I am boring.

My life is boring.

I have no fodder.

This past week has been really light around here, I know. And I’m sorry.  But I really got nothing, and after losing my great guest post I’m just Meh. I’d take a blog break and have guest poster, it seems like the in thing to do these days.. but I just need some fodder of some sort. I really wanna write, I just don’t know what about.

Any I’ve been sleeping like shit too. I notice when I don’t blog and share my poop and fart stories inner most smells thoughts, I can’t sleep as well.

Send me some topics dear Internets.

I’d use my search terms again, but, c’mon. Do you really want to hear about:

my mom fuck me.com – Um, what?  Seriously? Is this a request? Cuz that’s seriously fucked dude. 

david spade hog-tie - No. No. NO. That’s all kindsa wrong right there. Who are you and what are you doing here. Leave! 

is it normal to think about killing your husband  - find the answer and let me know.

poor dog in bathroom with dinosaurs - Huh? I don’t get it. 

And to the six people who have searched for S&M and came here… we’re not that kinda people. Though, sometimes I wish we were, we’re just not. Kinky is not in our repertoire.  I’m just too lazy for all that kinky shit.

Fodder, fodder, fodder…

Chanting it really isn’t going to make it get here fast enough will it?

C’mon Internets, where are you when I really need you?!

I’m going down in flames here.

Burning up!

Send me your ideas, I’ll use them! Promise!

And if you send me nothing?

Well, I never get tired of LOL cats! and mullets.

LOL cats with mullets. That! would be great!

Why is it that on the days I have something Brilliant! to say everything goes wrong?

Why is it that when someone has entrusted in me to blogsit that shit has to hit the fan and everything has to fuck up?

I’m over at Karly’s house today.

She’s going to be wiping up more then snot when she returns because I made a shit storm of her blog today.

Dear Typepad:

I remember sitting at home, days after the arrival of my precious baby boy. I remember the TV on, always on. Glued to the TV, I watched hours upon hours of footage.

The first image I remember was a reporter at the side of the interstate, cloaked in rain gear, talking about how the highway was flooding. I remember a car in the background, driving into what appeared to be a puddle, but then slowly beginning to float away as the driver valiantly tried to escape through the window. The reporter, dropping everything, ran for the car to aide this person.

I knew then this was different.

I just didn’t know how different.

I’ve never been to New Orleans or the Gulf Coast, but there’s something that draws me to it. Before Katrina I felt the connection, the need to be there, the yearning to be apart of the magic. Once Katrina hit, my heart broke. I was devastated for a place I didn’t know, for the people that were strangers. It’ a surreal feeling.

I spent the better part of the following three weeks glued to every single report and every single show about New Orleans.

I wept.

I bawled.

I lived New Orleans at their worst.

Once the water receded, once the damaged was done, there was no life to get back to. There appeared to be no future for this great city. There’s been rebuilding, reconstruction and some life brought back to New Orleans, and once that started, the destruction was slowly forgotten – by those f us not directly related to the tragedy.

Like most, I got on with my life. I thought less and less about what the people of that fair city have been through, and are dealing with on a daily basis. I thought less about the non-existent Ninth Ward, the disheveled cemeteries, the lost heirlooms, separated families, properties that were no more.

Abandonment of the greatest magnitude.

Once the one year anniversary approached there were locations along the coast which appeared just as they had the day the waters were pushed back. Cars strewn across roadways, ships and barges haphazardly lying as they had fallen 365 days prior. People without homes, jobs and loved ones. Still. One year later.

Now, as we embark on the 730th day, the city is virtually at a stand still. Two years later. There is life, some have come back, yet many have stayed away. Some places are back in their glory.

Some are not.

Lower Ninth Ward, two years later (click to enlarge).

Those who are New Orleans need us. They need support, help and not to be forgotten.

If all I can do is write this little post on this little blog… well, at least it’s something.

A reminder even.

Just what most people need.

New Orleans is still alive and still full of music.

photo taken by: Adamina

Um… what the fuck?

Which doesn’t really pertain to me since I am hardly classy, even though I am definitely fabulous *snicker*… I’m more of the “You can take the girl out of the country, but you can’t take the country out of the girl.”

I grew up in a small town, in the country, where, as a teenager, drinking is a very busy past time. The tolerance for alcohol, for most people, is still pretty high – why, with all the practice to be had. Every weekend there seemed to be a party, a stag and doe, a ball tournament (always with beer gardens) or a wedding. A reason to drink.

I too have indulged; and am (or was) able to go head to head with the best of them. When I moved away to college, friends were in awe of my ability to just keep drinking. I owed it all to small town country life.

This weekend was no exception.

My high school best friend and her high school sweetheart tied the knot; the wedding, themed “Ten Years in the Making” was just that. I remember walking the halls of our high school at sixteen with said friend and scoping out the older boys hanging out by their lockers between class. We’d always take the long route, just so we could walk past, to catch a glimpse of these boys.

The two we crushed on were three and four years older then us; basketball players (as were we) and oh! so! gorgeous! (Still are.) and when I hooked up with my hottie, I worked very hard to get him to help me get my friend and her crush together. When all was said and done between my crush and I (another sad, and long story) they were still going strong.

Now, ten years later, they’ve finally married; and I couldn’t be happier for them. I was giddy as soon as I saw her come down the aisle.

I showed them just how happy I was by drinking their bar dry at the wedding.

Okay, so slightly exaggerated.

But when they are serving BOTTLES instead of just GLASSES of wine. That’s when the trouble begins to brew.
I did the only thing I know how: took complete advantage of the situation.

Boy, did I ever.

Thankfully, my husband loves me so much. Bless his cold, black and shriveled little heart because I was a force to be reckon with after consuming a few too many bottles of wine. I was incoherent, belligerent and down right drunk.

And he did what he does best. Bosses me around.

[I love when he does that. Especially in bed.]

Once I began to stagger and slur my words, he knew it was time for us to head home; save me from embarrassing myself.

[Please, I don't think that's even possible with those friends. But, Mike, Bless that shriveled little heart again, doesn't know what we are capable of when we're back home drinking.]

Thanks to Mike, once again, I made it home in one piece; though, little dehydrated after purging all that wine and my dinner behind a friend’s house. Mike sweetly put me to bed – on the couch, still in my wedding clothes (Spanx and all – yes, I wore them again) , and placed a garbage can beside me.

And I woke up with only a mild hangover.

Thank you homemade wine.

What I learned from the weekend?

1. Yes, you can most certainly take the girl outta the country… but you ain’t never takin’ that country outta the girl.

2. I desperately miss being back home. *sniff, sniff*

3. Homemade wine is definitely fabulous. Will have to make more.

4. Mike is the best babysitter ever! when I get my drink on.

5. I love weddings.

Dearest Malie;

I am anti-mini van. I hate mini vans.

Yes, their economical and wonderfully spacious and can handle so much cargo and pack those ankle bitters in, but they’re just not for me. I cringe at the thought of considering a mini van an upgrade.

Growing up, that’s all my mom drove. Well, aside from the big brown beast which was a 70’s Buick Regal; we had a Chrysler sometimes or other, and then a GMC Safari; the one I learned to drive in. The one I loathed with every fiber of my being. Sure. Safe, yadda, yadda, yadda. I hated it.

I can’t even really touch on what part of a mini van I detest so very much, I just do. Because. I said so.

I think driving around town in a big ol’ mini van in my teens really scared me, since then, I’ve vowed that I will never have one.

So, when Carter came along, our little Saturn just wasn’t enough, and our Jeep was on the outs. We sold that poor Jeep (RIP Jeepy – creative eh?) and got our you, our dear Malibu Maxx. Mike had no argument, as he is just as adamant we will not own a van, and there was no question we needed a station wagon. Thought about the Volkswagen, which quickly was passed up when the salesman was a complete dick; test drove some other styles, but quickly realized that what we were looking for was pretty well out of our price range.

Until, you came along. You answered our prayers (if your prayers are like “Dammit, we need a new fucking car! Now!”) when you were waiting ever so patiently in the showroom for our arrival; first look I knew you would be mine.

I can’t say enough about you. I totally heart you. I am head over heels in heart with you! Love!

[It's a hatch back Malibu with room to spare. The back seat can move back and forth to accommodate taller passengers so they need not have their knees to to their chin. Bonus! Full loaded, including DVD player in the back. Excellent sound system - which gets plenty of use when I am alone belting out the lyrics to every Pearl Jam song I know. Loud enough to tune me out. And! Tinted windows and wicked chrome rims. Which I polish for Mike and he lurvs!]

You’re the complete package, my beautiful Malibu. Thank you for being my car even when I drive you like a maniac through Toronto’s rush hour traffic and make you speed up and down Hwy. 400… you never fail me. You make me look like a cool mom, not the computer geeky mom I really am! Which is totally awesome!

Love,

The Bat Outta Hell Crazy Driver

:::

And here I never thought I would have a blog post dedicated to my car; completely gushing about it, but they made me do it!

This post is brought to you by The Parent Bloggers Network Blog Blast! and AskPatty.com’s new service CarBlabber! Create an open letter to your car anytime before midnight PST on Friday, August 24.

FIVE winners at random to receive a handmade Circle Bag, made from recycled tire inner tubes (which would have otherwise been headed for the landfill) and trimmed in pink or red. (Each bag valued at $160.)

PLUS – CarBlabber is holding their own giveaway among those who sign up and complete a profile on the site. They’ll be giving away twelve CarMD diagnostic tools (valued at $90 each), along with a grand prize – an original Seat Belt Bag from Harveys, valued at more than $200. So click through, sign up, and blab about your car!

Specifically bad hair.

Seven years old, I went for a haircut. I was very specific about what I wanted; everyone was doing it, and I wanted to too. I begged and pleaded until I was finally allowed, after all, it’s hair, it grows back, right? (Sounds familiar, no?)
Well, I was more then excited when I left the salon with my new do. I remember admiring it in the mirror when we got home.

I remember the picture my mom took, and I cringe when I see it. Cringe.

I can’t believe she let me do that to my head! It was a NIGHTMARE!

It was probably really funny to her at the time, that’s why the pictures; after all, she could very well use those as bribery in my teens.

People. It was the mid-80’s. What was hot then?

A mullet.

Hockey hair.

Business upfront, party in the back.

Full. on. mullet. for this girl. I wasn’t messing around. Long and straight in the back, with short spikes on the top.

Oh, how I am so grateful I don’t have a picture to scan for you! *shakes head* What a mess.

So, without further ado.

Thursday Thirteen

A Tribute to the Mullet – The Celebrity Mullet

Michael Keaton

Steven Segal

Toby Keith

Brad Pitt

Billy Ray Cyrus

David Spade (Even though it’s fake, it’s classic!)

Jon Bon Jovi

Metallica

Heath Ledger – still pretty hot

Richie Sambora (from Bon Jovi)

Tommy Lee (so hot without the mullet)

Our favourite Uncle Jesse, John Stamos

Adam Sandler

And The King of the Mullet…

one for good measure…

Because no one can rock The Mullet like Dog the Bounty Hunter!

Dear Carter,

Two years ago my life changed forever. I knew having a  child was a HUGE commitment. I knew I would love you and protect you and cherish all our moments together.

I just didn’t know how much.

I couldn’t even fathom exactly what you have come to mean to me; I don’t think anyone really does until they hold their child for the first time. I hope one day you too will know the love of having children and watching them grow.

I didn’t think I would be this sad today. Birthdays, around our house, have become just another day. But this day is different.  This day signifies that you are no longer my little newborn baby, but an independent and headstrong toddler full of will and determination, already. You’ll always be mama’s little boy; but you’re not my baby anymore.

For today, you are two.

I had thought of a full long drawn out post  including photos and little excerpts of what your life has meant to me so far, but I’m finding it hard to gather the words without it sounding forced. I am unbelievably choked up about the fact that you’re now two. I wasn’t expecting this to hit me so hard today; I’m completely unprepared.[Maybe this is how Daddy feels about his looming 30th birthday!?]

Just know that Mama and Daddy (or Mike as you call him) love you ever so much and always will.

Love you SweetPea, and Happy Birthday!

Love, Mama

xox

:::

I never shared Carter’s birth story here before. It’s just never really come up in *conversation* before and I don’t tend to doddle on it that much since it was pretty hellish. But here it is, for those interested:

The day I was due to go into labour came and was nearly gone without even a twinge. I was bound and determined to have this baby! After months of stabbing nightmarish pain in my groin, it had come to the point where I could barely even dress myself without collapsing in tears. 

Saturday night: August 20, 2005, Mike and I went on a date to get my mind off the fact that I had yet to go into labour and that I was so miserable.  I opted for “Hell’s Kitchen” from East Side Mario’s… I was still trying anything to get this labour going, and I love hot foods, so why not. Up to this point, I tried teas, walking, sex, baths, everything. I remember asking the server to make sure it was extra hot. 

I stick to the thought that it seemed to have worked, because at 4:45am I woke up with pretty strong contractions about 8 minutes apart. At 12:15pm I couldn’t take the pain anymore on my own and we made our way to the hospital; but not without a stop at the bank first. I don’t know why, but I encouraged Mike to stop because we need! money for parking.

Who the hell takes the word of a crazy pregnant lady in labour anyways? *ppft*

By the time we arrived, my contractions were 4 minutes apart and lasting for what seemed like EVER! 

Once admitted and in triage I was 3cm at about 1pm, and 4cm by 2pm .. seemed to be going alright… I got my epidural with a spinal and after talking to the nurse, we were expecting this baby to arrive by 10pm.

By 4pm I started to feel contractions on my right side, intensifying every time. The anesthesiologist came back and pulled my spinal catheter out a little to see if that would fix it, but they only increased and intensified to the point where only my left thigh left frozen.  By 8pm I was having full on contractions; the anesetheologist was conveniently in surgery and would be able to come back for a couple hours. 

At this point, I took anything and everything I could to dull the pain: an entire can of nitrous oxide and whatever else they would feed me.  Left to labour from 4cm to 8cm with no (strong enough) medication I cursed those women who did this all on their own. Yes! You! I cursed you! Most of this time was a blur, except I do remember offering my nurse jube jubes.

The anesthesiologist arrived around 10:30pm to  attempt my epidural again; I was contemplating doing the last 2cm natural since I had come so far, but I needed sleep  so badly or there was no way I would of had the strength to push at all.  Shortly after the second epidural was administered, my contractions slowed; trying to restart my labour, I was then given Pitocin.  Then, 5am I was 10cm and ready to start pushing, but Carter had other plans, he was not wanting to come out.

His heart rate and my blood pressure increased  to the point where  a c-section was eminent; but I refused. After all that hard work, I didn’t want to go out like that, since I’ve never had major surgery, it freaked the shit out of me .

Finally, he arrived; a little bruised and not breathing since his cord was wrapped twice around his neck. One of the freakiest moments of my life when I heard the nurse yell “We need help!” since he was unresponsive.

But you’d never know that now!

 Carter – My Little Dude

August 22, 2005 @ 8:01am

9lbs, 6oz

Even though this is what he’s like most day, I love him to bits!