My Second Car

Take a minute and recall The Final Ride that My First Car made...



We made it all the way to my street and only had to push it about ten houses to my driveway.



Pushing, pushing, pushing  - with the occassional dash to the steering wheel to adjust - made us quite the spectacle.



"Hey! You need a new car?" One of our neighbours yelled at us from his driveway.

"Yeah, hahaha, she died alright." I joked back.

"$500, I'll sell you mine."



O_O



"What really?"

"Yeah, you interested?"

"Give me a second to put this heap in my driveway...I'll be right back."


After I parked my first car I jaunted back to this man's house to look at his car.

There sat a light blue 1991 Chevrolet Cavalier.

I really can't draw cars.


There were a few (see: crap-ton) rust spots, it was only a 2-door, and he was kind enough to mention the hole in the trunk...but it was $500...certified and E-tested...and my first car had just died.


Sold.


So I increased the limit on my Visa, took out $500 and paid the man.



The car shop where he worked did the safety test. It was *wink* *wink* safe, but there were a lot of things close to not safe.

This covered their butts (supposedly) while allowing me to not have to pay for necessary repairs.


Poor Score!

* * *

Six thirty in the morning.

Time to drive Scout to work, like every other day.

What a nice cold morning.

The frost on the windshield is fantastic!

It would be even more fantastic if there was a way for me to get it off.

Unfortunately the heater didn't work in the car...that meant no defrosting.

Illegal? I'm going to guess yes, but every morning I would roll my window all the way down; lean my head out to see; and drive.

* * *

The transmission started to die.

You know it's never a good sign when you have to manually shift an automatic car.

The occassional stall, but the damn thing still drove.

I had to get to work every day to pay rent...forget about car repairs.

* * *

We were driving the fourty-five minutes to go visit my Dad.

The car was acting unusually...sluggish...

It wouldn't accelerate past 80km/hr.


O_o


Odd...



The way home was worse.

It wouldn't go past 60km/hr.

It appears (after the fact) that the emergency brake somehow engaged (I don't use it for regular parking) and wouldn't disengage, and promptly stayed set until the cable snapped.


o_o


Snapped.


On this lovely journey home - post cable snap - the car's exhaust system began to overheat.

Overheat may be an understatement.

The exhaust system became so hot that the steel lit up bright red and melted.


Melted.


The molten pieces of steel then dropped off my car and splashed on to the road as I drove on unaware.

Unaware, until a kind motorist stopped me and pointed out the 8 foot tail of sparks I was leaving in my wake.

The exhaust system then proceeded to try and set my interior on fire.


O_O


After abandoning the car in a parking lot near the highway, I returned with my neighbour (car-buff) the following day.

The car ran perfectly.

* * *

Guess who's pregnant?

An unreliable, two door crap-heap doesn't seem like a good purchase any more.

The credit card is once again increased, and a budget set out for a new vehicle.

The stipulation being: sell this one first!



A friend of the upstairs neighbour's bought it.

For $300.



I remember leaving for work the following day and having them stop me.

"Hey! The heater's not working, is it broken?"

"Hm? Oh, I don't know. I never drove it in the winter."

My First Car

I had no idea that oil needed to be changed.

I was under the impression that it ran out and then one had to refill it - much like gasoline.

It was most likely a serious lack of knowledge on my part, but I like to believe that it was at least half circumstance that led to the death of my first car.



It all started with my parents.



When I graduated high school (and promptly moved out) my parents offered me my mother's old car.

I could just have it.

Well, as you can imagine, this was a massively big deal to me.


It was a dark blue, 1991 Buick Regal.

I can't draw cars.



I should have realized something was up when we had to boost the car to get it out of the driveway. My parents had let it sit all winter without turning it over or anything, so the battery was kaput. (I later replaced this by myself and thought that I was the best thing to happen to cars since they were given a roof.)


My dad's parting words of advice were:


"Here's the emergency brake, but you'd better make sure it's an emergency if you're going to use it. If it works, it will only work once."


O_o


Swell.


But really, when you're a teenager it does not matter. I had my own car. A place where I could smoke freely, blare music, and leave my crap.

* * *

I excitedly filled my car with gas and drove to my Carpentry Apprenticeship. Imagine my surprise when I came out on smoke break and found my car sitting in a pile of gas.


O_O


"ARGH! The money! My car is sitting in a lake of money."

It was pretty devastating.


As it turns out, my gas tank had a couple of ...leaks... in it. I quickly learned to classify these based on the amount of gas I could put into my car.

Ten dollars was perfect. Up to twenty dollars had a slow leak. Between twenty and thirty there was a big hole that allowed gas to pour freely out of it.

Needless to say, I never filled the tank past $20.

* * *

The tires on the car were balding so badly that you could see the steel rims shining through the rubber. If the tires hadn't heated up when they were driven, they probably wouldn't have melted to the rims which was the ONLY THING holding them on.


One corner later, one of my tires blew.


Since I knew nothing about cars (see the first sentence) I had assumed that the 'bang' was me hitting the curb by mistake. That night I parked my car nose in and didn't see the flat tire. I was late for school the next morning and didn't notice it then either. So I jumped on the highway and drove about 130kms/hr to school.


O_o


"What an odd pulling sensation... huh... stupid steering wheel."


Some kind person in the school parking lot yelled that I had a flat tire as I ran into the building. First smoke break allowed me the time to go out and look at the tire.


Right flat on the ground.


Dad suggested I put the spare on. I told him I didn't have one.


"Yes you do."

"No I don't."

"Yes you do, it's in the trunk."

"Uh, Dad, I keep my tools in the trunk. There is no spare in my trunk."

"Just open your damn trunk."


So I smugly took Dad outside and popped the trunk on my beast to show him how there was no tire.

He then took my tools out and opened a SECRET COMPARTMENT. Holy frick! A spare tire!


"Well that's stupid..." I said, "A secret compartment. What if I was all alone?"

* * *

The back right taillight didn't work.



I was making a left turn on a yellow, when another car jumped into the parking lane and sped through to beat the red.

The accident only broke my left headlight (so I believed) and being as poor as I was I couldn't afford repairs. A junkyard headlight was acquired and I used duct tape to hold it in place.


Red duct tape.


On a dark blue car.


o_o


From the front, I could never signal left.

From the back, I could never signal right.

It was a special car that would quickly become special-er.

* * *

As it turned out, the accident also broke my radiator fan. I had never in my life heard of this fan before, and I really couldn't identify it now, but I can tell you what happens when it breaks.

What happens is that you keep on driving unawares, until one day you parallel park and get out of your car to see it spewing green all over the ground.

Green fluid was pulsing out of my car, under the headlights and over the bumper as the radiator had finally cracked.

My vast knowledge of cars led me to believe Scout when he said that dropping a raw egg into the radiator would fill the crack.

Needless to say, it didn't.


The engine was overheating - constantly - and began to melt.


It fused the spark plugs into the engine block.



My car would stall every time I stopped.

Sometimes it would start up again.

Most of the time it would just sit there and smoke.

At stoplights I would put on my hazards to warn other drivers of my crippled vehicle.

The people behind me thought I was turning left. The people in front of me thought I was turning right.

I got honked at a lot...

You'd figure the billowing smoke would have given it away.


O_o


Soon, my car would stall all the time. Mid-drive.

I would then pop my automatic car into neutral, turn the key (while still moving), and start the engine again before forcing it back into 'drive'.

* * *

The spedometer stopped working next.

I would judge my speed based on the speeds of the other vehicles on the road.

Then the odometer quit.

* * *

The Final Ride for my baby happened after a shopping trip. We had made it to the top of the hill and then she died.


The hazards went on and I tried over and over to get her to start again... but she had no vital signs.


A passerby helped push her to the beginning of the downward slope and she made the epic coast home.

Pathetic squeaks of a "power horn" with no power, and we coasted through stop signs and around corners to our street.



Google Maps says it was 1.1km of a coast.


1.1km


There she sat in my driveway until I sold her for parts.

Tires: $250

Comes with car on top.



Christmas Album 2010

I mentioned a while back that if I could get some pictures from Christmas that weren't too "un-anonymous" that I would share them with you.

It's taken this long because, let's be honest, I'm very very lazy. It's not like I specifically take pictures of not-my-family's-face and I just recently got around to moving all of the pictures from Christmas off of my camera and on to my computer.

So! More than a month after Christmas, may I present to you:

 A dys·func·tion Family Christmas

These are the sugar cookies and Rice Krispie Squares that Boyfriend and Shake'n'Bake baked together.
I put them in Ziploc bags because I don't like stale cookies.

Santa came!!!
We decided to hang our stocking on the cupboards because we don't have a fireplace.

Tim the Tree at his finest.



Shake'n'Bake's stocking.



Boyfriend's stocking.





Splat's stocking.





Shake'n'Bake is helping Boyfriend unwrap his present.



I was super clever and hid a present for Boyfriend inside, but Shake'n'Bake found it first.



More clever gift-wrapping ideas.



From all of us: Hope your holidays were GREAT!

 

 

To read about our Christmas revelry, please check out the "Festive Egg Nog" series:

Festive Egg Nog - Part 1
Festive Egg Nog - Part 2
Festive Egg Nog - Part 3
Festive Egg Nog - Part 4

Make Over

I just changed the appearance of my blog...complete with a new photo that I took myself.

Please comment and tell me what you think!

Take a look around, try the "Popular Posts" tabs, my label cloud, or the archive if you have time.



And if this is your first time here, welcome!


You could try a couple of my more recent (not "Make Over") posts:



-a story (with my artwork): The Trip to Disney Land

-a letter: Dear Period

-a recent video review: Children's Videos #5

-a darker post: A Taste of Disgrace


and my current favourite:

-a rant: Embrace The Penis

Thank you for reading!

dys·func·tion

Ode To My Stomach

January 1st, 2009

I made a resolution to love myself more.

I knew it would be a hard thing to do, the first year was disgustingly painful, but it was something I had to do.

I was sick of looking in the mirror and hating myself.

Getting dressed every morning and hating how my clothes fit.

Looking at pictures of myself and hating what I saw.




January 1st, 2010

During the past year I have successfully moved my image of myself from a 4 to a high 7 out of 10.

I stopped imagining myself wearing the newest trend. I even stopped trying on certain hip clothes in stores - this decision prevented a lot of panic attacks.

I wore bikinis again. Mind you, only in the company of family...at the cottage...where no one else could ever see me.

Maybe a low 7.

It was a tough year.




January 1st, 2011

I feel good.

Better than I ever have before.

It has taken many serious discussions, and an ability to look hard at myself to determine where these expectations come from.

I could blame the media, my friends, peers, society, but in the end I truly believed every difficult image I had set out for myself.

Somewhere deep inside of me those beliefs still live.

Persistent little bastards.

But I can finally accept myself.

It makes a world of difference to be completely accepted by someone you love.

I will occassionally look in the mirror and think nasty thoughts (after all, this is no easy task) but more often than not, I love myself.

I think: Man! I look good.

And it feels good.

And so, I owe my stomach an apology:

As the longest standing recipient of my self-hatred, Stomach, you are the bomb.

You have withstood me jamming a piece of metal through you; three incisions for surgery; two seperate pregnancies; and every pair of jean I have ever buttoned up around you - yet you still hang around.

You've taken every brutal comment I have thrown your way; soldiered on through every nasty period; and you have never asked for anything in return.

Thank you Stomach.


You are truly something beautiful.

 

A Taste of Disgrace

Warning!

This post is not happy-fun-giddy, laugh-out-loud funny, or insightful by any means.

This is a true story.

It was almost midnight. Most likely a Tuesday because recycling pick-up was on a Wednesday in my area. Of course, it could have been another night... we were out almost every night.

We had stood in the kitchen minutes before, preparing. Shake'n'Bake was bundled tightly against my chest in her snowsuit and baby backpack, zipped all the way under my winter coat. She was sleeping.

He had a camping backpack on his back. So did I. It gave us lots of storage. I looked around and picked up the grocery bag full of bags. I had gotten these the previous Saturday, standing in line at the foodbank for hours. Alone. Making excuses to the church volunteers as to why our welfare money was gone already, trying to get the most food that they would give us.



There was never enough food.



I stuffed the plastic bags in my pockets. This way our backpacks wouldn't smell like beer from the leaking bottles and cans. My hands would though. My hands always smelled like the old beer from other people's castoffs.


How did I get here?


I took a deep breath and we were out the door. He pulled the wagon since I was carrying Shake'n'Bake. My poor baby. Those nights were so cold. I zipped my winter coat all the way up and over her head to keep her warm. It was so difficult to bend down and sort through recycling boxes with her strapped to my chest, but I had to do it.

We had to eat.

I hope she never remembers those nights.

When the welfare check came every month, it just barely covered rent. I would magically scrape together enough money (from selling off my possessions) to pay the bills, and then there would be nothing left for food. Since Shake'n'Bake was still breastfed, we didn't have to worry about buying baby food...it was just the two of us who were starving.


I was losing weight.


I wasn't working because I was on maternity leave. That, and he wouldn't let me. I should have been stronger. I always told myself I would be stronger than that, but it snuck up on me. Suddenly I wasn't a person anymore, I wasn't allowed to make my own decisions, have my own friends, go anywhere on my own.

It was all so sudden.



He wasn't working because he didn't want to... I mean, "because of the recession". What a pile of bull. I never want to hear those words again.



The beer bottles stunk.


I would pour out anything left in the bottom, and then fill my grocery bags one by one. Once a bag was filled then it would go into my backpack and I would open a new grocery bag.


It was so cold and dark.


We were out at night because it was stealing.

Once a box is on the curb, it becomes property of the city. So we would steal the bottles and cans. Take them in the night like raccoons rifling through garage cans. Foraging to get by.



I knew that at the end of the week, we would strap all of the bottles and cans we had collected into the wagon and make the one hour walk to the Beer Store to return them.

How much money would I have for groceries this week?             
                                            Twenty five,        
                                                              thirty five dollars?

It was never enough.


I was so hungry.


I watched him sprint excitedly across the street to another recycling box. "Wine bottles! And lots of them!" he exclaimed excitedly, his eyes open wide and eager - like a child on Christmas. He loved this.



And I hated him.




And I began planning to leave.

The Draft....And Other Loose Ends

Happy Wednesday!

I've been napping sporadically and falling asleep randomly over the last couple of days. Splat has been waking up more and more frequently over the last couple of nights (the record being held Monday night when she woke up on 14 seperate occasions throughout the night to be fed) and I am running out of energy.

Yay Motherhood!


O_o



I wrote a post a while back...a loooooooong while back..... that mentioned what a crummy door I had on my apartment - THIS POST! Luckily, Landlord decided to replace the front door for us and now we have a nice, new, non-screwdrivered door to keep us safe in the Ghetto.

Unfortunately, the project was...paused...before there was any insulation or trim put on the new door. This, combined with the piece of garbage screen door, makes for a very drafty living room.

The draft is strong enough to have spun the snowflake decorations that Shake'n'Bake and I had made for Christmas.

I cannot come up with a good enough preamble for this picture. Just look.

And it gets worse. So much worse.

We've opened the door some days to find a mound of snow that has been blown in and piled up into a dense triangle of winter-y goodness.


o_o


There isn't anything I can do really. We dress warmly inside, wearing slippers and housecoats. I've cranked the heater up to 24 (Celcius) which is warmer than I would like, but honestly, I have two small children.

Hopefully Landlord will fix this, maybe in the spring.




In other updating news:


I've had to add a quick edit to this post because I found out (super awkwardly and such) that the necklace mentioned is not from Europe and I don't want to spread false information.

AND

President's Choice Mastercard mailed me my refund (in relation to this post) and I haven't recieved another statement from them recently. I'm a whole $3.64 richer!

Dream House

Some people want big.

Massive mansions with endless corridors, tapestries, winding staircases and crystal chandeliers.

Not me.

Being poor for so long has allowed me to truly appreciate the smaller things in life.

I've never had aspirations for a big house. I don't see the point in having something that you need to fill, rooms that never get used, and all that extra square footage to clean.


O_o


Yuck, cleaning.


Dream with me for a minute...


It's okay to be jealous of my awesome artistry.
Laughter is also acceptable.



Welcome to my house! As you can see from the outside, my house is not too big, and not too small. It fits my family just fine. There's a vegetable garden out back, and I have a fenced in backyard!!!

A fenced in backyard allows my children to play safely without the fear of wandering away, or getting hit by a car. A fenced in backyard means that we can have a dog, or maybe two! Privacy, safety, this fence makes me very happy.




Come on inside! Please take off your shoes, I'll hang up your coat in this closet. Then I'll close the closet door and hide from sight all of our outerwear. Doesn't my front hall look uncluttered? The secret is the closet door. Without it, all of the coats look jumbled and messy.




Here, come in to my kitchen. Did you notice, it's a seperate room from the living room? And look, here is my oven. I can bake things evenly in my oven, it also allows for me to cook things in a reasonable amount of time! I have lots of cupboards too. They allow me to store all of my food and cookware without having to use the top of the refridgerator. And if you look inside them, you'll see everything matches. No more bits and pieces of tupperware, scrounged from various apartments. I've purchased sets.

Sets.





Over here is my dining room. The fact that this room exists seperate from the kitchen is super exciting in itself, but look! There's a table in here, and it has matching chairs. Can you believe that?! None of them have collapsed, and there are enough for my entire family AND GUESTS!





Now we're in my living room. I have a couch set. A whole set! A three seater, a loveseat, and an armchair! And none of them have stains or rips. There's a coffee table too, it matches the end tables.





We all have our own bedrooms. There is no sharing, no disturbing, it's fantastic! I've painted the rooms whichever colours I desired, because it's my house and I can.





And look here. There's a playroom. It's filled with all of the kids' toys which means there are no toys around the rest of the house. The room is colourful, and childproof, and my children love to play in there.





I have bathroomS. More than one! And they each have a toilet that flushes properly, sinks that drain normally, and there is at least one that has a bath/shower in which the head has great pressure and a more than adequate supply of hot water.





Oh ho! Here is one of my favourite rooms: the laundry room. No more trips to the Ghettomat. No more piles of dirty laundry. I don't need a ride there, I don't need to presoak clothes that would otherwise stain waiting for laundry day. I can wash anything and everything that I need, when I need it.

This room also houses all my cleaning supplies, no longer will they be stored in a corner upstairs or on top of the medicine cabinet. No more vacuums in the coat closet, or extra paper towels stored on top of the fridge.




Did I mention that my house has no bugs?




Yes, my dream house is a magical place where all of my little desires can come true.


I truly believe I will own this house one day, after I pay off my thousands of dollars of consumer debt and finish my schooling. And when that day happens, you can believe that I won't be left wanting. I will wake up every morning in my warm and comfortable bed and be grateful for every little thing that I have.

Children's Videos #5

For this review I have chosen:  Wall-E



Eve and Wall-E have just saved the human race at the cost of Wall-E's life.

In a last grand effort, Eve flies the two of them back to Wall-E's house to try and rebuild him with spare parts.

The first video is of her rebuilding him.



The second is of the events immediately following.











The part that gets me in this movie (other than him actually being crushed in the first place) is the part where Eve succeeds in saving his life, but Wall-E has no memory of her anymore.

Her eyes are very expressive and you can tell that she is crushed.


Yeah....tears.



What movies make you mushy?
Tell me in a comment and I will review them!

Don't Let The Bed Bugs Bite

WARNING!

This post contains spiders.

Yuck.

Dad had built me a bunk bed when I was younger.



It had the bed up top and a lovely desk for the bottom. It allowed me to have a workspace for homework in my bedroom, without destroying the limited amount of floor space I had.


When my family moved to a nicer house, the bunk bed had to be torn apart to fit out the door.


I decided that I was too big and too cool for a bunk bed anymore, and asked my parents if I could just have a normal bed instead.


That summer, they were out garage sale-ing (a sport in my family) when they happened upon a nice bed frame for my very small twin mattress.


I was so excited to lift my mattress off the floor!


Dad assembled it while I held the ends on. It was a light coloured wood, two side pieces only, bevelled heads and slats. It must have been a crib or something at one time because there were drilled holes down the front and back for some sort of attachment.

See the holes?  That is what mine had.
Picture from here

Air conditioning running, that night I crawled into my new bed in a tank top and shorts.



Around midnight I was roused by an itch on my leg. A gentle scratch revealed a piece of lint was the culprit, so I promptly grabbed it and tossed it on to the floor.


The "lint" beat my fingertips with its wings as I threw it away.



O_O



My eyes shot open and I clambered for the light switch.


The 60watt bulb flooded the room and revealed my lint. It was a wasp.


Or more correctly, three.



Picture from here


Yarghahblagenfloo!


Yuck.


I grabbed a book from my desk and mashed these three wasps out of existance.


SIDE NOTE: To all you bug lovers out there who believe I just admitted to a triple homicide, my rule about bugs is this: if you're in my house, you die. If you're outside and you come towards me, you die. If you're outside and you go away from me, you live.


My mother opened my door and hissed a quick "What are you doing?" at me. I explained the wasp situation and she explained the midnight situation and left.



As I looked at my closed door, I realized that the paint was darker on that wall. Confused, I picked up my glasses and put them on.



Still darker.



O_o



Huh.



So I walked up to the wall to inspect the situation closer.



Wouldn't you know it? It wasn't my paint making the walls darker....



It was millions of baby spiders.

Picture from here
Okay, I know this isn't a wall, but I can only stomach looking at so many pictures of spiders before I vomit.

Turns out, those holes I mentioned earlier? Yeah, they were filled with spider nests. Nests that were full of millions and billions of nasty nasty spiders. Nasty nasty spiders that decided to hatch and climb my wall.


I almost crapped my pants.


I left my room, shut the door, and stuffed a towel under the crack so no spiders could escape.

I slept in the spare bedroom and attacked my room with a vacuum cleaner the next morning. I never did find any adult spiders later... I guess I got them all.

The moral of the story is:

Spiders are nasty.

And you're never too cool for a bunk bed.

Cabin Fever

Hoo Boy!

Winter is getting to me already.

It has been particularily cold lately (there's a good chance I'm just a wimp) so I have been keeping the girls inside a lot.

This is a pretty big contrast to this fall's routine of going on the 20 minute walk to the park every day, then walking from the park to the grocery store/movie store complex, then walking home.


Every. Day.


We stopped going when the girls started getting windburn and/or frostbite on their chubby little cheeks.


Since then we've only been outside a handful of times. We've made a few snowmen, tossed a few snowballs, and flopped around a couple of times to attempt snow angels; but overall, the majority of our days are spent indoors.

Enter 'Cabin Fever'.

Thank God for Christmas (literally, ha!), without all of these new toys and shows Shake'n'Bake would have lost her mind long ago. Now don't get me wrong, potty training has kept me busy, and I have been pretty good with creating new games and activities, but at the end of the day everything looks the same.

I've rearranged furniture, cleaned, organized, stood up, lied down, and sat backwards but my scenery never changes.

I am starting to lose my mind.



Waking up in the morning takes a massive amount of effort due to Splat's inability to sleep through the night. I place an IV that drips coffee into my veins, and when nap time rolls around I am then incapable of settling down.


It's a vicious cycle really.


So I sit in front of my computer and I blog, and I think about blogging, and I read other blogs, and I plan blogs, and I fiddle with my blog design, and I check my stats, and I check my comments, and I read more blogs, and then I wish I followed more blogs so I could read more, and then I get bummed that no one has posted anything new for me to read, and then I get bummed that I don't get that many comments on my posts.



O_o



Still with me?

It's just all so repetitive.



What's that? You want to know where my school work fits in to all of this? Simple. I'll let you in on a little studying secret.


Put your textbook next to your toilet.



Genius isn't it? Every time I'm in the bathroom - most likely pooping but sometimes Shake'n'Bake is bathing or something - I read for school. Then it's just a matter of finding a suitable nap time to do my tests when needed, and asking Boyfriend to mind the children while I do midterms or finals.


But I digress! Cabin Fever.


Have you ever wondered what Cabin Fever feels like?

Picture from here

In my case, cabin fever feels like you're in your twenties...trying to play with the same dollhouse...for weeks on end.

I can see all of the rooms in my house.

Pretty much at one time.

I'm either in the living room/kitchen area with the girls, the bathroom, or the big open space that is all of our bedrooms combined... and we tend not to play in the bathroom.


O_o


Hey! We played in the livkitchenroom all day yesterday. Let's play in the bedrooms today. And then the livkitchen tomorrow... and then the bedrooms the day after...

ARGH!

I'm going insane.


Coupled with an incredible ability to get tasks done quickly, most of my day is slow and painful.



This post is the first one that has taken me more than a day once I've started writing in Blogger.



Oh well, I guess this makes grocery shopping seem that much more epic!

The Trip To Disney Land

It was a Sunday.

Dad and Mom were rushing us around to get in the car, and (as children often do) Brother and I were dawdling and taking our sweet time.



I wanted to watch TV or something.



Stupid family.





Every time our parents would be rushing us out the door, either Brother or I would ask:
"Where are we going?"

To which one of them would reply: "Out."



O_o



So on this fine Sunday morning, either Brother or I asked: "Where are we going?" and Mom replied:


"Disney Land."







O_O







I don't think words can describe the excitement that swept over Brother and I...

So I drew a picture!

We were so poor!


We had never been to Disney Land before! I had classmates who had been (as I'm sure Brother did as well) but I could only imagine the spectacular-ness of it all.


They must have saved for years to afford this trip.






Needless to say, Brother and I flew around the house in a flurry of get-ready-ness and we were in the car and buckled in before my parents had time to lock the front door.

Excitedly we jabbered away in the backseat together.

What would Disney Land be like?

Were there rides? Food? Shows?

I was going to touch everything! I think Brother was planning on learning to fly.


It was so super-exciting-awesome-fantastical-face-yeah!





And then the unthinkable happened.




"Oh will you two calm down," Mom said, turning from her passenger seat to look at us,

"I was just kidding. We're not actually going to Disney Land, we're going to the flea market."

And that's why I hate flea markets.

Dear Period

Dear Period,

I know we don't talk that much. Let's be honest, you're kind of a pain in the a$$ so I can't see us being friends any time soon. I remember being 13 years old and desiring you: "Be thankful you don't have it", "Once it's here, you'll be wishing it's gone" people used to say to me. And to this day, I am glad you came. I really truly am. Getting your first period is such a big deal to a young girl, almost a rite of passage, it screams (quietly and painfully) 'I am now a woman!' But Period, for this relationship to work, in the very least amicably, we need to set a few ground rules.

You suck. There, I've said it. You are overall, a messy, unpleasant companion and in order to make your presence easier I have a few requests.



1. Please come every 28 days.

Now I'm not asking for much here, just the same consideration that you give to most of the menstruating population. Our relationship would be much easier if I knew when you were coming. There would be no incidences of being out and about, going to the washroom without my purse, and having to makeshift a toilet paper pad until the next trip to the loo. (After all, if I come back to the room, pick up my purse, and then return to the washroom, isn't it kind of obvious? (Although depending on the company I am keeping, sometimes I'll do that anyways.))

Also, if you came every 28 days, then there would be an indication of a disturbance in the force! A late period would be obvious by day 29, which could then raise concerns of sickness or pregnancy. It's difficult not to panic every time you're late, even though you seem to have no problem showing up whenever the hell you want, waltzing in as if you own the place. Really Period, it's quite rude and I don't have the energy to be worried anymore. You know, as well as I, that Uterus can't produce enough HCG hormone right away to give me a proper pregnancy test result. If you are two weeks late, then there is nothing I can do the entire time but wonder and wait.



2. Please last no longer than 7 days.

Now, I'm not trying to be greedy here. The average period only lasts 3-5 days. I know you need to be special and "different", but I would really appreciate it if you would last no longer than 7 days. Tampons are expensive, and cramping for more than a week makes me extremely irritable and tired. That's just unfair for everyone.

With the combination of requests 1 & 2, I could even make plans around your visits! Then we could enjoy some quality time together without me having to make you feel unwanted. Doesn't that sound nice?




3. Please pick one level of flow and stick with it.

Period, when you fluxtuate so much it makes it very difficult to accomodate your stay. I'm sick of buying the variety pack of tampons (honestly, they're more expensive) and it would be great to be able to predict your outcome.

Even be heavy Period, really! At least then I can plan for a heavy flow and not be surprised (rudely, I might add) by a morning trip to the bathroom that looks like I'm narrowly escaping with my life, after being stabbed by a mugger!





I really hope that we can come to some sort of understanding here Period. We have another twenty-or-so years left together, and it would be nice if they were pleasant ones.


Looking forward to your response,


dys·func·tion

The Boomerang Bullet

Just prior to Christmas  I wrote a blog called "Dodged Another Bullet" that was entirely about how I have a fear of repeat gifts but how, at that time, even if a gift was repeated that I would have given it first, making the other person the repeater.

What I didn't consider ladies and gentlemen, was the one-upper-repeater.



The deadliest of all gift givers.






Santa had brought Shake'n'Bake a colouring desk so she could get up off the floor with her crayons and books.


It was the biggest present under the tree and she was excited to open it.

(These pictures are for emphasis only...these aren't the real ones.)



Picture from here.


Santa brought her a nice little desk - table and stool, nothing too fancy, but she's only two years old.

I was pretty happy.





Later....






Shake'n'Bake opened an even bigger present under a different tree.


This desk exploded into bright colours and happy-funness.

Once again...not the real item.
Desk picture from here. Starburst from here.

Imagination-stimulating brightness, kid-friendly storage, and an overall appearance that screams "PLAY WITH ME!"


This desk had Santa's beat.



I hid it upstairs in the loft.



"Oh, she can play with it when she gets a little bigger."

"She doesn't need two desks right away..."

"When Splat starts to colour she can have the Santa desk
and Shake'n'Bake can use the new one."

And other various excuses spewed from my mouth.



*shame*



I was so happy with Santa's choice of desk, and now it looks like poo.

Poo with sprinkles...

Poo picture from here.

o_o



*sigh*



I'm gonna have to sell it.




Spring garage sale, here we come!