Possibly the ugliest gingerbread house ever made

When I was a kid, my aunt used to make gingerbread houses and invite us over to decorate them. She was a pro - she had all the cool icing bags and tips, she could make icicles, she could do anything. We made really cool houses every year and loaded up on a ton of candy in the process.

In an attempt to recapture my youth, I bought a gingerbread house kit. If you want to make a house as cool as mine, here's how:

1. Cut the tip of the icing bag WAY too big so that any fancy decorating is completely impossible.

2. Try to cover up the bad icing job with tons of candy. Like so:

3. Do not follow any colour scheme or motif. Motifs are for losers. Chaos works better:

4. Make sure that the icing that comes with your kit does not set. Despite following all instructions to the letter, what you really want is for your roof to fall off after you've tossed a pound of candy on it to cover your bad decorating job:

 

5. Use boxes to hold the roof in place so that it doesn't cave in anymore. Pose like a dumb-ass next to your decorating abomination:

The first, but probably not the last

Picture it: Boxing day, 2007. A little boy woke up way too early and brought his daddy along for the ride. His mommy promised daddy that she would take Sacha out of the house in the afternoon to give him a break, since Sacha is purely a daddy's boy.

His mommy decided to brave the mall and pick up some calendars for 50% off (because she's smart and thrifty like that) with the little dude in tow. They shared an ice cream cone and seemed to be having a good time. Mommy then decided to go to a department store and see if she could find some sales on kids' stuff, mostly bedding. She found some, and then browsed the aisles to waste time with the dude. The little dude came across one of those push-around popcorn popper things and he pushed it around the entire store with pure glee in his smile. It was pretty cheap, so Mommy decided to buy it.

Then things got ugly.

While Mommy tried to wait in line at the cashier, Sacha and the popcorn popper took off, trying to make a run for it out of the store.

Mommy ran after him, grabbed him, and put him in his stroller.

The little dude managed to slide himself out of the stroller and take off. Again.

Mommy tried to strap him into the stroller. He collapsed into a pile of rubber on the floor, kicking and screaming. I hauled him over my shoulder, and he screamed more.

Then I thought about the situation: the little dude clearly did not deserve this popcorn popper thing, no matter how cute it was to see him push it around the entire store. Being a little shit totally disqualifies one from receiving toys, IMO. So I left the items at the cash register, and marched out of the store with the dude tucked under my arm like a football, and let him have his temper tantrum in the area outside the store.

I managed to get him strapped in to the stroller and we left the mall. Of course, he stopped crying as soon as he realized that he was not getting the toy, and tried to make amends with me by being all cute and cuddly. Ha ha. Too late for that, kiddo.

So there.  That initiates me into the "parents of toddlers" club, right?  Please use the comments section  to remind me that I am not alone.

A different kind of fairy tale

Once upon a time, in the faraway land of Buttfuck, ON, there lived a beautiful, organized, clean, and culinarily gifted woman.  She had a husband who occasionally had to work through his lunch break.  Because she is such a wonderful wife (and mother), she packed her husband a wonderful lunch, which she assumed he ate.

Some time later, let's say months later, the beautiful wife found a lunch bag in her computer room closet.  She opened the bag only to discover a container filled with rotting, molding contents.  She was shocked and insulted that her husband not only failed to eat the lunch she had prepared, but also that he had left the bag to rot.  When she confronted him, he immediately groveled at her feet and begged her forgiveness.  He swore it would never happen again and that he would take care of the fungal garden growing within the bag.

Some time later, let's say months later, the beautiful wife's memory-challenged husband came to her, carrying the lunch bag.  He smugly told her that when she packed a lunch for their son, she should really try and remember to dispose of any leftovers posthaste, as the lunch bag was now rotting.

Shocked and again insulted that her husband would even think that she could be responsible for such a disgusting mess, she firmly reminded him that this was the same lunch bag that he had used, placed in the closet, sworn to clean months ago, clearly never did, and put back in the closet.  She banished him from her sight, refusing to touch the bag.  She told him to throw the entire bag out.  There was no saving the plastic containers within.  They were too far gone.

Later that night, as the beautiful wife performed her wifely duties of loading the dishwasher, she noticed a horrible smell coming from the dishwasher.  It smelt of rotting fish guts, blue cheese rubbed on cracked feet, and ass.  Lo and behold, it was THE container.  In the dishwasher.  Open.  Infested with all sorts of organisms that would probably cause a spontaneous abortion if inhaled or consumed by a pregnant woman.  She fumed until smoke bellowed from her ears, but the husband did not seem to notice a thing.

Swallowing her pride, she hurled the container from the dishwasher into the garbage and swore never to make her husband a lunch again.  And we shall see how they live ever after.  We shall see...

What gross things have you discovered in your closets? 

A visual aid

In reference to my last post, I knew that I had some good pictures of the last Christmas we spent with our family (back home - 2005). Maybe now you will fully understand the good times we will be missing:

Mullets were all the rage, even among Babas

We all played with our rods - gifts in preparation for our houseboating trip

 Hair metal is BACK!

My sister brings out the best in people, including my step-dad

The crazy aunts

See?  Don't you wanna be like her?

Ooh!  Atari!  I wanna play pong next!

Puppies say Woof Woof!

Yo Ariel, I'll be right there as soon as I ditch this sausage fest.  Wear those shells that I love, will ya?

 How could you NOT want to party with my family?

I won't be home for Christmas

Christmas is going to be very different for me this year.  This will be the first time that we are alone - Tony, Sacha and I.  We have no family coming to visit, and we were unable to go back home to visit family as T could not get the time off.

Growing up with a francophone mother and a ukrainian-slovak father, there was never any shortage of people to celebrate the holidays with.  Christmas eve involved midnight mass followed by a reveillion at my Memère's (grandma's) house: feasting, singing, playing games, and general merry-making until 3 or 4 in the morning. Christmas day was traditionally spent with my Baba and Gedo and my dad's family, eating perogies, holubtsi, nalesnyky, 5 kinds of pies, and lots of games: Rummoli was always a favourite.

Then there was the week between Christmas and New Year's Day.  It seemed as though everyday involved some sort of house party or get together,  involving more food, more games and merry good times.  My mom usually throws a mean-ass New Year's Eve party for family and friends, and age doesn't seem to factor in to the level of fun you can have.

This year, Christmas will be silent.  We will go to Christmas eve mass, although we will be going to the 5:00 mass so that it doesn't interfere with Sacha's bedtime.  We will most likely go to bed around 10 because we know that Sacha will wake up at 6 or so, and then we will spend the day much as our other days are spent: play, Dora, Elmo, lunch, nap, play, attack the kitty, supper, bedtime.

It just doesn't feel like Christmas.  Too quiet.  Too empty.

I am still clinging to some sort of fantasy that someone is planning on surprising us and flying out here at the last minute.  Although I am certain that this will only leave me more disappointed when the day comes and no one else is here.

I'll put on a brave face and pretend that it doesn't bother me that we are alone.  I will smile and try to make the best Christmas I can for Sacha, but it will not be easy.  All I can do is count down the days until we are back among family next summer and I can sleep soundly in the assurance that we will never again be left in such isolation during this most special time of year.

For someone who has it all

This is such a neat gift idea that I thought, in the midst of this season of giving, I should share it with you. Go here. Read it. I'll wait.

All done? Aren't you glad you went there? Are you filled with gift giving ideas for those people who have everything?

It is probably too late to do something like this for this Christmas, but think of the possibilities for next year!

Wordless Wednesday: Proof of my small offspring

Left: Sacha, 15.5 mos
Right: Jack (friends' son) 5.5 mos

Any questions?

Since you've all shown me yours

After reading this post on Temporarily Me, I decided to let it all out.



My feed count. See that little pink widget in my sidebar? Yeah, it says 17. Now is time for a little explanation. Is my feed count really 17? Probably not. The tricksy thing is that since I am on WP, my blog automatically has a WP feed. Then I signed up for feedburner some 6 months later when WP stopped giving us feed stats. Many people do not even know that I have 2 feeds, but I do. One of them is tracked by the wonderful Feedburner, the other is lost in oblivion somewhere, but I infer from my regular commentators (like YOU!) that I have more than 17 readers and that they are probably reading my wordpress feed.

I have been hiding my FB stats for a while, but I'm letting it all out. I have no shame in my low number anymore. That doesn't mean I wouldn't love it if you all switched to my FB feed so I could really know how many readers I actually have, but if you don't, I'm ok with that.

So revel in the beautiful pink widget. I'll give you a moment.

The B&B race continues

Here we are!

20 weeks along with baby #2 and here is the belly:

This is where you ask: what belly? Ah, well, the belly is still a little behind in the race, and the boobs still seem to be in the lead. The belly to boob ratio is still less than 1 (as you recall, ratios can be expressed in three ways - in words, as a fraction or with a colon.  Here, I am opting for the fraction format as I refer to 1 as the whole, or 1/1. So a ratio less than 1 would be, in this case as an example,  1/2 meaning that the belly is half the size of the boobs.  Roughly. As an approximation. That is your math lesson for the day. You are now smarter than a 6th grader.)

But I guess it's not really fair to poor old baby-bump-belly, since there are two boobs and only one little baby to push that belly out.  I guess I have to eat more Ichiban.

The state of things

Overheard in our house

Moments ago:

Me: We need to put these clothes away. I need to use the baskets.
Tony: What? We don't put laundry away. We just wait until next week when we do laundry again.
Me: Tony, this is last week's laundry.
Tony: Oh. my. gosh.

****

While sitting down in the living room after putting the Dude to bed:

Me: What the...why is our house so clean?
Tony: I was wondering the same thing myself.
Me: Weird.

Ramenolicious!

A while ago, my mom called me to ask what Tony and I wanted for Christmas. We really didn't know what to say. I guess you get to a certain point in your life when you realize that Christmas really is for the kids. At least the whole gift-getting part of it. When you are a self-sufficient adult, you pretty much just go and buy something when you want it. There are no wish lists or "pretty pretty pleases" to your parents to buy it for you.

In the meantime, pregnancy cravings kicked in and I'll be damned if I couldn't find what I craved in the stores! Such a simple product that I had grown up loving for its salty goodness, and yet here, in Buttfuck Ontario, it was nowhere to be found. What's more, no one even knew what I was talking about. I mentioned this to my mom, who laughed and wondered how I could stand eating the stuff as it is so salty. But to a pregnant woman, the stuff is like candy. Salty goodness candy. It is SO not the same as Mr. Noodles. Period. And I am not the only one who affirms its superiority.

This arrived today as an early Christmas gift:

I may have already eaten some. For breakfast.

My mommy is good to me.

Knit Happens

It is finished.

After 4 months of work, which began basically when I found out that I was pregnant, I have completed my first sweater!

So you may all be wondering, why does Sacha have an H on his sweater? What's his middle name? What is the Mustard's real last name? Well, I am sorry to tell you that the answer to the H lies in none of those questions. Sacha wears an H as homage to Harry Potter.

I bought this knitting book in the summer, determined to learn how to make a sweater and that Sacha could wear it this winter. It was going really well until I started getting sick from the pregnancy. I then put down my needles and didn't touch then until late October. I had almost completed the sweater when I decided to try it on him: the damn thing wouldn't fit over his head. Aw crap. I think it was partially from the pattern, partially from my binding-off too tight. So I had to take apart the collar and make it larger than the pattern asked, then I was able to sew the piece together and voilà!

Pretty cute, if I do toot my own horn. And I have been known to toot on occasion...

My Top Ten

So you are a fellow blogger, you may have noticed that I have been absent from the blogosphere as of late, especially in the comments county.  I could give some epic poem describing why this has occurred, but I opted instead for a succinct and reader-friendly list:

Mrs. Mustard's Top Ten Reasons for Giving the Blogosphere the Cold Shoulder as of late:

1. The Tudors


2. My son's growing head and its consequences on my knitting.


3. Thwarting  my son's evil plans to devour any and all chocolate on the premise by carelessly leaving some unsweetened baker's chocolate lying around.


4. Knitting


5. Rotavirus and its yucky partner in crime, diarrhea.


6. Christmas present making for the parents. Please notice that says MAKING and not shopping.  There is a crucial difference in time consumption.


7. Feeding my cravings for chai tea.


8. Meticulously, though unintentionally, executing a plan that will make my son hate me forever - it's called "Daddy is superior to Maman in every way and as long as Daddy is in sight, I will scream at Maman as though she placed me at the brunt of some sort of vicious chocolate conspiracy.  Everything bad in this life is due to Maman.  Daddy is the bearer of sunshine and sugar-coated tootsie rolls."


9. Letting the batteries on our cordless keyboard die and fail to find any suitable replacement batteries around the house.


10. I'm lazy and can't think of a #10.

There.  I think that's a pretty good list.  It covers most of the events of the last week.  And just so you know, the rotavirus was in ME.  Here's praying that he doesn't get it, because I don't think I could handle that much poo coming out of a bum that doesn't wipe itself.

Meet my Alien Baby

I went for my first ultrasound yesterday. I am 18 weeks along, and I haven't felt the baby move. at. all. At this time with Sacha, he was already making his presence known, so I have had the old mother panic that I wasn't really pregnant, that there was no baby, that I was getting fat for nothing. Well, I guess eating ice cream and chocolate every day would do that to me anyway.

The ultrasound was an eye opener in several ways:

1. There really is a baby in there.


2. The baby really knows how to boogie!  It made for a very long ultrasound process, as it wouldn't sit still long enough to get the photos and measurements they need for morphology.


3.  In the future, I should totally disregard their requirements to drink 4-8 oz glasses of water, having been sent to the bathroom not once, but twice, to empty first a cup and a half, then 2 cups.  Anyone who has had to do this knows it is not easy to just let a little pee out.  And then there I am, the Power Pee-er.  I can void an overflowing bladder in under 10 seconds.  Probably closer to 5.  I was chanting to myself "hold it, hold it, drip drip drip."  It seemed to do the trick, but I was still in very near danger of dribbling in my pants.


4. The baby will be a girl.  We don't know this from the ultrasound, but hear me out.  Look at this picture of our little joy-bundle:

It looks like an alien, no?  Aliens are green.  Ivy is green.  Therefore it will be a girl and her name will be Ivy.

Flawless reasoning.

PS - Tony actually thinks he saw a penis, but honestly, the way that kid was moving, it could have been ANYTHING, like a little pink bow or a cute barrette. I hold true to my logic.

Oh Baby!

One of my good bloggy friends, Krista, just gave birth to her first baby!  She has not posted about it yet, but that doesn't mean you can't head on over to her place and congratulate her.

Oh, and she named her son Torsten.  The kid exudes cool and he's not even a week old...

Just call me Whoopi

There has been some confusion in the world lately, especially after people started reading my google meme. The particular trouble lay in this image, which was supposed to represent my nickname:



I never realized that people would be confused. But they were. Even those who know me best.

As the story was told to me, my pooty SIL saw this and exclaimed "Sarah's nickname is Whoopi??"
Her husband then said, "I think her nickname is Sarafina."
"Who would call her that?" pooty asked.
"Who would call her WHOOPI??" her husband said.

Exactly.  Who would call me Whoopi? Then again, if even my amazingly intelligent, astute and beautifully flat-tummied SIL (your welcome, Andi) thought people called me Whoopi, maybe there is something to the name that I have not considered before.  I have been known to let Whoopi-type sounds escape me.  Maybe the name really does suit me...

Ill-logic

Overheard in the Mustard house last night, as if we don't already have enough issues with dental care around here:

Me: Where's my toothbrush?
Tony: It's under the sink. Sacha used it to scrub the toilet. He also used it to wipe the snot from under his nose.
Me: Gross. Well, I guess I'll have to get a new one tomorrow.
Tony: Why? It's still good.
Me: You use it then!
Tony: No - you used it.

Getting Holy With It

[youtube=http://youtube.com/watch?v=nwYw3EY0kGE]

My life according to Google images

As much time as some memes seem to take, this one, which Krista tagged me for, intrigued me, as I do so LOVE a random google search.

How it works: Type the answer to each question in a Google image search and post the 1st picture result.

Age at my next birthday:

 

Place I'd like to travel:

Favourite place:

Favourite object:

 

Favourite food:

Favourite colour:

 

Nick name:

 

Place you were born:

 

I hereby tag Heather and Andi, because I am sure the pictures they would come up with would be awesome. And anyone else pining for blog fodder, have at 'er!