Good job!

Not only do I have to clean the hell out of my house but my office is also on the move.  I have been with the same company for almost 14 years and my file cabinets have followed me everywhere.  You can only imagine the shit I have been hoarding for 14 years.

This is what I threw out.  In retrospect I am really bummed I didn't take a picture.

7 packages of hot chocolate from 2001
 6 boxs of tea.
 Robaxaset from when I threw my back out PUTTING ON MY PANTS.
About 15 jars of various vitamins no doubt used for some bullshit naturopathic cleanse I HAD TO DO OR ELSE I WOULD DIE!!
A framed (FRAMED!!) picture of my ex boyfriend and I canoodling in Mexico
An unframed wedding picture of myself.(why did I frame a pic of a boyfriend and not my wedding day?)
School pictures, all school pictures to date.
ALL paper paystubs going back to 2000.
Birthday cards from when I turned TWENTY FIVE
Old cards from the previously mentioned old boyfriend and ex husband from when they sent me flowers.

And much much more.

Anyway, one little hour later and I managed to ruthlessly purge, with the exception of the notes and pictures.  Easy peasy.  Cleaning out my home closets and storage areas will no doubt uncover some pretty amazing shit that I have refused to part with but will not be anywhere near as  painless.   They are stuffed.  Stuffed with crap I don't know what to do with.  I put it there till later but later never comes and more shit just goes in.  Its is critical that I clean this out.  I can't imagine prospective buyers and real estate agents will be especially tickled when 20 years of garbage come tumbling down on them.

So, today was earmarked for my home purging adventures.  To further complicate things, the framers are coming Tuesday to frame up the laundry room/bathroom so that pit of horrors also has to be cleared out.

This weekend was perfectly planned to allow for the complete balance of child free awesome.  Me time, social time and responsibly mature adult stuffs.

sigh

Remember when you were a kid and you and your friends managed to convince an older sibling to pick up a micky of peach schnapps to share?  Then you proceeded to drink it all and you're forced to barf in the sink cause your other friend is busy hurling in the toilet?  Then you are called Pepperoni for a while cause your pizza infused vomit ricocheted onto the mirror and pepperoni became the new decor in the bathroom?   The worst.  Of course in the morning you firmly proclaimed from your death bed "I'M NEVER DRINKING AGAIN"

Fast forward a million years.  You have way better taste, shitty schnappes replaced with 15 year old single malt scotch.  Your old withered body no longer possesses the healing of the hangover you once possessed.  You're still a dumb ass for drinking to excess but your body ain't a tight 16 years old (I think it's ok to refer to a tight 16 year old body when referring to yourself)  You can't bounce back after a shitty colonic inspiring egg mcmuffin.   Your chores are mounting.  Your child free hours dwindling.  The clock is ticking.


Instead I have a date with a rotisserie chicken, my bed, Dr. Pepper and my new boyfriend, Michael Pena.

Choices

The thing with making big decisions is that sometimes there isn't a great reception.

My plans to move to what is universally known as the Jersey Shore, or as I like to call it, armpit of Ontario has certainly come with mixed reviews.  As someone with incredibly low if not completely non existent impulse control the concern is pretty overwhelming.  The problem with this, of course, is that one does get tired of defending choices that were made with the best of intentions and you shift from defending to wanting to punch teeth out.  The idea has always been at the back of my mind.  My go to was always to move to London.  Last year when I really starting to think about it I tried to put it out of my mind seeing as I had completely lost my nut.   But here I am.  All clear again and it all makes sense and while I am trying to get enthusiastic (I will look good with a nose ring, uggs and puffy furry coat,  yes?) there is a great deal of nerves involved.

Which brings me back to my impulse control.  Not having any has become something that I am learning to not only accept but also love about myself.  To date about 90% of my absurd moves have turned out to be incredibly life altering and enriching things, though they have come with their fair share of consequences.   So this fresh start seems so right.  The thing is, I HAVE to do this while wearing a pretty tight seatbelt. This isn't easy for someone like me.  I'm like a screaming 2 year old in a car seat flailing  about.

Actually, I'm exactly like this

Alas, I am a grown up and I need to be organized (another skill I lack), wise, ask questions (rather than just do it and worry about it later) and take my time.  I look forward to not having to do the whole parenting gig all alone.  It'll be hard work but worth it.  I look forward to being able to maintain (for the most part) my standard of living and being able to enjoy life as it comes.  It'll be nice to actually live in a house with SPACE with a cheaper mortgage.  The houses.....god....some of them are just gorgeous and since London is the worst city in the world they are relativly cheap.   Debt should be a thing of the past, more space,good schools, London derby league,  a fresh start and most importantly the girls wont have to travel hours just to see their Dad.   The benefit of close by Dad, of course, is that there will be someone there to shoulder the weight.  The seemingly insurmountably difficult task of raising three kids.

When we first split,  I will be honest, it was kinda awesome.  I had every other weekend off and everything was marvvy.  As time goes by the demands of parenting increase.  This one needs to go here, this one here.  Can I have 50 bucks, I need this.  On and on and on.  For the most part this is fine.  But there are days where I feel like there is a 200 pound brick on my chest, my head will explode and I can't get ahead of or even on top of things.  Added to this stress is the knowledge that before long the girls wont even want to go visit with him.  It has already started and one of my biggest fears is that one day, likely sooner than later my kids will lose touch and lose a relationship with one of the people who needs to be a positive influential part of their lives.

So, their step Mom has been sending me links to homes.  Beeeeautiful........Almost upgrading the city from armpit to knee cap.

And I can see myself living in a knee cap.

So begins the task of selling the house.  I like my ducks in a row and knowing EXACTLY what to expect.  Sadly, this is not the case with selling.  Markets are unpredictable and for all I know this could all go to shit.   I have been reminded of the time I sold my first house when I proclaimed "I'M NEVER SELLING A HOUSE AGAIN" as well as the time I bought my current house and screamed at the top of my lungs "I'M NEVER BUYING A HOUSE AGAIN"  But here I am!   You go with the flow, you become flexible all the while holding firming onto your hat just praying that you are doing the right thing.  It's scary and stressful but perhaps exactly where I am supposed to be.  I can't really imagine my life without chaos.  I invite it.  It's my comfort zone.

Anyway, I have a TONZO of shizznit I have to do.  Banks, lawyers, moving, real estate, tying up lose ends here and there....gah!  The good news is I have at least three months to get it going.  Three months.... Obviously this means only one thing...TO THE INTERWEBZ TO WASTE TIME!!!!

Tumblr...god....how I love you.

Hillbilly Jim!  Your memes just tickle my funny bone.  God

 Or this......
http://critiquemydickpic.tumblr.com/

WHY didn't I think of this!

Look fellas, I'm gonna give it to you straight.  In North America there seems to be a universal preference.  A cut 12" dong.  I'm not saying it's right or even realistic but be honest, is your first choice a 20 pound over weight woman with a chickstache?  Of course not!   Does it mean you wouldn't consider anything "less"?  I hope not cause I would be screeeeeewed.  My point is this....if it works over 90% of the time and you know how to use it you are good to go.  Submitting these pictures or sending half chub shots to women on line is just about the WORST way to beef up your self confidence.  Why?  Cause no one gives a shit but YOU and you will only be taunted and ridiculed.  

I feels as though I should create a sister site where I just judge.  I'm pretty good at that, totally ignoring the whole saying "when you point a finger at someone you are pointing three right back at yourself"

Le Sigh Part Deux

eta-I didn't anticipate all of the not so pleasant reactions!   I will say this much.  As horrible as the city is the houses really are beautiful....and dirt cheap.  And it'll also feel really good to not feel as MUCH of a single mother as I do now.


Never in my life did I think I would ever utter the words "We're moving to London".

But here we are.  What is likely the worst city in the world sadly comes with a great deal of benefits for my family.  Time to realize that it just ain't all about me.

At least there's a roller derby league there.

Yay?

Le sigh

Why is "real writing" so hard?  One would think that the mere action of transcribing endless handwritten musings into to actual documents would be a huge inspiration.  This matched with a the flooding of ideas after a three year writers block I would expect....well.....better.  Instead I am stuck on punctuation and grammar skills (of which I have none)  I am stuck in a circular motion of whatthefuckery.   The great thing about blogging is that it satisfies my itch to write and my penchant for hyperbole without worrisome little details such as the fact that I write like a kid in a fourth grade remedial English class. It's ok if it's just a blurred haze of jibberjabber.  No coherent or fluid thoughts.  Just a spewing of wordy vomit.

TO THE VOMIT!!!

There are several things bothering me these days.

1).   I am a firm believer in Karma.  You get what you give.   And I am paying for allll my past shittiness.  I am certain that bouncing that super nice fellow whose only crime was contracting an unfortunate viral infection has resulted in not one but TWO cold sores on my face.   Or it could be the weather.  Or stress.  Fuck it...I will not apologize.  I have enough problems as it is to invite a lifelong battle of genital sores.  And thank you Dan for bringing to my attention the herpes monkeys in Florida.  If all the retirees,  extreme heat and general horribleness that is Florida didn't scare me off the goddamn monkeys have.  And to think...I used to love monkeys.

2).  Why the hell can't I skate backwards?  It shouldn't be hard!  I figured out crossovers for chrissakes and tripled my speed in six weeks, yet I can not skate backwards.  Sure, I can accidentally start rolling backwards, my attempts at using that momentum to rock the backwards skate only resulting in some pretty awesome wipe outs.  But that's it.  My body literally chokes and I end up with a trainer literally holding my hand which only results in a flashback of me in the sixth grade being forced to go iceskating in class and my pervy teacher falling on me while holding my hands....likely the result of him being pulled down by a 12 year old who likely outweighed him by 50 pounds.

3).  "Upgrading from awesome to spectacular"-words from an ex boyfriends facebook post a few months after we broke up.  That shit KILLED my innards.  To this day it pulls on my heartstrings.  I am a downgrade?  She's an upgrade?  Aren't we both.......people?  Not a computer or new coffee maker.   Isn't posting something like that only a poor reflection of him and not me?   Is "awesome"  a consolation prize?  Afterall,  it COULD have read "Upgrading from fat thundercunt to spectacular"  That would have been way worse.  Scratch that.  I'm a goddammed awesomely spectacular rock star.  God, it's so good to have my self esteem back!

4).  Along those lines, why didn't accidentally tagging myself in said upgrades photos bother me more?  That's a reflection of me!  Sure, my face was red for 3 days and my guts turned but I actually laughed at my hearty whoops moment.

5).  Finally....when ordering a deluxe....errrrr..".thing" meant for one WHY was I sent another free deluxe "thing" meant for TWO?  Is the Universe taunting me for bouncing the world greatest sex machine just because he was feeble minded?   Who cares....whoever has a penis and a girl friend and celebrates their birthday next is getting one hell of a present.


I think that's it.

Just kidding.  In an effort to stop boring people with FB updates only related to roller derby I think I am going to use this as a derby only journal of sorts.  I honestly think that in a year I'll be playing.  I wear a significant amount of pride on my sleeve for how far I have come and I never want to forget how far I have come.  Life has always just kinda come to me with little to no effort.  It's quite something to actually work for something and see the results.   I'm the best of the worst!!!!

The WORST

You know who I'm talking about.  We all have at least one in our life.  The miserable asshole.  The petty hen pecking troll who will crucify her fellow sister for any minor infraction.  She got the job you wanted, she married to your ex husband, she's dating your ex or she took the ONLY size medium sweater that was meant ONLY for you.   A general disdain for beautiful, strong and intelligent women who "won".  The transparency their inferiority complex so obvious to even the blind pig looking for an acorn.   You pity them but kinda tolerate and perhaps even pander to their obvious shortcomings.

The only thing worse (obviously excluding genocide) is when YOU become that vicious hen.

That shit is HARD to own up to, especially when you firmly believe that it isn't in your nature.   I like to consider myself a champion for the wimmins.  A proud self proclaimed Feminist can NOT allow herself to dig herself into this pit of gross.  We support.  We encourage beauty in all it's glorious variants.  We encourage self awareness and take pride in the accomplishments of others.  Not take a massive dump on those simply because they are "succeeding" while your own self confidence is in the toilet.

It's hard to let go of past  mistakes and behaviours.  The trick, I suppose, is to allow them to be your starting point to being a better human being and to also recognize these failures as reminders that we are all but human.  We all fuck up.   We all have it within ourselves to fix it.


Anyway, time to sign off on the blogger funzies for awhile.  Time to focus on "real" writing and of course derby.

Cause you know what?  I actually have a fighting chance at passing minimums this time around.

Again, why did I wait so long to sign up.

Red Face

 Remember when you were 7 years old and peed your pants at recess?  You mask it for as long as possible only to have some asshole kid point it out to everyone?  Or when you were 15 and ripped a huge fart in gym class while doing sit ups, your attempts to stop only amplifying it?  No?  Well I do and it's the worst.  Your face goes red, you start manically giggling and  your belly flip flops in utter shame.  You rethink it over and over again.  And again.  And again.

I'm talking real humiliation here.

That's what ALL DAY yesterday was like, minus the flatulence and urine.  Actually, it was more like the crappy movie Ground Hog Day.  Doing it over and over again.  Actually, I have never watched that movie so it may not be anything like it.

This weekend I'll be too busy to worry and by Monday I'll surely just laugh about it.

Silly Universe.

Not sure if its just my even perception of things or not but why is everything just coming along nicely?

My final step towards world domination is a fairly uphill battle. The dreaded new job.

Then, out of nowhere, without a shred of effort comes a nice little bonus as well as a move to a better office AND my choice of full time work from home.

I previously resisted the idea of full time at home simply because I was far more interested in sleeping and eating dry Raman over anything else. NO MORE! With this comes with the opportunity to take classes relatively uninterrupted. To finally hire a personal trainer to come to my home. To fully take advantage of the perfect home to work life balance.

God diggity Damn! It's all coming up Christie.

Resting Bitch Face

Last week my friend from out of town called first thing in the morning to let me know that he was coming into town and would I be interested in some morning scrabble and cookies for breakfast. It was a work day so I only thought about it for about a microsecond. YES PLEASE! After all, work is for suckers! (Without a hint of irony I thank the stars for my ex boyfriend who taught me that!).

Anyhoo...chillin out, scrabbling it up and eating some cookies all make for great times when out of nowhere he says, "You know, you're really quite fetching but you look like a COMPLETE bitch when you aren't smiling."

Sadly, this is not the first time I have heard this. The first time this was brought to my attention I was in my boyfriends room. Being a young divorcee with children it was totally reasonable that his bedroom was in his parents house, the original locomotive wallpaper completely intact. Ill take a moment to clarify that I have totally identified the root cause of my issues with "men". ANYWAY that's not relevant to this particular situation. What IS relevant is that he told me that his parents were intimidated by me. Not because we were practically same age, but because I often looked like, well, a bitch.

Anyway, Dazzling D was quick to reassure me. Apparently it's a thing. A thing where people just look like unapproachable, miserable cunt bags who will tear your face off if you dare approach. Resting Bitch Face, or RBF.

*click*. The first of many pictures taken at my expense for the expressed purpose of proving me wrong did nothing but annoy me. However, several obnoxious clicks later of me buying my shoes, me looking at makeup and deciding what cheese to by etc etc....he succeeded. I do, in fact, suffer from resting bitch face.

As always it was a terrific time, the shadow of my newest malady well tempered with fabulous cookies.

I'll wait until next week to let this become a festering insecurity. For now I will enjoy knowing that wherever I go, whatever I do, no one will ever think to bother me.

Success!

Let's talk about sex, Baby!

Just kidding. Let's talk about food poisoning.

I'm a firm believer in feeding your body well and that it's just as much of a contributor of wellness as any pharmaceutical.   Once upon a lifetime ago I was quite concerned with such things.  No refined flours or sugar, ethically obtained coffees and sugars.  So about a month ago I decided to get back into that swing of things.  It was all going so well until Thursday.

Mornings can be hectic round these parts.  For the most part the girls are self motivated but there are hiccups here and there.  By the time  I had to get to work there simply was no time to make lunch.  No problem.   Today I'll reward myself with fast food! After all, I survived a mental breakdown and I now only eat organic almond butter out of the jar instead of Jiffy. Progress! So, I was in a major upswing. Absolutely NO bad can come of this.

Nothing could have prepared me for the Unholy War that was about to erupt in my colon.

As my guts prepared for the offensive and subsequent expulsion I knew I had to plan my defence and plan fast.   Three stalls in one bathroom, almost always occupied by at least one.  As a phobic public pooper during the most discreet of times I knew this was not at all an option.  Handicapped stall!  YES!  Oh god...NO....out of order.  OH THE HUMANITY!!!!!

Men's bathroom!  Only two men in the office.  What are the odds?  As I shuffled to the bathroom with my ass cheeks squeezed into rock hard boulders gripping my sphincter like it was Aron Ralstons arm I meet office dude about to enter the bathroom. My desperation getting the better of my I briefly considered him an ally.  Afterall, he cried with me when Cecil died.  

This CAN'T be happening.

Lurking by the water fountain I count. 3 in 3 out. Time to execute. My brow is beaded with sweat and I am prepared for the imminent anal assassination.

As I gripped seat to prevent being rocketed into the ceiling I prayed to anyone who might be listening.  I REPENT!  Allah, I promise I'll be better and I'm so so sorry that I find Redfoo attractive.     Jesus, I will no longer have an immediate hate of  fat kids and I'll make my three month hiatus from dating a full year.  Gaia, I'll only watch porn on Wednesday afternoon and Shiva, I'll start thinking before I speak.  Just please please PLEASE don't let anyone come into here.

With my prayers unanswered I realized that it was time to wave the white flag at the evil that had brewed in my bowels.

Defeated and crushed I gave up and braced myself for the second coming.  Softly singing Then He Kissed Me in my head my hands clawed at the wall.  The walls shook.  Children  cried.  I was brought to my knees in defeat.

usurped by E.Coli

Of course!

While driving home from my run and practice today (these 30 pounds aren't going to lose themselves) I was minding my own business at a red light, patiently waiting to turn left.  Busy singing along to the Supremes at the top of my lungs it took me a moment to hear it.  The honk. A frantic honk. A desperate honk. I turned my head to see a man, urgently giving me the "ROLL DOWN YOUR WINDOW SO I CAN TELL YOU YOUR CAR IS ON FIRE" gesture.

Alarmed, I rolled that bad boy down, preparing for the worst.

"Hey! Your car is almost over the white line. It makes it hard for people to turn right at the lights"

I would like to point out that he was going straight and totally capable of coming up right beside me in his stupid truck.

Anyhoo, relieved that I dodged a horrible death by car fire I politely thanked him for his helpful tip. After all, I'm just a quiet little woman who had lost her voice and I felt ashamed.  How will I recover from this grand transgression?  Will he forgive me?  WON'T ANYONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN!!!

Alas, he wasn't letting it go.  Sensing my weakness and fuelled with misogynistic fury he went for it.

"Yeah, SWEETHEART, you might want to go to a parking lot and practice. "

Oh....no.....he.....didn't!

I am not sure where it came from.  Perhaps it was the refined sugar and wheat withdrawl,  maybe I was just feeling invincible as I finally successfully transitioned INTO a tomahawk.  Perhaps I was edgy as I have cut out 75% of my caffeine intake.  It doesn't matter.  What DOES matter is I went for it.

Thanks for the tip! By the way...GO FUCK YOURSELF

My need for the upper hand not satisfied and my soul not at all placated I decided, at that very moment that as God as my witness I was going to go RIGHT.  I gassed my filthy Mom car in a way only an infuriated and slighted feminist could.  I  maneuvered right and deliberately cut him off.  His tires squealed as he hit his breaks to avoid collision. I could have hit an old lady.

The crowd went wild!  The signs all said GO BOLT!!! and slighted motorists as far as Scotland came to cheer me on!  You can do it!  You CAN!   Paula Abdul waved the flag and We Are the Champions blasted into the sky, along with the balloons, marking my victory.

I might have made that last part up.


Pro Tip- Don't screw with a woman who found her voice again.


Sweetheart. You have got to be kidding me.

Seriously, blogger?

The whole point of going private is to discreetly go private! Not send INVITES to the few I will allow access to! The point of my blog is to provide a window into my head and not ADVERTISE. Jesus. I feel like I just four squared myself at the STD clinic.

You're dead to me!


ETA-the private thing turned out to be more work than I wanted.  I WILL NOT BE CENSORED!  Besides...who am I kidding...he doesn't read.

Rock bottom

I found not one, but two Mariah Carey songs on my iPod.

Welcome to my rock bottom.

I should take you back to the beginning.

It all started about 2 and a half years ago. Kidding, it all started 20 years ago. The diagnosis of your run of the mill clinical depression was made and I won the medication lottery. Only a few minor set backs and I was my very merry self. Life came and went with all the glorious highs and lows and I just didn't think a thing about it.


Things started to change about 2 years ago. At time a fellow I was dating had just moved in so I simply wrote it off as growing pains at my new living situation. After all, this was a change in my life. Surely this was normal? Slightly glum, bummed. But it just wasn't going away. Nothing too overt. Just kind of a cloud over my eyes.

Being no stranger to depression I figured that since this wasn't the dire horribleness I experienced in my teen years that it was ok. I was no longer a hormonal teenager, dealing with being a teenager. I was a grown woman who was, well, amazing. This would pass.

So life scraped by and I persevered. Some minor life changes here and there and the cloud remained.

And then the shit hits the fan.

I can't leave my house. I WANT to leave my house but I prefer to lay awake in bed. Lets evaluate. I am a strong, smart, funny attractive woman who has everything...but something ain't right. Who the hell is it I'm seeing in the mirror!?! Pull up your boot straps and knock it the fuck off!

The good days come hard and fast and HURRAH! It's all behind me.

Just kidding. Hello there, uncontrollable sobbing! Nice to see you again.

Then I had my imaginary heart attack and the days that followed days were met with sheer joy. How nice everything is! My house is tidy. My kids are no longer having nervous breakdowns. My dog is amazing, and I'm dating a walking shrimp ring.

.......record scratch.......


*sigh* If I lay here really still I think the universe will just open up and swallow me into my mattress. If I will it enough it'll all cease to exist and the past 36 years will have never happened. I can't have one more moment of this despair. Meaningless, irrational anguish.

Perhaps to even out the failure of my life I need to epically die. I'm gonna put on a cape and a pink unitard. and I'll slip a razor wire noose around my neck and superglue my hands to my head. Surely the force of my jump will cause decapitation BUT it'll just look like I ripped my head off! As spectacular as that sounds I'm not sure that's the best scene for anyone to walk into. I COULD call the coroner right before. That way I'm guaranteed that only a medical professional would see me in my epic final death scene. Then again there's a pretty wide margin of error. What if the noose fails, I fall and hit my head and when I regain consciousness I find a group of gawkers stifling their laughs at the sight of a portly broad in a unitard with her hands glued to her head?

Suicide is clearly not an option.

I have done everything. I got the dog, I painted the house, I meditated. I started home renos again, I partook in endless super fun family and friends things. I started dating the worlds handsomest (but possibly stupidest...the stupidity almost negated by the best sex ever) man. I joined the fucking roller derby for chrissakes. What is left!?

Woe is me.

I am not crazy.

So why am I crazy?

I swear, if starring in a Bukkake video will fix this I will do it. I will. In the meantime it's time to make peace with all I have wronged. Get it all off my chest. Perhaps unspoken words are whats eating me. Nope. I can't save the world from creepy Mormons or viral infections and I'm pretty sure no one cares that I stole a bottle of wine when I was 17. My confessionals and attempted helpfulness did nothing but make me feel remorseful.

I have offically tried everything....

Everything.....

......except follow the advice of my medically trained professional.


Jesus H Christ! There really IS a pill or everything! Look at me! Hippity hopping along, singing at the top of my lungs to Stevie Wonder, pointing and laughing at fat kids. I'm outraged by the news and I'm making fun of people in the mall. I'm meeeee again!!! Hello, Gorgeous! You're looking morally superior and always right as usual!

Have you ever had an ingrown toenail and waited until it festered and became gangrenous before getting antibiotics? Me neither cause that's just fucking stoopid. So why the hell did I wait this long?

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have about two years to make up!

Anything you can do I can do better.

About two months ago I noticed the hive.

I want to  be clear,  this girls loves her pollinators. Loves em. I have devoted my front garden to them, even bought a super sweet home for them AND intend on joining a workshop to learn not only how to construct a bee hive but to actually KEEP bees.

So I was actually kinda excited to see a nest of some sort. Did my eco adventures of the spring and summer pay off? Did I channel my inner Snow White by intuitively luring them to my home?!

How exciting!

What kind  could they be?

TO THE INTERWEBZ to discover what kind of amazing pollinator I have invited to my home!

Paper wasps.

Fuck.

Naturally I ignored the problem and waited until life hit the fan to decide it had to go NOW!


I'm sorry, did you say $220 to remove it professionally? Yeah, no. This sounded like a job made for me. Remember how I vowed to grab life by the balls? What better way to prove my prowess, my ability, my inherent manliness!

So I made a hat out of my dim sum steamer and tulle I had laying around. There was no way I was dropping cash for a bee hat and the last thing I needed was a bunch of stings on my face. I also managed to withstand the kind words of encouragement from my kids.

"Oh god, you can't be serious"
"Can I video this? I won't show anyone because this is way more embarrassing for me"
"Please don't leave the house looking like that"



First attempt included being overcome with fear of the ladder. Decided that we would be friends. Cant we all just get along?

Second attempt I'm up there. I'm ready. I'm about to fire. OH FUCK THEY ARE COMING OUT!!

NO third try.  I'll just call the surrogate husband. NO. I won't. I will do it...just after I watch Django Unchained for the fourth time.

Fourth shot is the charm! Just calm nerves, THC courage.... Man, Leonard Cohen is ah-MAZING!  Where did these sour patch kids come from!    

Wait...what was I doing again?

Ok. This is it. Ugh, you know what? It's almost winter. It'll die soon enough and I really should just lea...wait...is that a wasp in my room?

So me and Joe Strummer killed that mofo.....over the course of three days.

I raise a glass of Dalwhinnie to toast just one more thing I can do by my very self.

Tip of the day

When dating someone who is a volunteer firefighter do not, I repeat, do NOT send him this picture.....on September 11th.

Know your audience. Know it well.

Saved by The League.

The other night I thought I was having a heart attack.

My arm was killing me and I was feeling miserable and I thought "wow, this is it"

I'm also kind of a hypochondriac.

Anyhoo...feeling as though life was truly and totally not worth living anymore I did the reasonable thing. I scrawled some shit on a piece of paper about where all of my insurance papers etc are and I had a shower and PUT ON MAKEUP. I made my bed and lay down, waiting patiently for the cold hand of death to come grab me.

I am not at all dramatic.

Most people fight this shit but for someone who has spent the better half of the past 2 months secretly hoping I would die in a firey car crash, well, this was an opportunity I couldn't pass up! No trauma, no potential for needless injuries to others. Just a quiet without incident natural death.

So, I lay in bed, delighted with my good fortune and how clever I was being. Premature death without the nasty stigma of suicide. And looking GOOD.

And then I started worrying. Did Gary have enough food to last him for a night? Should I leave a note on the door, ensuring that it isn't the kids that find me in my fabulous outfit and pristine makeup? Am I going to shit myself? God, my kids.

Crap. Before the heart attackI should totally make sure all the bills are paid.

Ok, bills are paid. BACK TO THE DEATH BED! My heart attack not yet progressing. I figured that, much like labour and delivery, heart attack have to progress. I'll just lay here all pretty, waiting to quietly pass.

What if Gary eats the piece of paper that tells who ever finds me where to find the important shit? Ugghhh. I should get up and put the files on the kitchen table.

Ok. All set. Heart attack, come now. I am ready. It is my time.

Wait...why am I laughing!?! I should be succumbing to my heart attack and not thinking about the ghost monkey song.

*sigh*. Here's the thing. My heart attack seems to be slowing down. I'm not gonna die and I gotta get shit done.

First things first, sit down and write a list. A well thought out list of things within the last year that are actually terrible.

1). Stephen Harper
2). My cat died
......
......nothing

Good, now write a list of the amazing.

1). Everything.

Sometimes the line separating the absurdly dramatic and the seriously problematic is blurred.

I think next time I have a heart attack I will see a doctor. It better yet, I'll just stretch better after derby.

Depression can be hard work sometimes. It's also unfair. Right when everything is grand and good it hits you like a ton of terrible, irrational bricks.

Fall!

Hurrah! My favourite time of year is here. Sweaters, soups, scotch and cuddling. The best.

I figure I have about 6 good weekends left for some nice hikes in our awesome provincial parks. From now on I shall dress like a red leaf.

Also, why the hell didn't I hear of Serena Ryder until now!?

Budgets and priorities.

I really need to light a fire under my ass. Like, now.

My gardens are a disaster, I still haven't removed the wasps nest (not for lack of trying) and my house is outta control. Too busy to mow the lawn and seeing as I am a walking ATM these days I'm too broke to go fly away to somewhere neat. Work, kids, social, derby wash rinse repeat. Pepper that with some home renos...well, lets just say it might be time to cut back.

I'm also wondering if it's time to lower my standards a bit. I'll never be able to afford the kitchen Reno if I insist on the Dalwhinnie. It's a very expensive but so so delicious crutch.

What I can do.

I can only kind of weave, shark, single knee drop and suicide fall. I am eeeever so slowing getting the hang of transitions and I'm dangerously close to actualIy doing a single crossover. I am always in the remedial class and I am seriously considering purchasing a top quality ass protector. I am terrified to start learning contact in only a month or so.

And it's fucking AMAZING!!

I am fairly confident that I am in the top 5 worst in Freshmeat. The thought of me learning to skate is ridiculous at best but I'm getting better and doing things I never thought I could accomplish.... like skating a full session without injuring myself. Go me!

While the thought of me passing minimums this time around is laughable I am quite certain that I could pass in three.

And it's FUN. God, is it fun.

AND I'm volunteering at a bout next weekend. Is it bad that I hope I'm assigned clean up duty over the candy stands?

Why the fuck did I wait so long to join up?

So

A person WANTS to give you a sweet, 15 week old Newfoundland cross puppy. Give. As in free (with the exception of the vet bills).

What the hell does one do?

45%Bolt laughs
50% Bolt thinks she should buy a king sized bed.
5% Bolt envisions never having incident free sex again.

Hoe.Lee.Shit

I shit you not, this is my recent google image search list:

Bad tattoos
Excessively long foreskin
Embarressingly long foreskin
Circumcision
Circumcision in adult men
Foreskin rejuvenation
Roller derby ankle break
Worst derby injury
Nice calves
Derby broken finger
Marilyn Monroe post mortem (!?!)
Medieval amour
Torture devices
Post mortem photography
Herpes
Cute fairy cakes
Midget penis
Micro penis
Derby head injury
Tomme au Marc de raisin
How chickens have sex
Bot fly
Orange cats
Strange looking labia
Drunk frat boys


Some of these actually make sense. Most do not. But ya, off to clear the history and watch more of my new favourite sport, extreme wrestling. I should also avoid the computer during bouts of insomnia. No wonder I can't sleep.