[Just don't pay attention to the post since it was about my seventh post in the blogworld and sucks (more then these ones). M'Kay?]
Actually, dislike would be putting it mildly.
I fuckin’ hate that cat. HATE. HATE. HATE.
We’ve had a love-hate relationship from the day he came into my life – I think it’s progressed to a hate-hate over the past three years.
While in my second year of college I had a calico long haired kitten named Taija (tay – jah). She was the prefect cat: clean, comforting, happy and a pleasure to be around. When I moved into a new house of campus with some friends, it was an animal free home, but I kept her anyway. I just didn’t have it in my heart to give her away: since I’m one of those people who strongly believe that pets are not just throw aways when they become too much work or a hassle. My roommate obviously didn’t have the same feelings because she took my at to the shelter one day while I was at work.
That one that which happened to be my 19th birthday. Seriously. Pick a shitter day why don’t you?
Our relationship kinda went downhill from there and I ended up moving in with Mike a short while after.
Once in our new place, Mike gave me another cat as a Christmas gift – and though I don’t condone giving pets as gifts (because so many of those also end up in shelters once the novelty has worn off) – I was super excited.
I came home to find an empty box from a local pet store sitting on the stoop by the door.
I said hi, giving him a bit of a quizzical look: Mike looks up from his video game and states:
“Your present is in the bathroom behind the toilet.”
Nice.
(So he may not have much tact, but he has a big heart.)
A beautiful little grey, green-eyed tabby stared back at me from behind the tank. I slowly reached from him as I spoke softly and his haunches went up as he started to hiss.
And so our relationship was off to a fantastic start.
I one of those people who believe that a pet is for life. I have no intention of sending him packing, even though it has been suggested far too often by family and Mike. They seem to view animals as disposable when the going gets tough, and I just can’t bring myself to drop off an animal simply because he drives me up the wall.
From constantly throwing up wherever and whenever he sees fit to shitting and pissing on clothes and carpeting; he has to be one of the dirtiest animals I have ever seen. It’s pretty sad when I have to do a sweep of the house to search for any unwanted presents when we’re expecting guests. For a somewhat neat and obsessive person that I am, it makes me a fuckin‘ lunatic when I find these unwanted gifts. I go into this blind rage causing me to think of all the harmful and hateful things I could do to this animal: but it all fades in time and we’re back to just hating each other.
He’s been checked over by our vet yearly and, much to Mike’s chagrin, each time he’s been giving a clean bill of health. A very clean bill of health – like, we’ve been told to expect at least another 8 years of him.
He’s limited his defecation to clothes that are tossed haphazardly on the basement floor – and their usually an article of Mike’s which really pisses him off. Simple solution: pick up your clothes, right? Well, not Mike. He feels that since it’s his house he should have the right to toss his clothes as he sees fit and not have to be concerned about the fact that they may acquire a certain odour or pile of poop left for ME to clean up.
That’s right. Me. I clean it up.
Otherwise the offending article will end up in the hamper with shit still clung to it.
Seriously.
[Sometimes I wonder: who's dirtier? The cat or the man?]
And! Everything just gets weirder when I’m pregnant.
Since I’ve been off work both the dog and cat have been clinging to me. Stalking me.
The dog just sits and stares at me. Stares constantly. Wants nothing, just stares.
And the cat? I wake in the middle of the night and he’s there, right beside me in bed, he follows me to the bathroom constantly under foot which makes me question his motives: is he just trying to be close to me, or trying to trip me since I’m in a blurry state of sleep and can’t see me feet?
I thin he’s trying to do me in while walking down the stairs, by weaving in and out around my feet.
Smug little bastard. REMEMBER WHO PROVIDES YOUR FOOD, HOUSING AND LITTER YOU LITTLE SHIT.
The tripping and weaving has turned into some kinda sick game leading me to the point where I have to actually kick him down the stairs prior to me trying to take a step. Now before you call the SPCA note that there are 5 steps – not a full flight – and he’s fat, so he’s well padded. He can take it.
Plus it gives me what little satisfaction I can get out of seeing him flop ass over tea kettle down those stairs until he reaches the bottom.
Glaring at me when he reaches the bottom of the stairs, I can just tell he’s plotting where to leave the next shit-filled gift of love.
It wasn’t planned nor intended, but man it felt great! Taking a week off from the computer – Yes! computer, not just blogging – was a Godsend. I have doe so much around the house and even more shopping to complete things in need of completing prior to The Baby’s arrival: mind you there is a boat load of more things to be completed, but I’m far better off then I was a week ago.
Nesting instincts have begun to rear their (ugly) head. It’s really a catch 22 because I am supposed to be off work early to be resting but instead I’ve been like a little worker bee and running my hinney off for 5 straight days. I’m exhausted. But I figure the more I get done more, the more I can rest after – before baby, of course.
I almost feel as though I should be doing stuff rather then sitting around relaxing all day with Carter still in daycare and Mike working. With today being the first day I haven’t filled with tasks taking me out of the house, I’ve watched about 20 minutes of television (since daytime TV bites The Big One) and this chair at my desktop is already killing my lady bits. (I HAVE to get a wireless router soon – since work let me keep my laptop while I’m off! *wOOt* Then I can blog and design from just about anywhere – like my backyard!) I don’t know what I’m going to do with myself aside from reading all the great books that have been suggested and blogging.
I just feel guilty and bored.
Already.
I’ve only been off work for four days.
Nothing really new here – baby’s not early and I’ve just been ‘playing’ the dutiful housewife for the past couple days. But! I will be blogging more regularly, promise!
Three days of work remaining. Wednesday is my final day. I’ve packed up all my reference material and personal items from my desk. I’ve cleaned out my files and designated others to care for certain aspects of my work.
Three days left, then one full year of being home with my children.
(OMG. I have more then one. )
Entering the world of you wonderful and strong stay-at-home-moms.
I fear I won’t measure up.
Adjusting to having one child wasn’t that hard (okay, minus the lack to sleep, nursing and being at the beckon call of a small little life sucker).
I was really happy being the parent of one child, but the clock started ticking and the thought of siblings and space and the need to procreate again soon! took over. I gave in. I’ve been skeptical of this second child for a while now. I’m sure many parents go through the same thing: wondering if you’ll love the second as much as the first, how things will change and so on.
And I think I may forget just how hard it is with a infant sometimes.
I am considerably more leery about maternity leave this time as there are two children involved which means opposing nap times, feeding schedules and a toddler who will, undoubtedly, vie for my undying attention.
Who am I kidding? I’m pretty much freaked the fuck out.
I am worried about trying to leave my house with two children in tow. Alone.
I worry about being so tired that I ignore Carter and leave him in front of the television for too long.
I’m scared crapless of a child that will be up crying all night only to settle down at the break of dawn – while the other child wakes for the day. (Stop twittering about it! You’re freaking me out!!)
I am worried about giving Carter enough attention while I recover from child birth and how he’s going to react to a new baby in the house. (He’s only had one opportunity to be around an infant and he had no desire to interact at all. He looked at it and walked away, no reaction whatsoever. Maybe that’s a good thing? Only time will tell I suppose. )
Friday night we went for dinner and took Carter to the park and for ice cream. That kid is a ball of energy: running back and forth from play item to the next. While I waddled behind trying to keep up, I worried more and more about how I’m going to get him out to a playdate, the park or splash pad with an infant. I can’t very well leave the other child to sit in a car seat while I chase Carter all over the map. Slinging might work but would be extremely tiring and hot during the summer months.
I may have to turn my backyard into his very own Neverland Ranch (minus the perv child molester of course).
This is why I am fighting Mike so hard for Carter to remain in daycare part time. I just worry so much that I won’t be the interactive and fun! parent that he needs while I get used to being a parent of two children.
I constantly jump back and forth between “I can totally do this, two can’t be that much harder then one.” and, “OMG. Two children. What the hell were we thinking?! I can’t do this!”
My paternal (step)grandmother (my father’s biological mother died when he was 5 years old) was a kindergarten teacher for years. Whenever we would visit them, she would have all these great ideas of things we could do to pass the time – arts and crafts, garage sales, games, etc. We had so much fun when we were little.
I remember that she’s always had fun knitted sweaters – you know the ones – Christmas themed with trees, snow, Santa – the works. I think she had them for just about every season, even ones that we’re seasonal but dawned puppies and landscapes. Very much a teacher sweater.
That’s not my headless grandmother
She loved those sweaters: I think she may still have a closet full.
I think they’re hideous, horrible, and tacky!
Christmas of 1996, I was 15. We were at my grandparents house for the Christmas holidays and just finished up dinner. We were gathering in the living room, as we did every year, to open presents. Everyone was commenting on my grandma’s sweater because it was – you guessed it! – a flashy, hideous Christmas sweater.
At 15, I was less then eager to open gifts with family. I wanted to hide in the basement and watch MuchMusic (Yankees read: MTV); I wanted to be away from the adults, but had to endure the oooohhhs! and awwwwwwes! of all the gift giving.
My turn.
From Grandma and Grandpa.
I rip off the paper and see the box.
I could see a smile creep across my grandma’s face as I peered at the box.
Tabi International.
Tabi is one of those stores who sell those God awful sweaters.
I hold my breath.
I can feel my heart racing and my insides tossing and turning as I pull out this monstrosity of a sweater.
Red, with black trim. White snowflakes scatter all over.
Big. Black. Scottie. Dog.
Dead centre. Like a bullseye.
Underneath it is a white collared dress shirt.
I held the sweater up high in front of my face, blocking my grandmother’s view so she wasn’t able to see the absolute horror on my face which I tried valiantly to conceal.
I think I may have even barfed in my mouth a little.
Upon arriving home, I shoved that box far into the deep, dark depths of the dust bunny world under my bed.
Never to be seen by another human being. Ever. Again.
******
Sure, sure… it’s the thought that counts. But not today! Tell us about the Good, the Bad and the downright Hideous in today’s PBN Blog Blast – “Gifts Gone Right, Gifts Gone Wrong†– sponsored by GetinHerHead.com. You could win a $250 gift certificate to your favorite spa – where you can remember the good gifts fondly (and forget about the bad ones) while you’re being pampered!
My maternal grandparents arrived in Canada from Hungry, but not together. My grandpa arrived in Canada when he was 12 years old, my grandma a short while after. They did not know each other prior to moving here.
The story I’ve been told, of their first meeting, sounds as though it derived from a movie script.
Young man meets a lady friend and falls head over heels.
Young man persues young lady incessantly.
Young lady refuses every offer until she is overwhelmed by the constant bombardment of flowers, visits and promises of a beautiful future.
Young lady agrees to a date.
A date that quickly turns into a 44 year marriage.
Head over heels in love.
Growing up, we were very close to my maternal grandparents – both geographically and physically. I love those people like no other.
There’s just something about Hungarian heritage. It’s so passionate. Passionate for just about anything from love and marriage to their pets and vegetable gardens.
God, I remember how much my grandpa loved his vegetable garden. He would be out there for hours weeding, watering and shooing away the neighbourhood cat, as he cursed it in Hungarian, for using it as a litter box.
His cat, Chester, was his best friend. Every evening Chester and Grandpa would sit in the basement watching television. Chester on his lap purring loudly as my grandpa stuffed chewing tobacco into the centre of a rolled up stick of Juicy Fruit gum. They were a pair.
While they sat in the basement the women – being my mom, aunts and grandma – would sit in the kitchen drinking cup after cup of coffee, talking about everything adult while my brother and I would watch TV in the den, and fight.
I remember my poor old grandma racing around the corner to break up a fight: yelling to get our attention. I don’t think we’ve ever concluded a fight so fast. There’s something about getting in trouble from a grandparent that’s almost sacrilegious.
Sometimes one of us would be sent downstairs to sit with grandpa. Which I always loved.
I would sit beside him, watching intently as he continued rolling the stick of Juicy Fruit delicately around the chewing tobacco. I would ask question after question about what he was doing, why he was doing it, what did it taste like… you know, kid questions.
It was always a treat when grandpa would share his Juicy Fruit, and to this day, I can’t eat it without thinking of him.
I miss those days.
My grandpa passed away 11 days before his 72 birthday in 1998. I had just turned 17. Stomach cancer had finally taken it’s toll – taking my beloved grandpa from us too early.
My family hasn’t been the same since his death.
He was the glue that held us all together. He was the family rock. The stability we all needed.
Now that’s gone.
And so is that part of my family.
Since his death a lot of heartache was doled out between my mother and her sisters. Accusations flew, hatred and evil words were spewed – words that can never be taken back. My beloved grandma stuck in the middle – not strong enough to make them work it out.
Not like Grandpa.
He’s not here to sit his girls down and make them work it out.
He always said: “Family is the most important thing in our lives.”
Too bad that didn’t hold true after he left.
Before he passed, Grandpa asked that Grandma keep her independence. He didn’t want her to move in with any of the girls, but to remain happy and on her own.
After much coaxing, Grandma moved in with her eldest daughter two years after his passing.
That was eight years ago.
I have seen my wonderful, loving and passionate Grandma three times since then.
Three times.
(There are many reasons why it’s only been three times.)
She’s met her great-grandson, Carter, two of those times.
She doesn’t even know we’re expecting another.
I am so torn about the whole situation.
I miss my grandmother immensely.
We, my grandma and I, are caught in the middle.
But there is so much tension and so many hard feelings involved.
Tension and hard feelings that are not mine, nor hers.
How do we move past their squabbling and guilt ridden comments to have a relationship again? (Rhetorically of course.)
I’ve been nothing but a bump on a log for the past, oh, 8 months, but I found renewed energy last night *wOOt* giving me the strength to actually achieve something worth bragging talking about. And it’s not about sex you pervs. Git yer minds outta the gutter.
Moving on.
I did some home improvement work last night! (Well, let’s just hope it’s an improvement, shall we?)
HOLLA bitches!
Ya, I’m that excited about it.
After dinner, I grabbed my tape measure, level and pencil, headed upstairs while the boys were occupied with DVR’d episodes of Lilo n’ Stitch and began to finally tape Carter old-new-again room for striping. I’ve been delaying it for what seems like weeks because I just wanted to make sure the paint was really dry before applying tape to it. *ahem*
You believe me, don’t you?
*crickets*
I’m not much of a handy person around the house. I never really have been since I’ve rented for so many years. I spent most of my adult life thinking: What’s the point, we’re moving soon anyway and I’ll just have to change it back. That’s what renting does to a person.
Makes ya lazy.
Yup, I blame it on the rent.
But now? I have a world of opportunity to do whatever I see fit – a clean slate if you must. A house I can paint the walls black in if I so desire, even though I really don’t – dammit I can if I want to!
We’ve been here for three years this coming June and I (read: made Mike) paint one room, paint this old-new-room for Carter and now *I* have helped with repainting it…. that’s all I’ve we’ve done. There is so much that I want (Mike) to do and I’ve (we’ve) avoided it all. I’m perpetually stuck in this “I’m renting” attitude and can’t seem to break free.
So, what was I talking about? Oh, yes. I’m not that handy around the house because of renting for so many years.
(Just because Mike asks me to pass him a Phillips screwdriver and I just stare at him blankly until he says, “The star one” doesn’t make me useless.)
Me, my tape, level and pencil stood in the centre of the old-but-new-to-Carter room.
Frozen.
What the hell was I thinking? I’m no fuckin’ Martha Stewart. Can I really do this? Can I really layout the walls with pencil lines in hopes of making beautiful sheen stripes that will make people oohhhh and awwwww rather then recoil in horror? I mean, what if I paint a stripe that wasn’t meant to be painted? The whole entire project would be ruined!
The pressure!
I stared at the wall.
It stared back. (Well, kinda. You know what I mean.)
Then I shrugged and thought: Fuck it. This is gonna get done. I bought the paint, I have the tape. I just have to dive in and do it.
I began drawing lines, taping, moving around the room: swift, confident, all-knowing. I’ll put that Martha bitch to shame with my mad skillz, yo.
Then ran out of tape.
But! I did take pictures of what I had finished. You know, proof that I can do something that requires a little skill.
Then I left them at home, on the card, in the camera.
I’m still sleep deprived and I think I may have a Perrier hangover from our Saturday night Toronto Bloggers get together. There were so many fantastic people that showed up, great conversation and lots of laughs. Though, I was totally nervous ALL NIGHT – as I suspected I may be: I would have done so much better had I been able to have a couple beers to calm myself. C’est la vie I suppose.
I was so behind just getting downtown (thanks to actually listening to Mike tell me that it will be quick on a Saturday evening) and traffic was a nightmare! I swear every eldery person in the entire city was out on the road, driving exactly the speed limit or just under: staggered throughout all three lanes, I was that jackass weaving and dodging through traffic trying to get through the mess of blue haired old people just barely peering over the steering wheels.
Even though I am a safe driver, I am completely impatient. I can’t stand the people that sit in the fast lane and piddle along like they’re out for a country drive. I hate when people don’t use their turning signals and make blind and unsafe lane changes. And! Those people that assume because they put on their signal, they have the right to just move over even if there is a car BESIDE them!
If it were legal and I wouldn’t get hurt this would soooo be me: (Just a note: Not Safe for Work, Children or those whom cannot handle a lot of profanity.)
I finally swerved my way through the sea of blue grannies and grampies only to arrive at the WRONG building. I forgot that there were TWO Manulife buildings in downtown Toronto and of course, I went to the OTHER one. Though, once I pulled up to the ‘T’ in the road, where I was facing head on with the OTHER building I then realized “Hey that building does not have 51 floors, and I’m on the East side, not the West side. Shit!” I then called Ali (who I am now COMPLETELY head over heels for! LOVE that girl!) who was patiently waiting for me at the OTHER building – the PROPER building, to tell her I was a little behind.
I think she thought I was a complete moron!
I was all prepared with two cameras, in case the batteries died in one – you know I took two photos all night? TWO. And they didn’t even turn out that great. I am such a disappointment.
As for the other ladies I was dying to meet? They’re all perfect and wonderfully friendly.
I really can’t wait for our Blog Friend’s Fest in Niagara Falls this summer, though I will have a brand spankin’ new baby in tow (whom I will let you sniff), I promise to be more my normal outgoing and horribly childish self. (And you don’t have to be Canadian to come, so PLEASE – if you’re not scheduled to be in San Fransisco that weekend, COME TO NIAGARA!!)
When I started my newly revised revision of 100 Things About Me I began with Things That Scare Me. Sure all those things are legit, they really do scare me.
But there’s one I didn’t add.
Meeting new people.
I loathe meeting new people. I worry about everything from the first impression when I walk in the room to trying to make small talk. What if it feels like we’ve known each other forever… but then it’s totally uncomfortable when we first meet and we have nothing to talk about. What about if they already know other people and I just end up sitting there? Alone. With no one to talk to.
Gah!
This fear has paralyzed me from attending previous blogger meet ups, meeting other people I’ve met through message boards and I HATE when I buy something from a classified or get something from free cycle and have to go pick it up.
Ali and I have devised a pre-gathering plan to help us both over come our fears of walking into the room of people we’ve never met.
Did I mention that even though we talk A LOT, Ali and I have never met in person either?
So scared.
What if I forget what blog you write? What if I don’t read it? OMG. What if they HATE my blog!?
How are you with meeting new people? I’m sure many people are nervous their first meeting, be it a blind date, meeting an on-line friend or ever BlogHer events… how on EARTH do you do this without showing up completely frazzled, sweating profusely and cursing yourself for not wearing the other shirt that would hide your nervous pit sweat?
OMG.
Pit sweat.
I didn’t even think of that.
Can I blame it on the pregnancy hormones?
I think I’m sweating already.
I’ll be the huge pregnant lady, clutching her purse and hiding out by the bar – drinking water of course.
