I have a tendency to burp and fart really loud – and often, so much so that I definitely put my husband to shame. He only wishes he had the same capacity for burping and farting like I do.

So do you. I know you’re jealous. It’s okay to be jealous, it’s good for you.

Except the only thing is – I am so used to being home alone with the kids, that sometimes I forget I am out in public. Like when I’m shopping at the local WalMart, perusing the kid’s aisle and I’ll let go an enormous burp.

Then I totally blame Mike, and if he’s not there I’m all “Carter you should say excuse me!”, accept now he’s getting old enough that he totally calls me out saying, “Mommy! That wasn’t me, that was YOU!”.

Yes, it has happened more than once.

Then all the moms grab their children, shield their ears and run from the area, shooting Howdareyoubesodigsutinginmypresence death rays from their eyes.

It seriously happens. Ask Karen. While at the Boston BlogHer Reach Out, we totally played hookie skipped out on sessions went to mall on our free time and while at the Yankee Candle store I let one go. If looks could kill that lady would have murdered me a thousand times over in that store.

If that weren’t bad enough I’ve gotten to the point where I’ll go our shopping – un-showered in my jogging pants and stained t-shirts. Jogging pants half tucked into my fake uggs.

Like Leighton Meester – but she totally rocks them better than me with her tu-tu / dress. (And no, I don’t believe this is her intentional outfit since she appears to be wearing her Gossip Girl costume clothes outfit whatthefuckever.)

Picture me, jogging pants tucked into fake uggs, oversized t-shirt, knitted hoodie cardigan, unshowered and unkempt shopping at WalMart.

I fit right in, right?

Add the belching in public and I am every child’s worst nightmare for a parent.

God, I can’t wait until they’re old enough and all my lack of effort will not be wasted on children that have little concept of fashion and embarrassing situations.

By then, I should totally have a tutu added to my wardrobe.

Tell me about your behavioural or fashion faux pas. Do you wear your pj’s to school drop off? Ever shop in your slippers? Pick your butt in the supermarket?

Fess up!

It’s not often anymore that I get the urge to organize / redecorate but when it hits, it’s with a vengeance. Like when I have the thought that I want something done I have to see immediate results or I obsess about it until it’s done; and it can’t be done in stages, it’s all or nothing.

You can imagine how happy this makes my husband.

I’ve been telling him for weeks now how we need more storage in the living room. I insisted on an Expedit shelf from Ikea and he was all “I’m not buying that fuckin’ garbage. I HATE IKEA! Blargh!”, and I was all, “Fuck you, I’m getting the shelf.”

So last night we headed out to Ikea to get my new shelf and baskets for the movies and kids’ toys. Mike was all, “What’s with you and fuckin’ baskets?”, and I was all, “Fuck you, I’m getting baskets.”

I loaded up the cart with six of those $24.99 grass baskets and Mike was all, “Fuckin’ baskets.”, and I was all, “Fuck you, I’m getting the baskets. So suckit.”

Yes, that’s how we talk to each other all the time. It’s fun.

As we loaded the stuff in the car, I checked his inability to stack boxes handy work at tying down the hatch of the car. I kindly mentioned, “That’s not gonna fuckin’ stay idiot. Those boxes are going to fuckin’ fall out all over the damn road.”, and he was all “Fuck off, it’s fine. Just shut up and get in the car.”

We began driving home. The first red light, wouldn’t you know 2 of the three boxes fell from the back into traffic. Thankfully there was no one close behind us that I could send Mike out into traffic to gather them while I bitched from my passenger seat we could gather the boxes to the side of the road.

I was all, “See, I fuckin’ told you. You never listen to me and see what happens.”, to which he replied, “Fuck off already. Jesus. Do you ever shut the hell up?” then I said, “Jesus is dead so I’m pretty sure he’s quiet.”

Edited to Add: And I mean Jesus is dead in his human-life form. Of course.

Then I got the look. You know the one? Where if you say one more word their head is going to impode? So I walked away and let him deal with his colossal fuck up mistake because no one wants that shit all over their car.

Now I have this shelf and about 250 DVD’s that need a new home and the baskets – yes, those fuckn’ baskets – aren’t cutting it.

The picture is not all that clear, but what I am showing you is stacked DVD’s crammed into a beautiful $24.99 basket which I pretty much fought for and it’s not working the way I want.

Not to mention – do you see Teh Awesomness that is in this collection? Cobra? Cliffhanger? Booty Call? Catwoman? Dude’s got issues.

My movies that can be seen here: Dazed and Confused, Benny and Joon, Chasing Amy, Empire Records…  good right? I rest my case.

Edited to add: Mike read the post and insisted I share with you the fact that he does own some rather excellent movies I just pointed out the shitty ones – which is true because how fun is it making fun of good stuff?

So. I have four baskets FULL to the tits with DVD’s and more that need a home.

I don’t want them just ‘out’ because I hate – with the passion of a thousand suns – the look of row upon row of DVD’s.

That’s just me. Fucked in the head and difficult.

So when Mike gets home I have to try and convince him that he should put all his movies into a CD book and store the cases in boxes in the basement. That is unless you, Oh Wise Internets, have another storage idea for me.

Because otherwise, I fear he may rip off my head and shit down my throat.

I wouldn’t put it past him. Have you seen the way he talks to me!?

Growing up I was a kid of many questions. I would bombard my parents with questions asking: why is the sky was blue? how do we get to space? why is that man there? what are they doing? How come!?

Before having children of my own, I thought I would love that stage where my children would ask questions and I would answer; we would have meaningful conversations about how astronauts get into space and why the grass is green. I would teach! and they would learn! and we’d be a happy little family. The End.

Unfortunately what I didn’t realize what the tenacity of a young child. The questions come on fast and furious with reckless abandon quite often at the most inopportune times.

Sitting in heavy traffic trying to get Carter to daycare before they begin his daily phonics,  attempting a left-hand turn across three lanes of traffic where the drivers rarely abide by the speed limits and he’ll hit me with a barrage of questions.

“Why is that man walking on the road?”

“How come that car is in front of us?”

“Where are we going, Mommy?”

“Is the light red? Why are you wating?”

“How come the man is still on the road?”

“Mommy?”

“Mommy?”

“Did you bring my monkey?”

It’s enough to make me want to just pull out in front of the next oncoming car.

Okay, that’s a little dramatic. I would never pull my car out in front of oncoming traffic because of an interrogation at 8:00 in the morning. If they ran out of coffee at every store in the city – yes. But questions? It’s highly unlikely.

I try my hardest to nicely answer each and every question even though I feel like turing around and yelling shutthehellupI’mtryingtodrive! Doyouwantmetocrashthisfuckincarrightnow!?

I smile at him in the rear-view mirror as I wait to negotiate the next available opening in traffic.

“He’s crossing the road honey.”

“Why?”

“So he can keep walking up the road to where he’s going?”

“Where’s he going?”

“Maybe to work, maybe the bus stop sweetie.”

“To work?”

“Yes Carter, to work.”

“There’s a bus stop there?”

“I guess so honey.”

“Why?”

“So the bus can stop and the man can get out.”

“Why?”

At this point I grit my teeth and try and ignore the questions as I see an opening coming.

“Are we turning yet?”

Sigh.

“Is the light red now?”

“How come you turned?”

“Where is the man, mommy?

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Why?”

Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?

OMFG, WHY!?

*******

We sat down to dinner last night and another full onslaught of questions began. I really can’t remember what he started asking, but I quickly turned the questions on him.

Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?

Evil parenting tactic, I know. But I don’t care, it was time to give the kid a taste of his own medicine.

Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?Why?

Eventually he got this pained look of constipation across his face as he glanced around the kitchen, and as I asked him another “Why” question he quickly pointed across the table.

“Look mommy!” he shrieked, “We have MILK!!”

Dammit.

Duped by a three year old.

This isn’t over kid.

This is not over.

There. I admit it.

I use the word retard in a derogatory way.

I still, to this day, use the word despite the outcry from people I love to stop.

It’s just something that I’ve said for years and I haven’t thought about the repercussions of what saying the R-Word means to many others.

“That’s so retarded.”

“You’re so retarded.”

“Fuck off, ya retard.”

“You’re such a retard.”

“Fuckin’ retard.”

These are all phrases that have escaped my mouth. Phrases that, as I type them, give me a feeling of embarrassment, humiliation and disgust.

Especially when I think about how they hurt.

I’ve used this term as a means to belittle and insult.

I’ve called someone a retard out of disgust, using the word with all intention of hurting their feelings.

Retard

v.tr.

To cause to move or proceed slowly; delay or impede.

v.intr.

To be delayed.

n.

1. A slowing down or hindering of progress; a delay.
2. Music. A slackening of tempo.

I could defend my actions by saying that I was referring to the other more politically correct meanings of the word.

But that would be lying.

Retard

n. Offensive Slang.

1. Used as a disparaging term for a mentally retarded person.
2. A person considered to be foolish or socially inept.

People can try and defend their usage of the word, but there is just no justification that can take back the agony, pain and anger that the use of the word retard causes those whom have a family member, a child or a friend who is mentally or physically challenged.

President Obama’s slip up is a prime example of how the word is used far too frequently that it can sneak its way into everyday speech. The thing is: once it’s said, it can’t be taken back.

Initially his comment didn’t even phase me. I didn’t even bat an eye because it was something I would say which made me even more aware of just how prevalent it is; more so, how wrong it really is.

Then I read this statement at Mrs. Chicken’s site:

Words are power. We use them carelessly. We throw “hate” and “love” and other weighty words into the air and sometimes, they hit an unintended target. Please, be mindful.

I know now how my behaviour has affected those around me and those I hold dear to my heart. I can’t negate the pain caused by my carelessness because it’s valid.

Apologizing for my actions carries little weight.

Actions speak louder than words.

It’s time I took responsibility.

I pledge to eradicate the R-word from my everyday speech.

We are all different, but we all deserve the same respect.

The toilet brush.

Yes. The toilet brush. It’s the most vile, disgusting and bacteria laden apparatus in the house.

Aside from the Husband.

Oh, come on, you knew I had to say something.

We have an ongoing argument here: To clean or not to clean.

I say between purchases, the holder and brush has to be cleaned once and a while.

Mike believes that since it harbours all the disgustingness of the toilet it should be left to fester.

So, dear Internetz, I turn to you.

The question(s): Clean or not to clean? And how often do you replace that disgusting festering vile object?

Let’s discuss! I’ll see you in the comments.

“They don’t follow me back or comment on my site, so I’m not going to follow them anymore. What’s the point?”

Do you even know how many times a day I see this written, somewhere?

The internet is not all about reciprocation. Though, I too have questioned what I would have to do in order to be worthy of a follow back on twitter or a comment on my blog, I don’t hold it against people. Honestly? What’s the point? People have different likes and dislikes – it’s a fact of life. I may enjoy their site but they may find me dull and uninspiring.

C’est la vie.

Throughout the twitter feeds there is chatter about how people are grooming out the people they follow by eliminating the ones that don’t: a) follow them back; b) don’t acknowledge their tweets; and / or c) don’t interact with them. Though it may be a completely innocent idea, bringing it up in a public forum seems quite passive aggressive to me since they are essentially saying: Well, if you don’t like me I don’t like you either. I’m taking my toys and going home. Why not just remove them from your  feed reader or your twitter feed and be done with it, why make a big deal of it?

It not a new concept; there are some people are comfortable just sticking with people they know, people they share a common interest with or have conversed with on a couple occasions.

Not everyone is concerned with the number of followers they have or the number of readers FeedBurner says they have – some are adept writers who have unknowingly attained a following of readers yet they are unwilling to reciprocate out of fear of the unknown. A few brilliant bloggers I’ve met are magnificent and open on screen but have a difficult time cultivating relationships by way of large events such as BlogHer or blogger meet-up simply because they worry about the dangers which may lurk when the protection of anonymity is removed. They stick to their smaller group of folks they know and are happy that way.

It’s a tad harsh to decide to stop reading a blog because someone doesn’t comment back on your site; to stop following a twitter feed because they haven’t replied to a tweet, isn’t it?

Just playing Devil’s Advocate, that’s all. This post isn’t directed at anyone specifically or brought on by any one situation.

Once again I’ve caught some bug going around. The only good thing about it is I slept for about 19 hours on Sunday while the kids the kids had free range of the house and their father slept on the couch Mike watched the kids.

Oh come on, I’m kidding! He wouldn’t let the baby free range while he slept.

Only Carter had free range while he slept WITH the baby.

Oy Vey.

Sinus pressure began building on Saturday and became unbearable to the point where I couldn’t lift my head. I tossed back some Sudafed after the baby’s last feeding and conked out like I’d been on a bender all week.

Bliss. Utter. Bliss.

Why is it that I feel completely unrested today? Don’t you hate when that happens?

:::

I’ve been busy behind the scenes working on a new writing gig which I was so kindly asked to be a part of by HBM and my girl katie ~ motherbumper. You know Silicon Valley Moms Blog? Well, they’ve developed another sister site, Canada Moms Blog after being coerced pursued relentlessly shamelessly begged asked ever so nicely to work in conjunction with HBM and motherbumper in this endeavour.

Along with about 30 other Canadian writers, Katie and Catherine have developed quite the roster of talent which I am grateful to be a part of. Please take a moment to pop by, read and comment especially on my articles so I don’t feel like a complete knob amongst the talented, m’kay? if you’re so inclined.

:::

I’m still waiting for my Jillian Michaels’ 30 day shred DVD to arrive since I signed up for the #shredheads but as I wait and read the posts and twitters of other participants I am becoming more fearful of the pain.

Because OMG the pain! I am scared. I don’t like pain.

Particularly self inflicted.

I am scared to hear Jillian yell at me and order me to keep going as I weep into my chest. I just pray that I sweat enough the tears are misconstrewed to be sweat dripping from my forehead.

It’s like I think she’s coming to my house and is going to personally boss me around. Duh.

Speaking of bitchy trainers.

Not that you’re a bitch Jillian, because you’re so not. *kiss kiss* OMG please don’t hurt me.

I haven’t touched my Wii Fit in four days. How much trouble is that ponytailed freak of a male trainer going to give me now?

When I finally realized that he had a small little ponytail I was immediately skeeved out and wanted to change to the female trainer.

Am I the only one skeeved out by men with weirdo ponytails that you would never know was there until they turned around?

Clearly those 19 hours were not enough to clear my mind.

Please pass the Sudafed!