Caution: Wii Pregnant

We be Wiiing.

Despite the ridiculous difficulty in obtaining a Wii in most of Canada (anywhere you look, they're back-ordered or out-of-stock), we got one.  Last weekend.  It was a great weekend.  I whooped Col. Mustard's ass at everything, despite my being huge with baby.

I thought this weekend would be an easy victory.  HA!  Turns out the Col. has been practicing.  A lot.  Especially at tennis, which I have actually played in real life, while he has not.   I don't know how many best-of-fives we played last night, but they all ended after 3 matches, and never in my favour.  He can hit those balls and make them go so fast, while mine just lob over the net with a nice pregnant arc.

The Col. decided to run on the elliptical after trouncing me at tennis, but I wanted to redeem myself at something, anything.  So I decided to take up a new sport: bowling. Nice low impact, not really cardio, I thought it would be great.  And it was. I am the MASTA of bowling.  I played until I racked up my skill level to 784.  Then I noticed that my butt really hurt.  I was using muscles I didn't know I had anymore, so I decided to call it a night.

My ass thought otherwise.

My ass and lower back ached so much that I couldn't sleep for most of the night, on top of the regular night-time wakefulness a pregnant women suffers in her third trimester. Luckily for me, the Col. woke up with Sacha and took him to church while I tried to sleep in.

They just got back from church.  Turns out there was a pancake buffet breakfast.  I ate Cheerios at home.  Serves my heathen-wiiing-ass right, I guess.

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I welcome any tips on how to play Wii tennis and spike those balls so I can beat my husband,  whose advantage seems to lie in the fact that he is so clearly accustomed to playing with his.

Higgledy-Piggledy with Numbers

Number of names given to our cat, Mr. Dash, (who meows incessantly at Sacha's door when he is sleeping) on any given day: dozens, including but not limited to:

• dumbass


• jackass fuckface


• Idiot! (think Napoleon Dynamite)


• fucker


• jerkwad


• ass bandit


• retard


• shithead


• pig


• fucking cat


• stupid cat


• DASH!


• dickface


• fuckweed


• ass hat


• dickhead

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Number of train and/or train related toys in our house to satisfy Sacha's obsession with all things train: 0

Number of pool pumps sitting in our storage room that Sacha thinks are trains and insists on riding: 1

Number of Thomas the Train videos viewed on YouTube: infinity squared

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Number of socks designed and intended to fit a Winnie the Pooh doll: 0

Number of socks Sacha thinks are rightfully Winnie's: 2, my newly finished knit Thistle Socks, which Sacha took off my warm feet and put on his Winnie.

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Number of soothers hacked up, destroyed and garbaged in the last week: 10

Number of soothers still remaining in the house: 5 (we think, although Sacha has been known to stash them for future dry spells)

Number of soothers that are actually fully intact: 3 (the other 2 have teeny holes pierced in them)

Number of soothers required by the little dude to go to sleep: 2 (an improvement from 3, which was the standard until last week).

Number of times I wish I had taken the fucking thing away a long time ago: the integral of infinity raised to the power of x.

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Number of child-mullets waiting to be rectified by a competent stylist: 1 (but a very important 1)

Number or rockin' haircuts received in the past week: 1

What's your number, baby?

I don't need sex on Valentine's Day: I've got Bernard

Remember how I said this?

Well, it happened again. The part about the chocolates.  A lovely parcel arrived in the mail for me this week: a box of Bernard Callebaut chocolates. If you have never sampled the goodness that is a Bernard Callebaut chocolate, I pity you. I really do. They really are the best chocolates you can buy. In fact, they're good for dieting because after eating one, you'll turn a smug nose away from your ordinary Oh Henry or Hershey's chocolate bars. They're just not the same. Probably the only thing that comes close to Bernard Callebaut chocolates in terms of their greatness is sex. In fact, they may be better than sex. Indulge me for a minute:

Theorem: Bernard Callebaut chocolates may be are better than sex.

Proof:

• Col. Mustard stated that my sharing 3 of these sublime chocolates with him was the same as putting out.


• You can do enjoy it without worrying about shaving or pruning.


• They cannot get you pregnant.


• You aren't considered a whore if you spread the chocolate love. In fact, it is most likely considered a public service for the greater good.


• You don't have to get all warmed up and prepped to enjoy a chocolate.


• You'll ALWAYS be satisfied.

Anyone have anything else they'd like to add? Have you had the pleasure of having intimate relations with these chocolates?

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As a total aside, does it drive anyone else crazy when people say ValentiMe?  It's not a time of day, it's a name of a saint.  It's N, not M.  Freaken crap.

No title - just complaints

Sacha is in a mood today.  Oy vey.  This doesn't happen too often, but when it does, it always puts me on edge, making me dwell on the insignificant and usually benign irritants in my life.

1. I can't get Sacha to give up his soother.  A few weeks ago, we took it away during the day with great success.  About 5 days later, he got a really bad cold and we gave it back to him.  Now, if he doesn't have his soother in his mouth, he walks around with his hand on his mouth in wonderment of his precious' whereabouts. Yesterday, it got so bad that he started dumping all the laundry hampers and taking the couch cushions off trying desperately to score some soother, screaming the entire time.  I decided to go "find" one (in my dresser) and gave it to him.  I couldn't take it anymore.


2. I am tired of the constant back ache with this pregnancy.  Ugh.  Cannot get comfortable sitting, standing, lying, period.  Let alone trying to put out for the Col.


3. I wish Sacha would never have learned to scream when he has his little fits. It is seriously the most obnoxious thing I've ever heard.  Well, aside from Col. Mustard's musical tastes.  But that's a whole other story.


4. I wish Sacha would let me leave him with a sitter.  Alas, he screams and cries the entire time I am gone.  It would be nice to be able to go and get a haircut once in a while and not be destined to look like a cherry-picker all the time.


5. This baby is giving me the worst heartburn I've ever had.  Mostly from my favourite comfort foods, like pasta, pizza, meat, those types of things. I've had to resort to buying extra-mild salsa.  Extra-mild!  I am so ashamed.


6. I really miss Starbucks, and I just can't bring myself to drive 3 hours one-way just to go have have a yummy beverage.


7. Tax time licks goat testicles, especially when one cannot look forward to receiving a refund because one has no income.


8. I'm tired of this shit-hole town.  I cannot wait to move our asses out of here, even if it costs us a small fortune.  If it means only one kid can go to college, so be it.


9. I'm tired of wearing glasses.  They totally throw off my groove.  Oh wait, my hair already does that.  And my big tummy.  Nevermind.


10. I'm tired of hearing about Britney Spears.  Can we not all agree that she's gone psycho-hose beast and get back to some real news reporting?  Like whatever happened to Chunk from the Goonies?

It's Business Time

As some of you may already be aware, Col. Mustard* and I have been married for 5 years.  Our church decided to have a mass celebration of marriage this year: anyone who is celebrating a significant anniversary (which they defined as a year ending in 5 or 0, or anything over 50) would get to celebrate mass together, get a fancy certificate, have a festive luncheon with sweet little finger sandwiches, and have a complimentary anniversary photo taken.  Being a total sucker for succulent finger sandwiches, I signed us up.

I did not know that in order to get free sandwiches, we would need to renew our vows.  Uh oh.  For realz?  I already did this once!  Does this mean I'm going to have to put out tonight? Cuz I got tricked into that once before, and I'd like to think that I'm on to that whole wedding game, now.  You can't fool me twice.

But then I looked at my husband, my dear, sweet husband who gets up with our son every morning and lets me sleep until 8, who buys me yummy chocolates out of the blue, who cleans up around the house, who supports my knitting and internetz addictions, and who loves me anyway.

I guess putting out once in a while is worth it.

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*Tony has mentioned that it would be cool if he takes on my alias, so as of now he is Col. Mustard.  As in Clue.  As in Col. Mustard in the conservatory with the knife. Not that he's into that sort of thing.

Not just for looks

I like to think of myself as a bit of a tree-hugger: I use cloth diapers, I wash my clothes in cold water, I dry my clothes on a clothesline (weather permitting), I drive a hybrid, I use compact fluorescent bulbs, energy-star rated appliances, and I use eco-friendly grocery bags.

That is, I bring my eco-bags to the store and assume that the store that sold me the eco-friendly bag will know that I want them to pack my groceries IN said eco-friendly bag.

Ah, what a nice bag! I feel great that I am saving some landfills from all those plastic bags!

Wait, what is that?? A plastic bag WITHIN an eco-bag?  How the hell does that work?

When I bought my milk (you can see which store from the bag), I placed my eco-bag on the counter next to the milk, assuming that the cashier would get the hint and place my milk in her store's eco-bag. Obviously she was not that smart. Instead, she placed my milk in one plastic bag, my two bottles of water in another plastic bag, then put them in my eco-bag.

This is where I go:

Are you fucking kidding me? For real? Why the hell would a store market and sell eco-bags and then not tell their cashiers to use them? Furthermore, why the hell would I want you to put my milk and pop in separate plastic bags, then put both of those bags into an eco-bag?

Now, I cannot blame the store in question as being the only culprit. I have also shopped at Walmart, boasting its own brand of eco-bags, and the handitard cashier, even after I told her to put my groceries in the eco-bags, continued to plastic bag everything and then place them in the eco-bag. Then there are the cashiers that get their curlers in a knot when I insist that it's ok to place my deli meat next to *gasp* my bread in the same bag, like so:

I mean, for crap's sake.  The deli meat is double-wrapped in plastic as it is, and the bread is already in a paper bag from the bakery.  I think it's ok that they sit next to each other. Getting along is a virtue I love in food.

I don't use eco-bags because they're pretty. I use them to help the environment.

So damn you stupid companies who sell these bags, tell your cashiers to USE THEM!

Only a scare

We had a scare last night.

Sacha has been battling a cold, but seems to be mostly over it.  He has some coughing spells, but nothing major.  Last night, Sacha went to bed without incident, but was awake 30 minutes later, crying.  Tony went up to see what was wrong.  I soon heard him yelling for me: "Oh God! Hon!  Oh God!  Oh God!"

I ran upstairs and heard a coughing fit.  Tony was in the room, with the lights on, holding a brick-red faced Sacha, who was coughing his little lungs out.  He couldn't seem to get his breath.  Then, as quickly as it all started, it all quietened, and he laid his head on Tony's shoulder and closed his eyes.

Tony said that when he walked into the room, Sacha was thrashing in his tangled blankets, and then was gasping and wheezing, as though choking.  Not knowing what he could be choking on (as his bed is a safe haven), he grabbed him and started patting his back to help him along.  That's when I walked in.

We stayed with him until he fell back asleep and tucked him back into bed.  I was sufficiently freaked out that I spent the rest of the night tossing and turning, listening for every little noise and leaped out of bed at every cough.  The fear that I had as a new mother, afraid of SIDS, was back, thinking that my son would stop breathing in the night if I wasn't attentive enough.  I had to check his tummy to feel it rise and fall, confirmation of his breathing.  I had to stroke his hair and hold his hand, feeling his warmth, for fear that it may leave in a second if I wasn't careful.

I cannot fathom going through what she (and she and she and many others) have gone through.

I am thankful that it was only a scare.