Talk about a post-walk buzz kill!

Understand, he writes the cheques, incrementally, every couple of weeks. He. Writes. The. Cheques.

Yet, somehow… he thinks this will fly:

“From what I see here,” points to laptop, “For the last couple of months, I’ve written you a total of $4 grand a month.”

“Yes…”

“I thought I was only writing a total of $3 grand…” looking at me for explanation.

“But, you write the cheques…”

He looks at me incredulously, as if to say, ‘yes, but you are the one asking for money and so, therefore despite the fact that I, indeed, must right out amounts- twice, once in number form and again in cursive- you are the one truly accountable and therefore the one held in complete contempt of our household financial responsibility, without doubt engaging in flagrant over-spending. Driving me into complete and utter despair at your total fiscal incompetence, and our family into financial ruin.’

Apparently I’ve been pulling a fast one. Perhaps skimming the household finances.  We are able to live on $4 grand a month, for Chrissakes!
Oh, to spend just a few hours in his head.

Aaaaaaaaargh!

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In keeping with my rant against Mother Nature I woke up this morning, looked out the window, squeezed my eyes shut real tight, raised my fist to the heavens and went, “%&*#$%^@#&%@#$%&!!!!!”

“Aaaaaaaaaaaaargh!”

I promised The Beast last night that we would get out for a run this morning and I didn’t care if it was snowing.  She looked at me with a dreamy gaze of complete worship as though to say, “Oh, thank you, my dear mummy.  I can’t wait and I know, this time, you’ll come through for me.  Because I just love you so much and despite your previous many disappointments I can see the commitment in your eyes and I just love you so much and am sure that this time.  This time.  This time.  You will be true to your word and we will go out for a run.  Cuz you know I love our runs soooooo much.  Almost as much as I love you, dear mummy.”

Of course, when I made this promise to my perfect, adorable, lovely doggie, I knew She wouldn’t actually bring snow and that my word was a pretty easy one to keep.

Well, while She did not deliver snow to this here Western Slope, she did bring cold, rain and wind.

Triathlon is two months and counting. Doggie staring at me with expectation from doggie bed.  I can see it in her eyes.  The eternal forgiveness.  Like she knows I’m gonna pee on her hopes and dreams yet again.  But she adores me anyway.
Ugh!  This is one helluva grudge.

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Yeah… well. Only his ass… of my comfy, cozy sofa, maybe.

Yes. It’s the weekend of The Masters.

It’s also the weekend of some real spring-time weather. Fucking finally! I’ll try to keep my resentment in check as apparently yesterday, our neighbors over the mountains were hit hard with a late season snow storm! Ha! I guess that’s what you get when your streets run free with money and your freaking SUV is encrusted with gold!

Anywho. I digress. Where was I?

Oh, yes. The Masters. And our very first, fair weathered opportunity to get things done in the yard.

Hmmmmm…… please say it’s only me that views these two things as completely, totally, fully and without any shred of doubt, mutually exclusive?!?!

I thought not. Shit!

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For the past half hour I find myself in heated debate with middle child over whether or not I am nice. Why I, late-thirty-something-mother-who-knows-better, am engaging, only days-away-from-being-six-year-old hysterical child, very recently deprived of X-Box priveleges for miserable behaviour, is in an argument over my nice-ness, could certainly be a valid question.

Well… because I am feeling lousy. Brief session photographing perhaps less than wonderful images of local middle aged couple. Listening to incessant background noise of exasperated and frustrated boisterous WAH husband yelling into speaker phone to anxious and demanding co-workers trying to meet deadline all morning. Anticipating drive of several hours to Calgary to spend seemingly endless hours all weekend in stuffy, chlorine infused pool environment. And I’m feeling lousy. So, I’m getting a little perverse satisfaction out of ongoing misery derived from meaningless, mutually antagonistic, absolutely no point to be had, and unnecessary, overly emotional exchange with youngest boy child.

Essentially… you want to fuck with me this morning? Game on!

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Ugh! Another month. Another Gazette to the printers!

Now, my question to myself is this:

“A month is at least 30 days long. That’s a fair bit of notice of a deadline. Why the HELL can’t I get it started before the 29th?”

That’s a question I’m sure I shall ponder until April 29th, when I am inevitably busting my ass trying to come up with content: harassing local businesses for advertising and bothering neighbors for silly Q & A… blah, blah, blah!

While I managed to meet the newspaper deadline, we are all still sucking wind. Whether it’s the ongoing recovery from last week’s company or this GD early Daylight Savings Time, I haven’t been up to enjoy my usualy early, early morning for weeks! And I have a triathlon to prepare for. Training was supposed to start Monday….

It’s Tuesday. 7am is passed. That is designated running time, doncha know. If it don’t happen then… well, it just don’t happen. Less than 10 weeks and counting.

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Wow!

I am truly in awe of my own power. I am actually capable of connecting to the Power and Energy of this here oh-so-mysterious Universe. Those Secret folks really weren’t shitting me.
I single handedly, from where I lay, incapacitated with nasty sickly bug, on my lovely ever so comfy and cozy sofa, through a direct, albeit completely unconscious connection to The Source. The Creator. The AllPowerfulEnergy. Stymied air traffic through the mid-west… delaying travel from Houston to Calgary, Sunday morning to today, at midnight. Thereby cancelling the travel plans of HIS family. OMG! Until now, I have been completely unaware of the power I am able to weild.

OK. How ’bout a million bucks instead of the unfortunate cancellation of long held travel plans of lovely relatives?!?!

Note to self: Must use powers for good instead of evil.

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The basement is done. At least what needed done for the arrival of Texas Cousins. This, the first round of American guests we will be hosting this month. There will be more needed done in the week between visitors. But, for now the construction end is complete.

Now for the organizing, tidying, cleaning portion of this project.

But not right now. I blew my proverbial wad, installing all new mouldings this morning. Now. I’m on the couch. I’ve had a bath in an effort to dislodge sawdust from backs of ears and other extraneous cavities. Now. I’m just tired. Tired. Like hit by a truck. Or by the prospect of two more days of complete shitty grind.

I’m fighting something.  Some bug has taken hold that, thankfully, hasn’t got me completely flattened, but is hanging on for it’s dear parasitic life.

And the sun is shining. I was gonna take this gang skiing. But I just can’t. I can see the mountain from my place here on the couch. And I can see the mostly cloudless sky. And the sun.

And I cannot. And I will not. Leave this couch. For now.

There’s a birthday party tonite. A neighbor girl’s eighth. It’s also a little parental bender. Any other day I would be looking forward to it. We don’t throw many party birthday’s now that kids are in school.

I won’t be going. Now, I will sleep. When family departs for party. I will descend once again into household preparation for HIS family. Our guests. Who will remain blissfully clueless as to what was necessary to get this house in any condition to entertain for more than one evening.  Making sure everyone, two full grown adults and two full grown teenage boys, has a tidy, clean place to sleep in this painfully small, indubitably shrinking, little cottage house.

Oh, God. I have to end this before I make myself nauseaus on top of just plain shitty. Just have a friggin’ snooze for Chrissakes! A snooze with the lovely Fidge nestled in my armpit. Ariel in the background. And the faint rumblings from downstairs… boys, machine gun fire, death… ugh. X-Box. Jeeeesssusss.  Turn it down!
Sleep. Sleep. Now.

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Poor Fidge. Yesterday she got another case of Nursemaid’s Elbow. Being prone and as her father and I love dragging her around by her fragile, little arm it has now happened a few times. Note to self: stop dragging girl child around by the arm…

Noooo. I kid. It happens accidentally. Really.

Yesterday, wrestling with dad in our bed- a lovely, very high, old tyme country bed- she was about to take a header onto the floor when dad grabbed the arm. An immediate response followed. “Aaaaaaaaarrggghhhhhhhhhhhh! My ahhhhwwwmmmm!” Oh boy.

It was summer when, while still holding my hand, little Fidge decided to jump off a curb into a busy street. I continued to hold her hand, while yanking her back to the safety of sidewalk and got this response: “Aaaaaaaaarrggghhhhhhhhhhhh! My ahhhhwwwmmmm!”  It was after a day of her refusing to use this arm, having a very uncomfortable and teary night and no real improvement the next morning that we decided, sheepishly, to take her to Emergency, with an arm dislocated… BY HER MOTHER! Ohmigod… the judgement… the reproach…

Nope. Just Nursemaids Elbow. A very common childhood injury between the ages of one and four, the age at which kids are most susceptible. There’s apparently a high incidence of parental yanking of little arms. Thank God. I certainly didn’t want to be the ONLY BAD MOTHER! Anyhow, with a smile and a simple maneuver by lovely, friendly, white-bearded physician; giggles of a flirty Fidge, followed by an audible “click”; and tremendous howl by no longer flirty Fidge. One big tear. Big relieved smile on tiny face. It was done.

So, yesterday after a lot of contemplation over whether or not another trip to doctor was really necessary, more hours of Fidge not moving a painful and completely immobilized little arm, deciding yes, off to hospital.

But wait… let’s look online and see what we might find… the internet: a lazy parent’s dream.

Well, lo and behold. All you’d ever want to know about Nursemaid’s Elbow as well as how to peform the necessary reduction… ourselves. Let me say that in each article I found they state it is necessary to rule out any other issues, such as fracture. You must know you are dealing with Nursemaid’s Elbow.
Given that we were sure of the diagnosis, having seen it before… twice.. we were pretty confident in our ability to take this on. In fact, it is not unusual, while ours didn’t last summer, for physicians to teach parents how to do the reduction themselves, as when this injury occurs once, there’s a good chance it will happen again.

So, I restrained. Daddy reduced. Fidge screeched. “Click”. Fidge smiled. Daddy grins with satisfaction. I hug Fidgey.

Within moments, lifting carelessly, previously painful and immobilized arm, pointing to the TV, “Can you change the chann-oh?”

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Other than gazing upon images of my three kids and loveable Beast, the previous design of The Inspired Family had me… totally uninspired.

So, soon… once I get my header to actually show up.  The redesign will be complete.  For the most part.  There are always things to add.  But this should keep me happy for another three months.

Aaahhhhhhhhhhhhh…..

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OK, for those of you uncomfortable with issues of reproduction, now is your chance to clamp eyes shut, cover your ears, “LA-LA-LA-LA-LA!!”  For those of you with sturdier constitutions, here’s the deal:  I’ve about had it with all the hanky-panky!

Let me say, I am sickened.  It’s fornication, pure and simple. 

The Ziplocs are getting it on with the Lock & Lock’s!  They are reproducing with complete, total and wreckless abandon.  My plastic food storage containers are multiplying at such an alarming rate they are overflowing not only from their designated pot drawer but also from the large cupboard they have come to mysteriously inhabit all the way across the kitchen. It is nothing less than an infestation.  

We aren’t talking about the lowly used yogurt and sour cream containers.  Sadly, I suppose I’d expect it from them…. No, no, no.  We are talking about a certain class of plastics.  Containers that should have a heck-uv-alot of better things to do than illicit, wanton touchie-feelie in the dark recesses of my kitchen!  There was left over chicken last night, for crying out loud!!

This nasty business has got to end.  How are my boys supposed to go about their simple task of unloading the dishwasher when they could easily risk tarnishing their innocence in the inadvertent witness of this wild copulation?!? 

Perhaps worse:  the overcrowding becomes just so gross and these beastly critters become so desperate for their own space that they begin to devour their young.

Help!  How can I possibly, humanely, take back control of my kitchen?!?!

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