find that very often with the 'husband and wife teams') Two years later, I am still working with him (and still love him).

I like to joke that I am 'glamourizing' the trade, because while I wear a hard hat and boots instead of a sexy top and heels, I still make an effort to look nice and retain my femininity. After all, I'm competing in a field that's mostly populated by men and I'm proud of myself to be able to work among them, gain respect for what I do.

One day last week, we're on site, and one of the carpenters working there is having a spat on the roof with one of his mates. I heard them going back and forth for a little while, when suddenly one of them yells, "Well, then tell me that then. You don't have to nag me like a fuckin' broad." The other guy realizes I'm below them and looks at me with a sheepish grin on his face, while I smile sweetly back.

I love days like that.

Holy Hell, I'm back.

Yeah, I know. It took a while, but funny how life and a helluva writers block can put a serious dent in your creativity.
Firstly, I'd like to direct your attention to the right of the page, where I've posted links to a couple of blogs that bear reading. 15 Minute Lunch, who boasts one of the funniest writers whose stuff I've had the pleasure of reading in a long time. Secondly, but not least, My Mad, Mad World, the author of which actually turned me onto the 15 minute Lunch. She's pretty funny too. She's got stories about her life and her kids that will make you pee yourself.

MY life? It can be pretty funny too. I'm a single mom. Three kids, aged 30, I mean 8, another 7, and 1 who's 3. I'm madly in love with a man who also has three kids, twins age 11, and another who's also 8. My mother also lives with me, and has the ultimate pleasure of looking after my kids while I'm at work. Someday, we all hope to live together in one home, just as soon as we find a house big enough and the money to pay for it. So, altogether, that's one mom, one dad, one grandmother, six kids and two dogs and I think a partridge in a fucking pear tree.

We just got back from our weekend getaway spot, our trailer. It sleeps 8, if you're willing to sleep practically on top of eachother, but we manage to do it. This particular weekend was Hallowe'en at the trailer park. They do that sort of thing for the kids, that and Christmas in July, pancake breakfasts in the park for the kiddies, that sort of thing. The Christmas thing is priceless because the dude dressed as Santa is actually some fat drunk redneck dressed in a Santa suit, socks and sandals and he rides up on a pickup truck, but our kids don't care because they get presents.

Anyway, the Hallowe'en thing. The kids got into the spirit of the whole thing and decorated the trailer for the whole ordeal. Here's one of the spots they chose to decorate:



Gerry was way thrilled.