| Junk |
Or, more specifically, my junk cupboards. I can’t seem to get away from all this, er, god, I don’t even know what’s in them anymore. All I know is it started with my kitchen counter tops and then it multiplied and spread inside the cupboards virtually overnight and it’s totally out of control and driving me absolutely batty.
I should probably explain how this mess happened. See, our kitchen is, well, as far as kitchen’s go, pretty rad, in my humble opinion. And coming from me, that’s quite the statement because it’s not exactly like I’m known for my culinary abilities or appreciation for fine food or for cooking pretty much anything other than chicken fingers and cookies. I just really love our kitchen because it is smack dab right in the center of our home, a link between the dining room and the family room, close, but not too close to the laundry room and exactly the perfect distance away from our more formal living room. And by more formal, I mean the sofa isn’t covered in milk and ketchup stains like our robin egg blue hand me down sofa in the family room from my mom, which was a hand me down sofa from her sister probably back when the dinosaurs roamed the earth. But why buy a new sofa when your kid still thinks rubbing the ketchup INTO the fabric helps make the mess go away, right?
Back to our kitchen. It has a high ceiling, a perfectly sized eating space in front of white trimmed double French doors lined with floor to ceiling red drapes that match my teapot. And that probably sounds really odd, but my chilli pepper red teapot is like, my most favourite kitchen accent piece. Our kitchen also has a counter height table for four, specifically purchased for its height so Samson in all his massively ginormous doggy joy can’t yoink food off our plates and a really great center island large enough to hold 50 or so of my homemade chocolate chip cookies while they cool (What? You don’t bake 50 cookies all at once? Oh!) It’s a kitchen where company tends to gather, laugh, drink and eat and, most importantly, it has a wicked amount of cupboard space. Cupboard space, that, because the kitchen is the heart of our home has somehow lost its purpose as a place to hold dishes and transformed into a hiding place for papers, pens, bills, envelopes, phone chargers, receipts, sunglasses, duct tape to keep a cranky kid quiet, you know, all the normal stuff people need on any given day.
So, with such a lovely kitchen and all its great cupboard space, what’s the problem right? Well, the issue is that I just can’t stand clutter. I put my toaster away after every use. Our small toaster oven and bread maker have their spot hidden from view in the depths of our cupboards. Even though we make protein shakes daily, the blender gets tucked away after every use. Despite ample square footage of counter space, I just can’t stand anything cluttering it. Even the sunshine yellow dish soap bottle has its place beneath the sink. Some may call it barren but to me, empty counters are kind of, I don’t know, Zen.
So, all this decluttering left me no choice. Stuff had to go...somewhere. It started with one shelf, you know, for appliance manuals, a few papers, a mug filled with pens, that sort of stuff. But then, I don’t know, it’s like our junk started making out with other junk and then spawned junk babies and then spawned more junk offspring because that one junk shelf became two, then three, then an entire cabinet. And then when that cabinet became full of crap even more junk started spilling over onto the counter tops. That’s when I said enough is enough, and bought some cute little baskets, rearranged some cereal boxes and voila, a nice and tidy space for (more?) cables, batteries, birthday cards I can’t bear to throw away, along with a few dead smart phones and the boxes they came in because maybe with all this mysterious multiplying of junk going on they may just spawn me a new iPhone or something. YOU NEVER KNOW! And, AND, because toys strewn everywhere drives me just as batty as cluttered counter tops; I cleared yet another entire cabinet for Nate to keep his toys, puzzles and dinky cars. All the stuff that never seems to make its way back to his playroom.
Suffice it to say, my kitchen cabinets are exploding at the seams with junk and toys. I may barely be able to open a cupboard door without Tupperware toppling over on my head, but dammit those bare counter tops are worth it!Labels: Soapbox |
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| Some things never change |
Almost exactly the same time last year I wrote this post and I couldn’t help but remember it today because a year may passed, but some things never change. Nate still has a colossal meltdown if he has to wear mittens, I’m still wearing the same sartorial puffball that is my red winter jacket and when I carry Nate on my hip, his slush-covered boots still leave dirt stains next to my vagina.
Originally posted January 8th, 2009
Dear Winter,
How do I hate thee? Oh, I am so going to count the ways. And when this dissertation is done, assume I could add like, one thousand more reasons if I wasn’t on a schedule that involves a toddler who will not nap and will probably wake up in 4.3 minutes.
1: You’re cold! That really sucks because my body likes heat and sunshine and balmy summer gusts twisting through my hair while I rest my head against a salmon-pink sunset.
2: Also? For the life of me, I cannot get my son to wear mittens or a scarf. Do you not think you could heat things up, just a touch? Because to be totally candid, I find it unreasonable that you’re so unforgiving when it comes to toddlers that are like, pretty much always completely irrational with BECAUSE I SAID SO, even it means enduring the torture of mittens.
3: Every time I forget to park the van in the garage a sudden mountain of snow lands on my car. Vans are ginormous, Winter! And they take an eternity and a day to clear the snow from.
4: We do not have a driveway wide enough to park two cars beside each other and it just so happens that on the days Mark has a ride to the train station it also happens to be the days that I forgot to park the van in the garage. So then I end up having to clear a mountain of snow off of TWO cars and then scrape the ice off of 14 windows just to get Mark’s car out of the driveway so I can leave the house with an already cranky toddler who will do nothing but scream at me for milk the entire time anyway, which is usually only tolerable in one hour increments, which is also why I am a house hermit and my kid is a milkaholic.
5: Which brings up an interesting point, Mr. Winter. For all of the advances in medicine that humanity has accomplished, why is no one is researching the art of human hibernation?
6: Also? I must admit, all of this perpetual darkness is so depressing.
7: So are these perpetually gray skies.
8: And the bone chilling dampness that hovers in the air from the Great Lakes makes me feel like I am 95 years old and crippled with Arthritis.
9: Oh! Hai! Did I mention you are are effing cold? MOFO! Brrr!
10: And that I hate the need for bulky clothing and fingers perpetually encased in stiff-gloved leather?
11: Or that I miss the gilded blush of sun-kissed skin?
12: And that I hate chapped lips? Last Saturday I indulged in a bottle of Australian Shiraz with a friend and on Monday the icky dry patches on my lips were still tainted purple.
13: It’s also very unpleasant to forget what your toes feel like. I have warm boots, I do, but I’m a glutton for self punishment and wanted to wear my heels with a perfectly hemmed pair of boot cut jeans today, so sue me, Winter!
14. Just not over the fact that my puffy red winter coat makes me look like an inflatable air mattress.
15: Oh man, and your cold-induced runny noses can suck it. Both mine and my kid’s. Especially when he wipes his nose on my shirt.
16: And finally, dear Winter, it’s days like today where I’m alternating between holding hands with a snail-paced toddler wading through slush-laden parking lots and perching his body in the cove of my maternal hip that I end up with dirty snow stains right near my vagina because that just so happens to be where his boots land, and walking around with a dirty vagina is not the image I would like the world to see Old Man Winter you filthy pervert you!
Love,
Karla xo
###
For all the gripes I have with the bone-chilling cold and back-breaking snow shoveling that Old Man Winter brings, I have to admit that really can be quite breathtaking, you know, in a hurry up and take a picture before your fingers fall off and lungs freeze in your chest kind of way.



 Labels: Letters, Soapbox |
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| All I actually intended to buy was coffee |
See what happens when you go shopping half asleep?
 Lesson number one: Heed ye this warning people. Aside from the jaw-dropping final bill, schlepping through the empty early morning aisles at Wal-Mart before caffeinating one's body may cause your inner bitch to ROAR when a staff member yells at you for opening a box to see if you actually like the colour and quality of the new dinner set you intend to buy. And when you question her demands by saying there are no signs stating you're making her life hell by the possibility of maybe, just maybe, invoking the intolerable task of causing her to close a fucking box, which, god, I’m not a moron, I can close a box myself and also? Also? I religiously spend a couple hundred dollars at Wal-Mart every month, you know, on Pull Ups and shampoo all that crap for my family, so are you telling me that after all these years of spending stupid amounts of money here, oh and let’s not forget I have a cart full of like $400 bucks worth of crap, that if I just go ahead and buy this dinnerware set and take it home and totally dismantle the goddam box and decided I hate it and return it, that instead of repacking one plate (which, again, I can slip back in the box thankyouverymuch I AM HUMAN observe this prowess I like call hands), that repackaging all 16 pieces at a later date is a better option? I’m sorry but I need to see what I’m fucking paying for.
Lesson number two: Never, EVER leave the house uncaffeinated. It's like PMS on speed with a crotchety hangover.Labels: From House to Home, Soapbox |
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| Business is Business |
The new house. I know you’re probably tired of hearing about the new house but this is a bit of a doozy. I’m trying to decide how to handle a real estate agent (we'll call him Mr. T) that has it in for me. Like, has it in for me so bad he wouldn’t cooperate with our current real estate agent to allow us to put in an offer on a house we wanted to buy.
Let me backtrack for a second. If you’ve been following my blog for a while, you may recall that Mark and I came very close to moving shortly after Nate was born. First, he was offered a lucrative job in Manhattan and then another one in Ottawa, and very last minuteish, the one he ended up accepting in Toronto.
Our plan had always been to leave this house after Ava died. It was just a matter of timing and finances really and what better time to pick up and move than a family in the midst of a career transition, sleep deprivation and walking around with a newborn on your breasts all day.
Anyhow, we called up a real estate agent who showed us a few homes (remember this one?) and it didn’t take long to become frustrated with what we wanted versus what we could afford. Eventually we decided to wait a few more years and re-evaluate a move then.
Fast forward to late 2008. Mark and I happened to go and check out an open house at this really gorgeous home and met a lovely agent by the name of Veronica. We chatted a bit and for over six months while we hemmed and hawed about putting our home for sale, Veronica diligently kept in touch with us. She was never pushy, always personable and basically, just doing the whole networking thing to perfection.
When it came to listing our current home on the market, naturally, we called her, because, well, she’d been keeping in touch and old Mr. T? Long since forgotten. WELL, ALL HELL BROKE LOOSE let me tell you because Mr. T showed up at my front door. Yes, that’s right. All six feet of him and his giant bushy beard came to my house to have a chat about why I didn’t call him. I never answered the door so a few hours later he called me. UM, AWKWARD much? I mean how intimidating is that? Really? It had been well over two years since we last spoke. Business is business. No?
I happened to mention this to Veronica, and she thought it was totally unprofessional and put a call into Mr. T’s agency. And that was that. Or so I thought until Mark and I wanted to put an offer on a house he had listed. We knew he might be a bit miffed still, but whatev. I mean, he makes his buck, he sells his house quickly, let bygones be bygones right?
NOPE.
Mr. T said he had quite the issue with me now and made it quite clear that he did not want to sell a house to Mark and me. Seriously folks. Think about that for a second. A real estate agent that does not want someone to put an offer on their listing. How stupid is that on so many levels. And let’s not forget that his clients trusted him to get the best price. Oh, and we so would have paid over asking for that house, too.
Irony of all ironies though, the house he refused to sell us? We ended up buying the same model on a larger lot. But still. He must be breaching real estate code of conduct on so many levels. I don’t know, I’m no expert on real estate, but I do know a thing or two about grudges and assholes and I think Mr. T is the latter.
Anyway, this is the letter I wrote to him while Nate was in the hospital. I never sent it. I don’t know if I will or if I should, you know, speaking of grudges and all.
What would you do?
###
Dear Mr. T,
I realize this response to your communications with Veronica about potentially putting an offer in on the property located at 57 [street name] is delayed, but let me assure you that your unprofessionalism and pettiness was the least of my concerns as my son fell ill with a terrible pneumonia and needed to be hospitalized for several days.
As far as I'm concerned, kind words and a departing handshake from the past left us with no contractual obligation to you or your services and I am vehemently dismayed at your demonstrated lack of professionalism moving forward. The homeowners of 57 [street name] did not deserve you putting your personal vendetta in the way of cooperating with a potential buyer of their property and I did not deserve to be intimidated when you showed up uninvited on my property and later called me to voice your dismay when you clearly knew Mark and I were already in a sellers and buyers contract with Veronica.
Veronica is a wonderful agent and your inquisition as to “why” we chose her is totally irrelevant, but Mr. T, if I may reminisce, I distinctively remember you telling Mark and myself well over two years ago when we first contemplated purchasing a new home that should we not enlist you as the Broker to sell our house that you would spite us and although I did not think much of that comment at the time, today, I am relieved we aren’t dealing with someone carting around characteristics short of suitable professionalism on such an important investment.
Mr. T, there are far more important things in life than to carry a grudge because you feel “wronged.” Business is business and I can only encourage you to accept this fact and see past your own self-righteousness and begin acting like the professional you are supposed to be.
Regards,
Karla M. CadeauLabels: Letters, Soapbox |
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| Old Man Winter |
Dear Winter,
How do I hate thee? Oh, I am so going to count the ways. And when this dissertation is done, assume I could add like, one thousand more reasons if I wasn’t on a schedule that involves a toddler who will not nap and will probably wake up in 4.3 minutes.
1: You’re cold! That really sucks because my body likes heat and sunshine and balmy summer gusts twisting through my hair while I rest my head against a salmon-pink sunset.
2: Also? For the life of me, I cannot get my son to wear mittens or a scarf. Do you not think you could heat things up, just a touch? Because to be totally candid, I find it unreasonable that you’re so unforgiving when it comes to toddlers that are like, pretty much always completely irrational with BECAUSE I SAID SO, even it means enduring the torture of mittens.
3: Every time I forget to park the van in the garage a sudden mountain of snow lands on my car. Vans are ginormous, Winter! And they take an eternity and a day to clear the snow from.
4: We do not have a driveway wide enough to park two cars beside each other and it just so happens that on the days Mark has a ride to the train station it also happens to be the days that I forgot to park the van in the garage. So then I end up having to clear a mountain of snow off of TWO cars and then scrape the ice off of 14 windows just to get Mark’s car out of the driveway so I can leave the house with an already cranky toddler who will do nothing but scream at me for milk the entire time anyway, which is usually only tolerable in one hour increments, which is also why I am a house hermit and my kid is a milkaholic.
5: Which brings up an interesting point, Mr. Winter. For all of the advances in medicine that humanity has accomplished, why is no one is researching the art of human hibernation?
6: Also? I must admit, all of this perpetual darkness is so depressing.
7: So are these perpetually gray skies.
8: And the bone chilling dampness that hovers in the air from the Great Lakes makes me feel like I am 95 years old and crippled with Arthritis.
9: Oh! Hai! Did I mention you are are effing cold? MOFO! Brrr!
10: And that I hate the need for bulky clothing and fingers perpetually encased in stiff-gloved leather?
11: Or that I miss the gilded blush of sun-kissed skin?
12: And that I hate chapped lips? Last Saturday I indulged in a bottle of Australian Shiraz with a friend and on Monday the icky dry patches on my lips were still tainted purple.
13: It’s also very unpleasant to forget what your toes feel like. I have warm boots, I do, but I’m a glutton for self punishment and wanted to wear my heels with a perfectly hemmed pair of boot cut jeans today, so sue me, Winter!
14. Just not over the fact that my puffy red winter coat makes me look like an inflatable air mattress.
15: Oh man, and your cold-induced runny noses can suck it. Both mine and my kid’s. Especially when he wipes his nose on my shirt.
16: And finally, dear Winter, it’s days like today where I’m alternating between holding hands with a snail-paced toddler wading through slush-laden parking lots and perching his body in the cove of my maternal hip that I end up with dirty snow stains right near my vagina because that just so happens to be where his boots land, and walking around with a dirty vagina is not the image I would like the world to see Old Man Winter you filthy pervert you!
Love,
Karla xoLabels: Soapbox |
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| Rationality, now bundled in a chill pill |
It never occurred to me that my last post about my cat scratching Nate’s face would stir up so many heated emotions. I had to delete several comments from fly-by animal loving hooligans who, clearly in need of a chill pill and a sense of humour, said some rather nasty things about me.
I don’t know about you, but cutting the cats legs off sounded perfectly rational to me.
Clearly, the past 17 years of my life not eating meat, fish or eggs has all been because I hate animals. In fact, I think I should blame all the grief in my life on the cows. That sounds about right. It’s so not fair that they get to spend their entire existence eating grass, farting and mooing all day. Deep down, I'm teeming with envy.
But deeper thoughts on this will have to wait because tomorrow Nate is supposed to go to my Mom’s house and spend the weekend there as a trial run before we go on vacation in a couple of weeks. He has never woken up to another face besides mine or Mark’s, and as luck would have it, we’re all snot-nosed bedraggled carriers of colds in this house. It's all Samson's fault.
Maybe tomorrow after a good night's rest I'll be able to think more clearly and stop blaming Samson for this cold. Last night for his punishment we spooned in a king-sized bed and tonight I plan to force him to spend the night lying perfectly still as my doggy pillow.Labels: Soapbox |
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| Purveyor of Poo |
Last night, on a whim, I decided that it's time to put the house for sale and move to Northern Alaska. I am not ready for the deep winter freeze to come to an end and have decided that the never ending bone-chilling cold is rather refreshing. And besides, the crumbling dampness that hovers in the air from living next to the Great Lakes is nothing that a steaming cup of cocoa can’t alleviate.
I'm learning to adapt to this climate, and have grown rather agile running on uncertain icy footing. And what is not to like about restrictive, heavy clothing and fingers perpetually encased in stiff-gloved leather? I also happen to think it’s rather endearing that my kid looks like an inflated air mattress in his snow suit. It makes me want to poke and coochy coochy coo him.
I don't miss the warm glow of summer’s yellow sun, salmon-pink sunsets or the gilded blush of sun-kissed skin. Oh, and don’t even get me started on how much I do not yearn to open a window and flush away the lingering staleness of months worth of confined and recycled winter air. I especially don't love balmy summer gusts twisting through my hair, or the sleep-enhancing freshness of curtains billowing in a dewy evening breeze, particularly when met with the fragrant smell of ever-blooming flowers.
At least this is what I have been trying to tell myself, because living in an icebox sounds much more enticing than having to deal with the four months worth of thawing dog shit in my backyard.
That’s over one hundred pounds of digested and expelled dog food no longer encapsulated in a hermetically sealed, stench-inhibiting ice tomb that needs to be taken care of. And by taken care of, I mean slapping on a rubber glove, sloshing through the festering meadow muffins, and picking them up, one disgustingly mushy pile at a time.
Welcome to my glamorous life as a Stay at Home Mom, Housewife and Seminal Arbitrator to Samson, the Purveyor of Poo.Labels: Samson, Soapbox |
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| Thinking about growing a mustache |
So what kind of person drops a bomb about her child being kicked out of daycare and then doesn’t finish telling the rest of the story?
Most likely the kind of person that feels like a pair of testicles would come in handy right about now to give her a leg up on negotiating a deal for a used minivan already.
Seriously.
If I tell you that I am interested in THIS minivan, don’t show me THAT minivan and tell me it’s the same thing. I know it isn’t because me and Google are so close we're practicaly sleeping together and he is like, all-knowing and all-seeing and he thinks you’re lying.Labels: Soapbox |
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| Dishwasher Ordeal |
My shiny new dishwasher arrived several weeks ago, but since making it work requires playing with both electricity and water, a hazardous combination for those who are apparatus-challenged, neither Mark nor I were capable of installing it. Instead, we asked my Father-in-Law to help.
Mark’s father is a selfless Saint. At the drop of a hat, he will make the two hour drive to our house if we ask him to. It doesn’t matter what it’s for. If we need him for something, anything, he will be here.
The man is also brilliant. And not just brilliant when it comes to using a hammer and power tools, I mean really really brilliant. Like, he could build a satellite capable of blasting off into outer space to orbit Jupiter, just for the fun of it, while simultaneously teaching us about investing and prolonging the lifespan of a lawn mower.
Unfortunately, his worldly brilliance does not transcend the hurdle of installing a dishwasher with missing parts.
We bought our dishwasher from Sears and they were very accommodating about the faulty delivery and offered to send another new dishwasher along with someone to install it for us.
As wonderful as that sounds, that meant that I had to hand wash dishes until the second dishwasher arrived. Drastic times called for drastic measures and for the past week, Mark has been on strict orders to ration his dishes. No more having a glass of water and putting his cup down and two seconds later having another drink of water out of a new cup and then five minutes later using yet another cup for another swig of water. By my calculations, I can save washing about 18 cups a day if he reused his water glasses.
Feeling thirsty this morning, I noticed a glass on the counter in the spot where Mark usually leaves his water glass after he takes his vitamins. Figuring that because there was just water in the cup and that there is absolutely nothing wrong with extending our dish rationing to include a community cup, I grabbed his water glass, filled it with water and took a nice big swig only to discover that he hadn’t used that cup for water. He had used it for milk the night before. And there, at the bottom of the glass, and now in my stomach, were rotting milk curds.
This morning, a guy came to install the second dishwasher, and wouldn’t you know it, when he opened the box, the same parts were missing.
I am beginning to understand why this dishwasher was such a great price; no one has bothered to actually put it together.
At this point, I’m beginning to wonder if my dishwashing options would be better served from a dishwasher of the rock-hard abs and a toga wearing variety.Labels: Home Improvement, Soapbox |
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| No Internet |
My Internet is gone! GONE! As in, I CAN'T CONNECT TO THE INTERNET.
So, to feed my addiction for Vanilla Latte's and All Things That Exist Inside the Computer, I headed over to a nearby caffe with wireless Internet access.
I thought this was a great idea, but Nate does not. He won't stop screaming and fussing and people keep looking at me like, Woman, stop sipping your latte and pay attention to your child already.
I can't wait until my home is a place where humans and The Internet can coexist in peace once again.Labels: Soapbox |
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| Tomorrow is Another Day |
Nate is having his morning nap and while the house is calm and peaceful I thought I would take a minute to decide how I will spend my day today.
I should probably catch up on some housework. Chores have really fallen by the wayside. A good place to start would be to vacuum because it has been ages since I have done that. But first, I need to pick up Nate’s toys. And Mark’s socks.
Speaking of socks, I really need to get caught up on some laundry. The piles are accumulating in mountainous proportions. Kind of like the diapers in Nate’s diaper genie. I really need to empty it.
Some days, it feels like all I do is change diapers. Which reminds me, I need to run to the store and stock up because we are running low. I suppose while I’m out, I may as well get the grocery shopping done too.
Since I have to go out I should probably shower and get dressed.
But wait. I have no clean clothes. So first I’ll throw in a load of laundry, and then I will have a shower so I can go to the store to get diapers and groceries. Once I get home I can pick up Nate’s toys and Mark’s socks and empty the diaper genie and then vacuum.
Wait a minute though. Tomorrow is garbage day. So before I shower I should get all the garbage and recycling together. And while I’m collecting garbage, I may as well clean the kitty litter and pick up Samson’s giant dog poo piles outside.
Did I remember to buy latex gloves for picking up poop the last time I was at the store? Of course not. So I really need to go the store to buy gloves to pick up Samson’s giant dog poo piles before anything else. And if I have to go out anyway, I should probably just go ahead and get those diapers and groceries. And then once I come home, I’ll do the laundry and pick up Nate’s toys and Mark’s socks and empty the diaper genie and pick up Samson’s giant dog poo piles and clean the kitty litter and then get the garbage and recycling together. Once all of that stuff is out of way, then I will have a shower.
Hang on a minute. I also have to get some blood work done after seeing the doctor yesterday about the mysterious bruises all over my legs. Nate should be waking up soon, so we can go and do that once he is awake. But first he will need a diaper change and milk and all of my undivided attention and love.
Gee, where did the day go already? It will soon be time for lunch and oh no, I forgot to pump milk for Nate’s cereal. Ok, as soon as I finish taking care of Nate’s needs, then I will go and get that blood work done and go to the store to buy gloves and get diapers for Nate and groceries for our bare fridge before emptying the diaper genie and doing the laundry and picking up Nate’s toy’s and Mark’s socks and Samson's giant dog poo piles and cleaning the kitty litter and getting the garbage and recycling together. And then I will finally have a shower. Right after I vacuum first.
Nate goes down for a nap again shortly after lunch and speaking of naps; I sure could go for one myself.
Tomorrow is another day right?Labels: Soapbox |
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| On Teenage Angst |
While out shopping today, I happened to cross paths with a teenager who was dressed in garments completely unsuitable for parading around town under the blazing heat of summer.
He was dressed from head to toe in black. He had on black pants and a sartorial calamity of a trench coat that stretched the entire length of his body down to a ponderously hefty pair of black army boots. Continuing with the theme of Big Angry Teenager was a head of jet black hair and matching ebony lips. The look was completed with a dark pair of shades pulled over a strikingly salt-pale face by comparison.
I can relate to this form of teenage angst-infused self expression because I remember what it was like to carry the wisdom of a 7000 year old man on my pubescent shoulders.
Been there. Done that. And kept the t-shirt with the word “Freak” on the chest to prove it.
At one point during my phase of being angry with the cosmos I started wearing dark clothes and dyed my hair jet black, too. Because nothing quite sends the message that the meddling gremlins of nefarious doom descended on your soul than a bottle of nice n’ easy.
Mark also went through a similar phase, and in addition to dying his blond locks; he also dyed his eyebrows black so the whole world knew just how burdened with anger he was.
I am certain all the people he served while working the drive-thru at his part time job knew not to mess with him and his angry eyebrows lest he unleash the wrath of his teenage fury and forget their side order of pickles.
Eventually, Mark and I came of age and realized that alcohol and a sunny patio was a very practical solution to all of life’s problems and we bid farewell to our teenage animosity and our shoulders thank us for it.
So to the young man I saw today. If you are going to carry the weight of the Whole Entire Universe on your shoulders, may I at least suggest being practical about it all in a sensibly cool t-shirt and a pair of seasonally appropriate open toe sandals.Labels: Soapbox |
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| Sad to be a Human |
Have you seen this site yet?
http://www.helpmybabylive.com/
I used to think that I would need to make an appearance in hell to get my blood boiling with the same ferocity that it did when I saw that site – and I’m (kinda sorta in certain circumstances) pro choice – even after experiencing infant loss and a miscarriage. What I am not however, is keen on a child growing up in an environment where its parents have obviously given their brains a one way ticket to the moon if they will only proceed with a pregnancy if there is financial gain.
The fact that they won’t consider adoption because the mother is afraid she will love the child too much to give it away means that deep down she already loves her baby. And then she goes ahead and holds her unborn child for ransom and threatens abortion if she does not receive money to raise it? Dear God the insanity in that logic makes me sad to be a human.
Since attempting any sane communication with those people would obviously be futile, my husband wrote this nice letter to the people at PayPal.
Policy regarding human trafficking and ransom
It appears that you currently have no acceptable use policy concerning using the PayPal system for the purposes of ransom and/or human trafficking. I would sincerely encourage that you add a statement as such so that websites such as this are not allowed to operate in conjunction with your service in the future.
Unfortunately by allowing your service to be used for this purpose you are, by virtue, condoning it and encouraging others to use your service in a similar manner. Also, by profiting from the credit card transactions PayPal is clearly willing to choose financial gain through morally reprehensible actions over being a good corporate citizen.
I would strongly encourage you to reconsider this particular PayPal account as well as your policy governing use of your service.
Sincerely,
Mark
If those people cannot be reasoned with, hopefully Corporate America can put aside its harrowing pursuit of profit and do the right thing and shut them down.Labels: Soapbox |
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| Don't even get me started on the underwire bra |
Last weekend we went and had our family portrait taken because of all the photo’s that I have taken of Nate, all but only a couple of them include the three of us, and in one of them my eyes are closed and the other one has a beer bottle in the background and I don’t know about you, but I’m not so keen on hanging a framed bottle of Budweiser on my wall.
Of course, as luck would have it, the night before our family portrait session was scheduled; Nate was up all night long. We thought for sure he was getting a tooth because I don’t think I have ever heard him scream for so many hours like that. Finally, after 4:00 in the morning he finally went down and I swear, just as Mark and I were coming down from the frantic all night scream fest, the alarm went off. Usually early morning is the best time of the day for Nate but after enduring a fitful night of distress, we were all drained and weary and I should have just called and cancelled the whole thing but apparently I like it when we can be all surly and crotchety together as a family and insisted we just get it over and done with.
Although we aren’t exactly a dress-up kind of family, I thought it might be nice to ditch the yoga pants for a day and wear something that at least gave the illusion of class and didn’t scream frumpy housewife. It’s not that I hate nice clothes, it’s just that after years of being pregnant and then not pregnant and then being pregnant again and then not pregnant and then pregnant again and then not pregnant, I have grown so comfortably complacent wearing stretchy yoga pants that I just don’t bother wearing much of anything else anymore because a) all of my pants were hemmed so they could be worn with heels and carrying Nate while wearing heels makes my back hurt because I am 90 and I like to complain and b) all of my dressy pants require me to wear a thong so there is no visible panty line but most days I am already dangling by the wisp of a thread trying to survive this whole mothering thing that I just sort of think if there is any extra thread laying around, it could be put to much better use than being parked between the cheeks of my ass.
But anyhow, I digress. Once we were all finally up and fed and dressed and done grumbling about wearing a thong, Nate decided to puke on me.
I swear that is the last time ever that I get out of bed for $5.88 family portrait day at Wal-Mart.Labels: All in the Family, Soapbox |
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| Vista |
When I got this computer last year, Vista had not yet been released, but the computer came with the “Vista Upgrade” option which I was excited about because I am nerd and I like Microsoft.
So last night I decided to finally upgrade my computer only to find out that HP is a huge f-ing liar and the supposed upgrade was a flat out reinstall of Windows, which meant bye bye Karla’s programs and custom settings.
I kid you not, the installation instructions went something like this:
WARNING: Window’s Vista is a brand spanking new installation. Back up all your shit or you will be sorry.
The Hewlett-Packard Upgrade Utility for Windows Vista will half assed guide you through the following steps to install the Windows Vista operating system on your notebook computer.
Two disks are provided in the upgrade utility kit, but only one works.
Tee hee.
Snort.
Giggle.
Good luck Sucka!
When the install is complete proceed to make out with your new operating system because you love it that much.
And then cry when you realize that your forgot to back up all of your RSS feeds.
Labels: Soapbox |
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| The Beaver is a Noble Animal |
You may have heard that Canadians are a friendly bunch. We like to say our pleases and thank you's and often times apologize excessively for no reason whatsoever.
Take yesterday for example. I was carrying Nate in a store and as I walked up an aisle I noticed there was a guy stocking shelves ahead of me, so I veered to left. Suddenly an aisle display jumped right in front of me and because it was not there a second ago, I crashed into it. And the guy – the one stocking the shelves – turned around and apologized for his brief existence in my life and for taking up too much of my personal space.
Mark told me the other day he was running down University Avenue to catch his train after work, because that is what commuters do, they run – a lot, and he rammed right into a lady, who then apologized to him for her brief existence in his life and for going too slow.
And last week Mark and I were out shopping and as we were heading into the mall, Mark opened the doors for me so I could push Nate’s stroller through. On the other side of the door stood a little girl and her mother and I was just going to wheel Nate around them when suddenly the mother apologized for their brief existence in our life and for being in our way.
So yes, Canadians tend to be a rather polite bunch and because I am having a BBQ this weekend, I feel the need to apologize for not inviting everyone. It’ll be fun. Joe’s bringing the beer and we are going to get very drunk and spend lots of time apologizing to one another for being shit faced while we snicker excessively over the fact that our national animal is also a slang word for a vagina.
Even if you aren’t Canadian, feel free to stop by. Just finish every sentence with “eh”, randomly apologize for your existence, pronounce the last letter of the alphabet as “Zed” and talk about hockey and beavers a lot and you’ll fit in just fine.
And if you are the motherfucker that broke into my car last night, I’m sorry to say that you are not invited. Instead, let me offer my most polite and sincere Canadian apology for your sorry existence on this planet.
And thank you for not stealing my blue yoga jacket.
Labels: Soapbox |
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| Warehouse Hanky Panky |
Dear Costco
I called your 800 number to find out if a product that is on sale on your website is available in stores, and imagine my surprise when I was greeted on the phone by a throaty woman who called me Sexy. I thought, gee, that’s different. But maybe Sexy is the new sweetheart. And who doesn’t like to be Sexy.
But then she welcomed me to an exciting new way to go live, one on one, with local students and housewives. For a minute, I was stoked and thought that I might be getting a special invitation to the local debate club or something. So while I waited for further information about this unique opportunity she went on to tell me that I should lay back and relax and let hot girls talk nasty to me for $1.99 minute. And for a second, I thought it sounded like a good idea, cause you know, I’m pretty open minded and liberal and if they have something to get off their chest, I don’t mind listening. But then someone started moaning in the background and that’s when things got sort of fishy and uncomfortable.
So I hung up and redialed. The same girl answered and called me Sexy again and then I realized that I was calling a phone sex line and it brought back memories of all the trouble I got into the last time I dialed one of those pay numbers. When I was little, I had the most serious little girl crush on Michael Jackson and Hulk Hogan and I couldn’t decide who I wanted as my boyfriend so to help me make up my mind, I called the Hulk Hogan hotline sixteen times in a row to ask him if he liked me. And would you believe after all that calling, I never actually got to talk to him in person. And to make matters worse, when my mom got the phone bill, I got a big spanking.
Something tells me the people on the other end of that phone number I dialed today would like to spank me too, but I’m still not done mourning the fact that Hulk Hogan never wanted to be my boyfriend. So while I relive all that painful rejection of my childhood past, perhaps you should consider changing your phone number so that if a customer dials 1-800 instead of 1-888, they don’t get the wrong idea about what kind of image you are trying to sell behind those warehouse walls.
Signed - your best sampler,
KarlaLabels: Letters, Soapbox |
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| Theories for Everything |
I have very mixed feelings about going to my mommy group outings. And it’s not because I don’t like the other woman there, or because I don’t like the sound of babies crying, or because there’s no free booze. The truth is, I don't like sitting around talking about developmental milestones because it all feels so competitive. Yesterday was all about who is sleeping through the night and who is rolling over and who got their first tooth and who is solving quadratic equations and who is writing a thesis to solve the Theory of Everything.
Personally, I’m still stick stuck on whether the chicken or the egg came first and right now my baby just really likes to pull my hair and flash his big toothless smile, but I am considering asking him if he wants to help me teach an aardvark to sing.
And it’s hard not to notice undertones of defensiveness when discussions circle around breastfeeding, starting solids, pacifier use, whether or not to spray your kid with insect repellant or where the best hole is to take a temperature.
I have learned a few things I suppose, like the importance of sunglasses to protect your baby’s eyeballs from the cornea burning inferno that is the sun. But do you know how hard it was to find a pair to fit his tiny head?
And did you know that the digital ear thermometers sold at the baby store, the ones with the big picture of a baby on the box - the same kind that my doctor uses – aren’t actually recommend for babies?
Apparently, I am a giant pushover for marketing strategies that involve placing pictures of babies on boxes.Labels: Motherhood, Soapbox |
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| Hairy |
I’m about as girly as girly gets, minus the whole nylons and skirt business. And that is probably why I failed miserably in the field of geophysics. There was no way I could survive in a desolate forest where my strange quirk for smelly creams and perfumy redolence would attract swarms of flesh biting bugs. Or even worse, survive in the barren wilderness where electrical outlets for blow dryers are about as non existence as toilets that flush.
I have been having a secret love affair with my blow dryer for years. Many mornings begin with heated hanky panky, and an “oh so smoothing” blow out. I can’t stop myself. It’s as addicting as Desperate Housewives and chocolate. Anyone cursed born with Little Orphan Annie ringlets knows what I mean (and probably has their own fair share of hot air flings and bathroom blow dryer trysts).
Smoothing out my swirly whirly locks has been a constant battle between my blow dryer and the tragedy of a lion mane sprouting out of my head ever since puberty hit and I wanted to kiss a boy. The whole hair domestication process takes 45 minutes and involves specific products, brushes, clips and other complicated hexes. It is also a process that only works, despite praying and straightening voodoo spells, when the air is dry. Minuscule amounts of moisture will sends my hair into a frizzy pandemonium and ultimately, that means I am forced to wear my curls on display and give my blow dryer, and all the steamy passion we share behind closed bathroom doors, a day off.
I don’t really have a point to all of this, except that my hair has grown insanely long. I can pull my hair from behind my back around under my arm pits. Since I am no longer a teeny bopper, have no intentions on becoming a hippie and have no recollection of idolizing Crystal Gale, I’m quite certain that means it’s time for a hair cut.
And I dread hair cuts. Labels: It's All About Me, Soapbox |
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| You Can Call Me Merry Molly Menopause |
In the past two weeks, since getting a psychotic puppy whose sole purpose in life is to bite my hands off, my husband and I are working through our personal issues, my Grandma died, the plumbing in my house exploded (and despite four holes sawed into my walls, moldy drywall, ruined carpet, demolished wet bar sink, messy kitchen, and the mushy insulation and drywall that now needs upwards of a month to dry before the chaos can be repaired, I’m sending every curse word possible to the dickhead who drilled a nail through the black water pipe behind the dishwasher that was soldered into the wall somehow and almost required a demolition crew to remove it.
Mostly though, I’m thankful I have a Father-in-Law who saved us about a billion dollars in plumbing bills), my car needs $1000 worth of mechanical voodoo performed on a car part that sounds like something out of a weird car fetish porno movie (yeah baby, I’ll mount those rubber struts and keep you in alignment…among other oily things), we murdered a cat at high speed in our car on the way home from visiting my dying Grandma, (at which point I shook and screamed like a baby), my husband and I finally braved the idea of getting a karyotype genetic test done, I’m missing most of the flesh off my knuckles from my pissy puppy who would have been better named “Pooch the Piranha”, and, oh yeah, I had a pap smear and I can still hear the scraping sound deep inside my girl parts right before creepy recollections of a stranger fondling my cervix send me into shuddering fits.
To top everything off, I can’t get any respect around here. While bending over and scolding the damn dog about biting, my husband thought it would be funny to yank my pants down and bite my ass in front of the impressionable little devil. Once Pooch the Piranha has worked my fingers down to gnawable little stumps, his toothy search and destroy mission will shift focus to my ass.
At least I don’t need an ass, like I do my hands, when I finally decide to throw them up in the air and surrender defeat.Labels: Samson, Soapbox, Thinking Out Loud |
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