I was twelve years old when Aunt Flow arrived on her maiden voyage. Later that evening,  I was attending a sleep over party in celebration of the commencement of summer vacation and I was absolutely terrified and completely unsure how to handle the situation. I was so panicked that something awful was going to happen, like I was going to wake up the next day looking like Carrie after the bucket of pig blood was poured over her.

While I waited for my mom to return home from work, I paced the hall, wondering how I was going to make it through the party. The idea of staying home was out because what 12 year old wants to miss a chance to sleep over at a friends?

When my mom finally returned home from work I approached her with caution. I was so uncomfortable with announcing to her that I thought I had gotten my period, and so mortified that I just spewed out: ‘Mom! Something’s wrong with me! I’m bleeding, DOWN. THERE.” The poor lady hadn’t even had a chance to get herself situated as I bombarded her at the door.

She said nothing, but the blank look on her face said it all: I was dying!  My heart began to race as I pondered the thought of dying right. there.

(Now that I think back, I’m pretty sure she was mentally trying to understand what. the fuck. just happened. Also? I think she was trying to remember how old I was and? THE. FUCK!?)

As she removed her coat and slowly hung it up, I waited patiently for her to say something – ANYTHING – and as she processed what just went down she turned to me and said, “Well, I guess you got your period.”

I felt the heat rise in my cheeks. Oh. My. God. My period!

She quietly walked towards the washroom and came back with a handful of huge! pink wrappers, “Here ya go!” she said as she handed them off like some sort of relay race as she headed to the kitchen.

I was so unbelievably happy to avoid any special mother-daughter bonding time over vaginal bleeding that I ran to my room as soon as those bulky over-sized crotch pillows hit my sweaty palms.

The sleep over party with off without a hitch even though I couldn’t keep my transformation to womanhood a secret from the girls. I was so embarrassed, but I had to weigh the options: keep quiet or face the possibility of waking up in a hail of blood spatter. There would have definitely been some hefty explaining to do.

Over the following summer months I was able to handle the other two visits from Aunt Flow rather easily. I was home everyday, so if something happened, I just shoved one of those gigantic pink crotch pillows between my knees thighs and try to walk properly.

Summer passed, and with the first day of grade six came a new challenge: being away from home all day, everyday. I remember the first day of school well; with all my new books and clean lined papers went a stack of humongous pink fluffy packages. Just in case.

The first couple weeks went by and everything was fine, but somewhere along the way I had removed those sanitary items to make way for something or other. Then It Happened.

I was sitting at my desk during Creative Writing, and suddenly, The Gush.

I thought I was dying. This is it! I’m dying! Right in the middle of 6th grade Creative Writing, I am going to keel over and kick the bucket!

I tightly squeezed my thighs together until they began to tingle from lack of circulation. I moved a little trying to cross my legs for a tighter seal.

Another gush.

Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God. Someone help me! I silently screamed. I better be dying! Please, just let me die!

I raised my hand as I sat awkwardly at my desk, leaning to one side with my legs woven into each other. I had to get out of there. Had to.

My teacher excused me to the washroom where I tried valiantly to wad the perfect imitation sanitary napkin out of the thinnest, roughest toilet paper known to man. With each yank on the toilet paper roll,  I cursed myself for taking those pads from my backpack.

I finished my handy work and tightly packed everything back into my forest green stretch leggings. I positioned my long white Blue Jays World Series sweatshirt just so – enough to make sure my butt was covered, then headed to the door. As I walked out the door, I was certain EVERYONE knew I had gotten my period.

Then. Again.

GUSH. GUSH. GUSH.

Oh. my. God!

I couldn’t contain the tears any longer and along with The Gushing came huge fat crocodile tears flowing freely and puddling on my sweatshirt.

I had to go home. I couldn’t bear to spend the rest of the day at school. There was no way I would make it through the day without being soaked head-to-toe.

Instead of returning to class, I went straight to the Principal’s office, tugging my sweater down as far as it would go.

I’m sick. I have to go home. I wailed to the secretary. I’m going to be sick everywhere!

Fearing she would be the recipient of a putrid pile of vomit to clean up, she shoved her waste basket in my hand and rushed me to the nearest chair. As soon as I was seated she wheeled around her heels and called my mother.

The only thought that filled my mind while I sat there was, am I going to leave a big bright red stain on this chair?

Eventually my mom came to get me and as she ushered me back to my class to gather my belongings, I glanced back to inspect the seat cushion for any evidence. Fro what I could see, there was nothing, but who knows what that secretary came across as she went back to collect her waste basket.

At home, I quickly changed into my comfy clothes, shoved a humongous Kotex between my knees thighs and laid on the couch, writhing in artificial pain. I spent the day watching game shows and soap operas while I nursed a fake illness only to head back to school the next day.

I swear to you, there were enough pads in my backpack from then on to accommodate my entire sixth grade class, should we all spontaneously bleed from our nether regions at the very same time.

:::

Today’s post – The Over Achiever Challenge: Your most embarrassing story, is part of a new writing initiative, {W}rite-of-Passage and is the brain child of The Mrs. Flinger . {W}rite-of-Passage is a new network of wonderfully talented bloggers who are trying to get back to the basics.

If you’re interested in reading the works of the other members,  please feel free to peruse the Mr. Linky which will be added to end of each post that is part of the {W}rite-of-Passage challenges. If you’re interested in becoming a member, click on one of the links provided above (hopefully that does the trick, otherwise, let me know in the comments and I’ll be sure to help figure it out.)

The two organizations have been on opposing sides for ages regarding euthanasia. The Toronto Humane Society typically takes a rehabilitation approach, while the OSPCA is not opposed to euthanasia for any reason, and use it at their discretion.

For those that are unaware: the OSPCA is the governing body over Ontario animal welfare organizations.

Let me paint a little picture for you:

A dog is in the backyard of its home, a fully fenced lot where two young children are playing on the other side of the fence. They are taunting the dog; poking it with sticks through the chain link, barking at it, running back and forth, yelling, and throwing a ball at the fence.

With a toss, the ball is launched over the fence and one child begins to climb that fence to retrieve said ball. The dog, now aggressively chases that ball which was used to taunt him only minutes ago. It lunges for the ball, at the same time as the child, and latches on to his arm instead of the ball.

No one was there to see the incident or the behaviour that led up to the child jumping over the fence.

The dog is now aggressive and deemed a danger to society.

It happens all the time, people.

But! because of the different outlooks these two organizations have regarding the issue of euthanasia, the dog now faces two completely different fates – depending on which one he is surrendered too.

keep reading…

I went to bed an hour ago, the days events playing in my mind. The fifteen minutes I wish I could rewind and do-over. The wave of nausea flows over me again and I bolt from bed. I fumble for my glasses as I head to my laptop. My heart races.

Here I sit.

There’s nothing that can be undone.

For years I was able to protect myself from this day. For years I was able to think ahead and proceed with caution; but not today. Today I was fumbling with many emails and as I wrote it, it was just another one. But it really wasn’t. I sent it anyway, and before I realized the damaged that had been done, it was too late.

I had emailed two co-workers the keys to my online life. I had placed, in their hands, all the power to find me EVERYWHERE I am online.

My email signature.

That signature carries the pseudonym which unlocks all of Google cache. It unlocks all the social media and written works I have tried valiantly to keep from being synonymous with my real name. It’s not you, dear readers, that have kept me from using my full name on this site, but it is my colleagues, my peers, and Dr. Google. The people I really don’t want knowing some things about my life. The people whom I face on a daily basis and am not comfortable with knowing about my martial woes or the time I was shot in the chest with shit.

So I did what I thought was best at the time. I email them, again – this time NO SIGNATURE.

I emailed them and mentioned that I realized now there was a signature attached to the last email and that I had been very careful for many years to keep my two worlds from colliding and I fucked up (yes, I said fuck). I told them how important it was to me to keep this quiet and thanked them for understanding.

Then I blocked the entire office IP from my site and locked my twitter.

There was no response regarding any of this incident from either of them. I don’t know if they’ve read between the lines to see that I will SERIOUSLY CUT A BITCH if this gets out any further.

I am a mess about this. It’s hard for me to explain exactly why I am so torn. I am not ashamed about this life I lead online. I am not embarrassed by it, per say. I mean, some engineers and contractors I work with may find it a little childish and hokey. That I can, over time begin to deal with, but my trouble is, as one of the very few females in my industry it’s hard enough to be taken seriously. I feel having my life out there, and them knowing that it’s out there, leaves me in a more precarious position; I feel it will be used against me. I could be wrong, but I dread the idea of showing up at work and having people look at me like they know something but don’t say anything.

That’s what’s going to happen to me now. Every. damn. day. until I am able to just let it go and accept that if they’re relentless enough to keep trying, and unless I keep blocking IP after IP, there will be at least two people who will know a lot more about me than I’d truly like.

Only one time before this has it even come close. I emailed from home using my normal mail account (temptingmama) which I had installed a gmail manager type add-on to. That gave me the power to respond to different email addresses from one account. Little did I know it placed a small blurb saying the email was sent from the temptingmama account ON BEHALF of the other account. Tell me: THE FUCK!?

Stupidest thing ever.

ANY-WAY.

temptingmama is STILL a running joke around the office to this day thanks to one person in our office who received that email.

Did I mention the recipient of that email WAS ONE OF THE PEOPLE I SENT THIS LATEST COLOSSAL FUCK UP TO? Yeah.

Fuck me.

Can I just say, I AM TERRIFIED TO GO TO WORK TOMORROW.

I AM SCREAMING, YES. DEAL WITH IT. THIS IS A DIFFICULT TIME FOR ME.

*breathe*

*breathe*

*WOOOOOOSHAAAAAAWWW*

Dreading work tomorrow, people. Dread.

Fuck me. 11 o’clock already.

***

Dear, Stupid Technology.

You’re a douche.

Love, Me

***

Gah!

Please make me feel better. Tell me about the time you were outed. Puh-lease?

And, I’ll have to read them when I get home since I’ve completely blocked the entire west end of Toronto from accessing my site.

Fuck.

I’ve been delaying sharing what we’ve completed hoping that it would be done, but that doesn’t seem to be happening. There’s odds and ends that still need to be done, oh! and money! Money helps.

I have this issue with sharing my projects that are unfinished. I don’t know what it is, or why, but it is what it is.  So, if you could be so inclined to break down this psychological weirdness for me, I’d be forever grateful.

Until then, I am sweating and nervous to show you my kitchen, mid-transformation.

If you haven’t seen what it looked like when we moved in, here it is!

First of all, the lights. They’ve been changed out. Simple and inexpensive alternative to Teh Shit.

No more ceiling fan 6 inches from the cupboard!!

Now? Now I have sexy stainless steel a la KitchenAid.

No more broken-down-piece-of-ghetto-trash oven.

If you have a range when resembles the unit which was left here? My condolences.

The fridge looks freakin’ ginormous compared to the dinky cupboards, but trust me when I say: it’s normal. It opens to its entirety, which is more than I can say for the original fridge. Its door would hit that countertop protruding at the bottom right of this picture leaving it to only open half way. It was impossible and stupid, also boggles my mind how someone could live with that for ten years or more, which the previous owner did.

For those interested: my range, microwave, dishwasher, and fridge.

(And no, this is not a sponsored post for KitchenAid. I just love them and I’m really happy with them. BUT! If they wanted to send me small appliances in red I would not object. Just so you know.)

The lower wall area will be covered with tile backsplash; around the doorway still requires paint (which I’m doing today). I am still trying to convince Mike that we need penny round mosaic tiles. He’s concerned that if we do complete a full renovation in five years that we’ve wasted our money. But! I think it’s a way to make this space livable and beautiful for the time being and maybe even prolong the complete gut we’re saving for. And really? What a couple hundred dollars if it makes me happy.

Happy Wife, Happy Life! (That’s what I like to remind him on a regular basis. Very. Regular.

penny round tiles used in a bathroom

There’s tiling, baseboards, (hopefully) new linoleum, and finishing touches yet to be completed (like new blinds that are not metal mini blinds).

But the linoleum… oh, the linoleum.

It’s disgusting. It’s faded. It’s stained. It’s damaged.

The spot closest to the kitchen sink is so discoloured I can’t even scrub it clean. Trust me. I’ve tried. Hate.

But once again, Mike and I are wondering if this part could (should) wait. Though, five years does seem like a horribly long time to live with this shite.

I (just right now) priced it out and found that for less than $500 we can put down new sticky groutable tiles which give the illusion of tile. So yay! for new tiles!

Home Depot: Groutable Natural Concrete

Painting was a whole other demon. The thick and OLD wallpaper glue was a nightmare. After fighting for what seemed like FOREVER; washing and re-washing, sanding and re-sanding, we were finally able to remove the glue and get the paint to adhere to the wall without peeling off with each roll.

Paint colour: Cumberland Fog by Behr.

P.S. As of Sunday (yesterday) the high chair is gone. I can’t freakin’ believe it! He’s out of a high chair already!

Ahem.

This is where you come in, my dear reader(s?). I need help with artwork for the above wall.

I have these prints. I’ve been considering the red one to bring a bit of pop and colour to the space even though I am completely in love with the sage green one.

But, because of the awkward placement of the outlet I think I’ll have to break up the art a little and add some more items.

I need your ideas. I need your style and know-how to make this space work. I want to add a couple pieces that don’t necessarily match, but compliment each other and bring it all together.

So, if your so inclined, please fill my comments with suggestions: Etsy stores, your art, friends art, general ideas, prints from anywhere. I’m open!

I’m hoping my next update will be our main bath which is currently underway, and it damn well better include a conclusion to this kitchen. I am more than ready to have something DONE!

Eighteen months almost nineteen, but really? Who’s counting? I can’t believe how fast time has flown.

I can’t believe where’s out of the infant stage and heading full force into toddlerhood.

We’re past walking and moving into learning to walk backwards and running.

Shopping has become quite a chore. Just this past Sunday we attempted a trip to Wal*Mart where Hudson would run with reckless abandon throughout the aisle as he attempted to exert his independence. As he ran, taking in his surroundings,  Carter would become distracted by Teh Shiny; had Mike not been there, one would have been lost for sure.

I tried valiantly to keep him in the shopping cart, but Hudson is so determined to do whatever his big brother is doing.  The high chair has long been replaced with a booster at the table, the stroller is no more, the baby toys have been abandoned for the Hot Wheels and ‘boy’ toys; being carried is strictly reserved for when he’s tired.

I’ve tried so hard to hold to his infancy. We’re undetermined as to what our future holds in terms of more children and I fear that I will look back and realize there’s so much that I’ve missed because we thought there may be more babies to soak in. The smell, the cuddles, the firsts.

I can’t imagine that at 28 years old, I am done having children.

I can’t imagine myself without a daughter.

I can’t imagine that this chapter of child bearing is closed.

Then I see what we’ve accomplished so far, the beautiful children we have, my baby that really is no longer that much of a baby – I feel fulfilled. I feel happy. Complete.

But I’m waiver constantly about the complete part. We’ve never made mention of our family being complete, I think we both relish the idea of a daughter, or at least one child in our family.

Instead of worrying about age gaps and when (if) we’re going to start trying for another, I am trying my damnedest to enjoy where we are right now.

While my baby is still somewhat my baby.

There aren’t a lot of people in this world who laugh at my crude sense of humour. Because, really? I am a twelve year old boy trapped in an aging saggy woman body.

When I first met her in person, Anissa was sitting in the lobby of the Sheraton Hotel in Chicago during this past BlogHer. As I walked past the lobby on the way to the elevators, I heard her cry out, “Hey! Bitches!” to which I, of course responded to, because honestly? HELLO!

As I turned towards the person calling out some derogatory reference my name I saw Anissa waving manically.

She was so pleased with my response that she began yelling to anyone who would listen, “Hey! She turned around! She’s turned around!”

For all I know, she could have meant it literally. I mean, it’s not like that would have been the first time. But I took it as endearing: that’s what us bitches do.

A huge grin crossed her face as she shoved her gigantic boobs in my face hugged me fiercely, and it was then I was completely sold on all that is Anissa.

photo taken by Shash and stolen borrowed from Anissa’s facebook.

Still, to this day, I love her like a sister. There aren’t many people that can make me laugh the way she does.

Why am I blowing smoke up Anissa’s ass telling you all about Anissa?

Because yesterday afternoon news traveled through twitter like a tsunami that Anissa was in the ICU after suffering a stroke. At the rip old age young vibrant age of 36, Anissa has suffered a second stroke (you can read about her first one here).

But not only has she been dealing with her own health issues, the Mayhew family just celebrated a huge milestone for the youngest in their clan. Peyton has been one year cancer-free!  (Peyton’s story can be found at Anissa’s first blog Hope4Peyton.) For once in a long while everyone was healthy and doing well. Now this.

Right now, there is a P.O.  box being set up for those of us far away to help out.

**UPDATE**

The P.O. box address is:

The Mayhew Family
860 Johnson Ferry Road 140-184
Atlanta, GA 30342

By sending gift cards for food, gas and other necessities we can try to help alleviate the burden on their family of five. By sending funds we can help diminish the financial burden, because at this point? There is little news about what the future holds for the Mayhews.

For more information, please visit Aiming Low where they are trying valiantly to provide up-to-date information on Anissa’s condition and what we can do to help.

If you write a post for Anissa, please take a moment to add it to the Mr. Linky provided at Heather’s site, Izzy’s site, as well as at Aiming Low.

If you have questions, please email

Please note: the family has asked for privacy at this time. Please respect the Mayhew family’s privacy by NOT calling the hospital. The outpouring of love is amazing, but we need to remember that there is a family who needs their space.

Most of all: Please pray that our friend pulls through this.

I had another post here, which you may have caught in your reader.

I took it down.

Not because it was offensive or low brow, but I felt it was insensitive. I didn’t realize the date before I hit publish.

Today is not about my flourishing 18 month old baby boy, who has had an easy and uneventful go at the world since day one *touch wood*.

Today is instead about those who have not.

Today is about those sweet babies whom were born prematurely and have fought brave, hard and long battles to make our world all the more better.

Today is a day to stand up and help these small tiny children battle against the fight for their lives.

Today we FIGHT.

In An Average Week in the United States*:

10,440 babies are born preterm

1,664 babies are born very preterm

6,769 babies are born low birthweight

1,217 babies are born very low birthweight

• In 2006, there were 542,893 preterm births in the United States, representing 12.8% of live births.

• Between 1996 and 2006, the rate of infants born preterm in the United States increased more than 16%.

• During 2004-2006 (average) in the United States, preterm birth rates were highest for women ages 40 and older (16.8%), followed by women under age 20(14.7%), ages 30-39 (12.7%) and ages 20-29  (12.1%).

• During 2004-2006 (average) in the United States, preterm birth rates were highest for black infants (18.3%), followed by Native Americans (14.1%), Hispanics (12.1%), whites (11.6%) and Asians (10.7%).

• In 2005, the annual societal economic cost (medical, educational, and lost productivity) associated with preterm birth in the United States was at least $26.2 billion.

Learn. Do. Give.

For them.

A day of remembrance. A day to thank our soldiers, and those fallen, whom have served our country proud. Those whom have protected our freedom and our way of life.

Remembrance Day.

As much as I wanted to write a dedication to those who have served, there is someone else who is weighing heavier on my mind and my heart.

A special someone who also endured a brave fight for life. For her life. A little girl who beat the odds, if only for a short time. Her impact has been so tremendous. Her glowing, vibrant smile, forever imprinted.

Happy Birthday, Sweet Angel.

Please take a moment to pop by Heather and Mike’s sites to send some love on what would have been Maddie’s second birthday.

And, if you’re so inclined. Please take a moment to sponsor a support pack at Friends of Maddie, a foundation created by Maddie’s parents in their daughter’s name.