The attack

After being away for all but three days since the beginning of July, my garden was in a STATE. I accidentally left my sprinkler on in the garden for, oh, say, 4 hours. Then we had a week of intense heat while the kids and I were away. Tony was home, but he didn't really go into the garden other than to take pictures of how the 4 hour shower completely made the garden go ridonkulous.

So yesterday, the weather was nice, sunny, warm, but not die-of-overheating hot. So I weeded. And weeded. And thinned. And weeded. And man, it really was starting to look fly in there! Got to a spot next to a huge compost heap where I had tried to plant some peas, and for the longest time, nothing was happening. But now, those babies were growing and flowering! So I started weeding and tossing the weeds onto the heap. One pea plant, two pea plants, YEA!

Then suddenly OW! WHAT THE FLUGLEHORN?? Something bit me. I looked at my shoulder, that was now throbbing in pain, and I saw a wasp. Then I started getting pain all over my body. I looked around. WASPS. Everywhere. Swarming on me, all over my shirt, my shorts, my legs. HOLY MOTHER OF BATHSHEBA HOW CAN THOSE LITTLE MOTHER TRUCKERS CAUSE SO MUCH PAIN?!?!

"TONY! TONY! WASPS! I'M BEING ATTACKED BY WASPS!" and I ran out of the garden flailing like the wacky waving arm-flailing inflatable tube man. Out of the window, I heard Tony, who in no way would come outside because he is actually smart and knows that wasps are total assholes.
"TAKE OFF YOUR CLOTHES!"

So I did. I started stripping as fast as I could in my yard, which is completely visible by all  of my neighbours. It was just like those scenes in cartoons when the bees are swarming and the person in the middle is acting like they have zero control over their body.
Those cartoons are based on truth. That truth is me.

I jumped into a freezing shower and moaned and groaned. By the time I got out, the pain was still sharp in my shoulders, but that was it. I have five distinct welts (that I can tell), 4 of which were on my deltoids and shoulder blades. Honestly, I cannot believe that something so small can inflict so much pain FOR NOTHING.

Those assholes made a nest inside a compost heap and stayed hidden all this time. Just waiting for me to go and start cleaning up the garden so they could assault me. They are lucky I am smart and don't just pour gasoline and light the whole flipping pile on fire. Cuz I would. But we have new neighbours, and I don't think they want me to burn their fence and shed down. Although if they knew it was in the name of safety for all mankind, they would probably approve.

Hey wasps, your days are numbered. Too bad for you that I am not allergic to you and didn't DIE because now, you'se gonna pay. I will be smoking and fogging you until you bite each other and cannibalize to death. And then I will pounce on the heap you called home and dance and plant my family flag and say GOT YOU MOTHER FUCKERS! I declare this to be MY HEAP!

That's how we do things, assholes.

*********

Apologies for the cursing. But in this case, I cannot express myself clearly enough without calling them nasty names. And I am truly grateful that I am not allergic to wasps, becaue the attack would likely have killed someone who was. I am still red and welty today, over 16 hours after the attack.

Unpretty

A while back, I made a small change. It was not huge, and I mostly did it as a temporary measure.  I would wear concealer and cover-up to hide blemishes and bulging pimples. It didn't make them entirely go away, but it tended to even out my skin tone a bit. But it also seemed to clog my pores even more, which meant more pimples and blackheads and general grossness. It was the vicious cycle of blech. But I had one breakout about a month ago that got so bad that I could not put anything on my skin for a couple of weeks. I had to go to work with big red scabs, oozing zits, and all that amazing stuff that you see on zombie movies. 
As they were healing, I came across this video.

I totally love the song and the message. Granted, I realize that she is not actually being "Photoshopped"but just layering video with cuts of her with different makeup, lighting, hair, etc. Regardless, it shows that THIS is what girls look to.  We are told, overtly and subconsciously, that we are supposed to have highlights in our hair, smouldering eye makeup, flawless complexion, striking eyes, rosy lips, and a light pleasing skin tone. Maybe a skinny neck, too. Add a thigh gap and you're golden.

I have never had flawless skin. I have freckles, pimples, and I could crush a walnut with my thighs. There is absolutely no gap there. My skin burns really easily and I don't tan. My hair is poker straight and is a dirty blonde shade - my Baba says that it will probably turn bullshit brown like hers did. For the past few months I have been adding raspberry-red chunks of colour for fun, but definitely not for anything other than to add to my love of bright colours.

But after my forced make-up withdrawl and this video, I made a decision.

I stopped wearing makeup to work.

I feel like I can be a role model for my middle school students who are at the age where they are starting to figure out what they are supposed to be. That they don't need makeup to be beautiful or express themselves.
I also feel like they could very well be pointing at me and laughing behind my back.

After years of covering up my natural skin and reading fashion magazines, this is something that I am still getting used to.  I have focused a lot of energy on being physically and mentally strong.  Now it's time to be brave.

Right now I feel naked.
Right now I feel vulnerable.
Right now I feel unpretty.

I also feel free.

Sex Ed the first

Being a mother of three does not allow for a lot of one-on-one time with each spawn. Between school, work, meals, cleaning, bathing, have you brushed your teeth? No you didn't let me check. Ew. I can smell shrimp and you've never eaten shrimp. And I just scraped off enough plaque to clog an artery. Get back in there and brush for the ENTIRE alphabet song. TWICE.

And then there is bedtime. Three kids mean we are outnumbered. 3 nights of the week I am the solo parent in the evening, which means I somehow have to sever my arms so that I can scratch Keesadilla's back, lightly tickle iBean's back and lay there while Sashimi wraps his entire body over me to fall asleep. Needless to say, the one-on-one is more precious than saffron. That's right. SAFFRON.

Tonight, T took Sashimi to a baseball game and iBean wanted to go with. Keesadilla said he'd rather stay with me. To be honest, I was a bit shocked. Baseball games always come with the implicit promise of candy and treats and staying up late. iBean is totally onto this already. I WANNA GOOOOOO! You grab my potty for me to pee. No, I don't want my black shoes they give me owies. I want my Tinkerbell shoes I DO IT MYSEFFFFF! Byeeee Mommy Bummy!

So it was me and K-man. Pondering life. Hanging out. Maybe we'd play a board game, read a book, draw...
K: Mommy!!! Can we go to the Reddi-mart for a treat?? **Insert batting eyes and a ridiculous smirk that makes me melt because I know that came out of ME.
Me: Well, what kind of treat do you want? Do we have to go to the Reddi-mart? It's the FARTHEST store from our house. We can go to a closer store.
K: But I really want those small round chips in the round tube. You know, the ones you can ONLY get at Reddi-mart!
Me: You mean Pringles? Dude, you can get those anywhere.
K: NOOOOO, not the little tubes. I want a little one.

Well, you can't turn down a kid who has portion control figured out.

After our adventure into the fantastically overpriced convenience food market, I told him he really needed a bath. He had done some sort of Smurf art at school and he totally blue himself. So he had a bath and I hopped in quickly to wash my hair. Yes, I occasionally bathe with my kids.  Don't fixate on that. He's in kindergarten. To him it's still hilarious to dump water all over my head and watch me blubber for breath.
This time, though, he looked down at his chest and rubbed his nipples.

K: Mommy, am I supposed to be girl with these things?
Me: Keesadilla, EVERYONE has them. Boys and girls. But only girls grow breasts when they become teenagers because when they become mommies, they fill up with milk for their babies.
K: A kid in my class said they are called boobies.
Me: Yeah, I guess you can say that. That's sort of like calling your penis a weenie.
K: HAHAHAHAHA. WEENIE! So what happens to boys if we don't get boobies?
Me: Well, your penis will get bigger.
K: I know THAT. I mean, Daddy's is HUGE. Like way huge. Mine is just a teeny penis. Why does it need to get SO BIG? It's just for peeing.
Me: .............
K: OH WAIT. I get it. Because Daddies have way more pee than boys.
Me: Yes. Yes. That's right. How about we have a popsicle and watch TV?
K: YEA!!!!! *forgets about huge penises and boobies*


Sex Ed. You heard it here first. Daddies get HUGE penises for all their pee. And that's it. Nothing else EVER.

Dear Air Canada: You suck

Dear Air Canada,

I am flying to Calgary today, although now I will be ariving two and a half hours later than I had planned, because even though I was at the airport 45 minutes prior to departure, there was a line and I could not get through the line fast enough and you wouldn't let me on my flight.
I had checked on online yesterday and already had a boarding pass. The only reason I had to stand in that line was to get a luggage tag. But because it took me 15 minutes to get through the line, by the time I arrived at the counter, I was told that the plane was already boarding and that I was fubared.
What??
I checked in online so that I could avoid lines, but then had to stand in a line anyway, which made me too late to board a flight that I checked into yesterday.
WHAT???
She said she would call her manager. I thought he would get my butt fast through and on the plane. Nope. He sat at a computer and looked through a bunch of screens and then said I would be arriving in Calgary at 6:55.
So then a manager was called because I was not happy. I could not understand how myself, and the two people behind me, could not get on a plane that was not scheduled to depart for another 30 minutes, all because we were told we had to be here earlier.
I replied in frustration and said I WAS here at 2:30 and it took me 15 minutes to find a parking spot and walk to the departure desk.  Then he basically said close only counts in horseshoes and it was my fault because I should have allowed for that time. Like I thought it would take 15 minutes to park at the Grande Prairie Airport! IT HAS 4 GATES!! I think I have parked faster at YEG (Edmonton International) than here.
 Rather than filing that plane up with us three passengers who had already checked in online and were standing at the departure counter at 3:01 pm, you flew a plane with three empty seats, then put us on a later flight. To ice the craptastic cake further, because who doesn't love cake frosted with crap, I checked the departures board and saw that my flight actually departed EARLY. By 6 minutes. Which is about twice the time it took me to go through security at 3:10. So I sat at my gate, watched my actual flight leave at 3:24 because someone decided that I was too late to board.

There is a reason people don't like flying Air Canada and that you need government bailouts to keep you afloat, and this is it: because you suck.

Sincerely,

Sarah.

PS - you suck.

The Accidental Pixie

The kids have been gearing up for today all week: a costume-halloween party at a friend's house. Everyone was dressing up, adults included. My kids have had their costumes figured out for a week (iBean for much longer) and leave it to me to be making mine at the last minute the morning of the party.
But it's not my fault. I am not good at dressing up for anything, and I saw this cute idea online of how to make a Paper Bag Princess costume. So I was busy cutting away paper this morning and putting it together in the living room, making a total mess of the place. The kids were pretty happy with that and iBean was colouring on the scraps of leftover paper, Keesadilla was colouring and cutting and glueing. All very good crafty wholesome stuff.
Once my costume was done, albeit too wide for my shoulders, but whatevs, I hopped into the shower and began making myself look like I had just had my castle blown  up by a dragon. Which was not hard, since my entire living room had been blown up by a last-minute DIY costume attempt.
As I was teasing my hair and back-combing and hairspraying and rubbing mascara on my face to look like soot, I heard Sashimi yell: MOMMY! SOMETHING BAD IS HAPPENING!
I'm thinking, oh no, another creeper on Minecraft which I don't understand and what the hell is a creeper anyway.
Then: MOMMY! KEESADILLA AND IBEAN ARE CUTTING THEIR HAIR!
I run into the living room. iBean is sitting on a stool. Clumps of her ice-white lockson the table, alongside some darker chunks of brownish blond.
Audible gasp. LOUD GASP. Hands to mouth, almost choke on my fist from all the vacuum-style inhaling and OHHHHing.

Woe is me and my poor barely-grown hair

Everything was quiet. But my loud gasping and sighing and near-moaning. Then I asked the obvious question: Who cut iBean's hair?
Keesadilla: I did. Are you mad, Mommy?

Me: Well...WHY did you cut her hair?

Keesadilla: I think it looks better this way.

Me: Noooooooooo, it doesn't. And we have family pictures on Monday!

Keesadilla: Don't worry Mommy, hair always grows back.

Me: It won't grow back by Mondaaaaaaaaay!

Keesadilla: When is Monday?

Me: in two daaaaaaaays!!!!!!!!!1

Keesadilla: Oooooohhhhhhhh. 

Then I look. The hair chunks are glued to a piece of paper. There was motive behind this. I don't know if I understand it, but there was some sort of reasoning. For a split second, I actually pictured myself madly gluing all those white locks back onto her head. OH THE DEVASTATION! THE TRAGEDY!

Then I look. iBean says: Mommy, Kees is cutting my hairs. My hairs is short now!

And she smiles.

Obviously not bothered. At. All.

Punk-chic by Brother

She just sat there. She smiled. I tried to smile, but all I wanted to do was continue breathing into the paperbag costume. I know hair grows back. But not in 2 days. 

I texted my hairdresser the picture of the hairpocalypse. She texted me back right away and said she could fix as best she could f I took her right away.

Keesadilla was looking really concerned. I told him we would NOT miss the costume party, so not to worry. But that's not what he was worried about.

"Are you gonna take me to the police?"

"WHAT? No. I am not going to take you to the police. But can you just promise me that you will NEVER EVER cut hair again??"

Keesadilla looked at me, hesitant. I know he was really thinking about it.

"Yeah, Ok, fine."

Then I grabbed iBean and ran to the salon. Wait, did I mention that I was half decked out like a paperbag princess whose castle just got blown up?

Like this?

Who needs a hair cut NOW??

With mascara all over my cheeks and leggings and a top meant to go under the paperbag ,and backcombed to high heaven, we went to the salon.

The stylist said it was bad. Not the worst she's seen, but there would definitely be cowlicks she just couldn't fix.

When all was said and done, iBean came out like this:

Add a bunch of hoops in her ear and she could be me circa 1999

She had a sucker, she was happy.

Then mad dash home to go dress up for the party:

My sweet little Punk-Chic-Pixie Scooby Doo.

Good thing she's so cute!