bait and switch

Once upon a time he brought roses every week, he wrote love letters, only used his best manners and never ever farted.

So I married him.

And then the flowers stopped and the bodily gases started and it came to my attention that boys are very very gross.

We call that the bait and switch. Well played, sir. Well played.

So the other night I climbed into bed after a long day. The man was already there, all cozy-like under his weighted blanket, Iggy. We settled in for an episode of Veronica Mars on the Flix when, all of a sudden, this conversation ensued.

"The cat puked on my blanket," he says.

"Oh..." I said, my eyes naturally scanning the blanket. The puke was still there. Still. Weird, I thought. Why is it still there?

"Are you going to clean it up?" I ask.

"Eventually," he says.

Sooo....I got out of bed and cleaned it up.

Will the romance ever die? Gosh, I sure hope not.

in the news...

As I sit here at my desk pondering the many ways I can potentially procrastinate on what I am supposed to be doing, which is homework, I start scrolling through the CNN news. Because, although that is part of my homework, it is also extraordinarly interesting. Babies are falling from the sky and coups are being had. It is all very fascinating and anxiety inducing. I am also listening to music, but I shouldn't be because it makes me all ADD-like and jittery and then I dance and stuff and nothing gets done.

Nothing is getting done here people. Nothing, I say.

I have two spring classes and I have never taken two spring classes before therefore I have no idea what taking two spring classes is like. Is it too much? Is it enough? I am overwhelmed? Am I completely ahead of the game? I have no idea what I am. I do homework all the time and yet I have no idea if I am ahead or behind. And, before I even know it it will all be over!

Poof.

I love spring.

One of my classes is about Propaganda and Persuasion and I find it most exhilarating. The prof is this kooky fella who looks just like one of my older brothers. It's disconcerting. He used the word kerflaffle the other day. Which isn't even a word, and we all know it. But I have nothing but the utmost respect for a university educated human being who has the cojones to not only make up words but then use them in a lecture.

He gave us this overwhelming assignment and I am….overwhelmed by it. Or I was until I sat down to figure it out and got it done. Just like that.

We have to watch the news. Watch the news!! I don't watch the news. I don't read the news. I don't even know what news is.

I ran out of Diet Pepsi. Now that is news. Or is it?

See, I have no idea. Anyway, we have to pick four news outlets and compare how they present the same story. One has to be the BBC, one has to be strictly Canadian, one has be American and one has to be non North American. We have to watch the news, we can't just read the website, and then put together a presentation for the class describing the differences/similarities etc….

Now if you're a news watcher this is probably nothing, but for someone like me I was all "What? the What??? WHAAAAAA?!?!"

I didn't know what to do.

But I pulled myself together, and got all serious-like and brave about life and it's international news happenings. It's all good. It was actually really easy. And thank-you Thailand, your recent coup really helped a sister out.

And now, I am an expert news watcher. And I should mention this assignment isn't due until June 2 at the very earliest. So we'll go with "ahead of the game" on this one.

Also, I need this. How bad I need this might be news worthy. I swear it is. Call the press.

Happy Friday!

thoughts on a may long

Confession time. I am not a lover of the May long weekend and I haven't been for many many a year. Maybe even a decade. Or more. Yes, definitely more than a decade. I go to bed every Victoria day evening feeling an overwhelming sense of guilt that I haven't worked hard enough to provide for my children a fancy trailer that I can spend a day getting ready, so we can pull it to some campground and freeze our butts off for three nights just to come home and get the trailer unready.

Don't get me wrong, I love camping. But warm camping. You know, the fun kind of camping.

If I could actually afford a trailer I'm not entirely sure I would have one. They seem great, I won't lie, but the upkeep? And the storing? And the setting up? I am way too lazy for that.

It has been determined, by me, after some serious observation over the last three weeks, that I am most certainly the laziest person I know. On the planet.

The laziest person on the planet. That title belongs to me and I am not so proud.

It's time for some changes in that department before I stop fitting places. Because I am noticing that I don't fit everywhere so well anymore.

I digress.

May long. The man works every May long. In 19 years I do believe he has worked every single one of them. What if he didn't work? What would change?

BBQ's would be had. An outing of some sort? Perhaps. But maybe an inside outing because, like I said, it's cold out.

Okay, it was actually nice out this weekend. Not camping nice but walkabout nice. And because it was nice out my guilt at writing a paper and allowing iPads and video games indefinitely went from a 6 to an 8.4. Yesterday, to stave the guilt, I took the two littles for lunch and to see Godzilla. Not an outside activity but an activity nonetheless. It knocked my guilt down to a 7.8.

I hate guilt. But it is something I am very good at. An accomplishment, of sorts.

Here's to hoping next May long has bad weather to justify all the in-sided-ness or no homework and a husband who isn't working.

A girl can dream.

oh, the insanity

So my kid thinks she's leaving me after high school. She thinks she's going to graduate and then move away to get a university education she says you can only get at one university, in one faraway city.

 And it isn't this one.

Who is this kid? This kid with the ability to dream and make plans that actually make sense, as much as I don't want them to. I really don't know where she gets this from, all this bravery. I mean, it wasn't until the very last minute of grade 12 that it was brought to my attention that I needed to not only decide what I wanted to do after high school but I needed to do something about it. Like apply to university, or something. But this kid of mine?? She's only in grade 11 and she's got it all planned out, like some freaky planning maniac. She spends hours plotting and planning and making it work in her head and on paper.

What is this messed up plan? Well, I do declare, she wants to go to Ryerson University in Toronto and get a degree in something I've never heard of before. She says it's the only university in the world that has this degree and that she has to have this degree like you need to have air. I need to have carbonation.

That is some serious need, I tell you. And she needs it that bad. Like THAT bad.

And here I sit thinking that really she just wants to get the heck out of dodge and finding this random, unheard of degree on the other side of the country is her only way to do it. And then I think why, oh why does my darling daughter want to run away from home? Why does she want to leave her mama?

Ouch, my heart.

She's making me feel old.

I ask her on occasion how she plans on making this work. How will she just up and move to Toronto? How will she afford it? How will she eat and go to school and make money and not die from missing-her-mother? Again, I ask, who is this kid?

I can remember after three years of post secondary education, while living at home, I contemplated moving away to finish a degree in Criminology at one of a very few universities that offered it. I remember thinking about how exciting it would be to have roommates and a job and debt. Lots and lots of debt. And then I thought, "No thank you. I will not leave my mummy for further education."

She is only 16 and is planning her grand escape and I won't deny it sounds exciting and romantic and brave. But I won't lie, I think she is on crack (metaphorically, of course) in thinking this is doable. She's crazy.

She's crazy, right?

Or maybe she's not. Maybe she's living the dream. Maybe she will do it, because lots of kids do. Or maybe she will decide that leaving her mama is not cool.

Not cool at all.

And then she will stay here and go to school close to home where she gets to live at home for free and eat all her papa's food and not have to worry about all those things that are keeping me up at night worrying about on her behalf.

I mean, she is young. Maybe all this mature, planning for the future garbage is really just a cover up for being out of one's mind.

Could she be serious about this? Or is this plan just all kinds of crazy?

Only time will tell....

belated mother's day miracle

Well, Mother's Day has come and gone and that is fine by me because I did not care much for it this year. My gift left me wanting.

I mean, my real gift was great because of course I went to the mall and picked it out myself. I kept telling the kids they bought me a wonderful Mother's Day gift and when they asked if they could see it I told them they had to wait, for it must be a surprise to SOMEONE.

AmIright?

It was the surprise, post-dinner gift I didn't like so much but I shan't complain for the man hated it more than I did. But I declare, I believe he asked for it when he tried to garburate many and much potato and turnip peels.

He made a lovely dinner of BBQ steak, roast potatoes, garlic mushrooms and turnip (which I love so don't ewwww me) and then began his Mother's Day cleanup. He's good at Mother's Day, I will give him that. But...he is insistent the garbuator work to a standard most garburators refuse to work at.

I try to ease the garburator in when I'm dealing with it. I go slow, little bits here and little bits there. I talk real sweetly to it. I don't want any garburator rebellion whilst cleaning up. The man, on the other hand, thinks a certain way and it's his way or the highway. The man is passively stubborn. But don't tell him I said that or he may not so passively rebel against me.

Anywho, I am positive I am not spelling garburator right.

So although Mother's Day dinner was a delight, the kitchen at the end of the day was not. It was a hideous mess because as hard as he tried he could not unplug the blasted demon before we were forced to turn in.

Have mercy...

Don't even mention the oven drawer. The thing is a disaster!

Did I mention we had started a load in the dishwasher and were forced to stop it because the sink guts were all taken apart? No? Well I'm telling you know. The sink guts were everywhere and dishwasher was now sitting idle, mid-load. Gross.

Day 2. The man comes home from work with vats of drano and goes to work. Pouring drano in, waiting, snaking, blowing air, garburating, attaching sink guts, removing them, pouring drano, waiting and so on and so forth in that fashion until once again it was time to retire into bed for the night.

Have more mercy......


Day 3. By this time I am anxious about the mess in the kitchen. I am feeling a panic attack coming on and so off I head to hot yoga because if you can't come to terms with life's tragedies while sweating your brains out then you are not qualified to have life tragedies. It came to me whilst lying in a pool of my own sweat that I was going to have to do something about the kitchen.

I started contemplating various caveman techniques. I decided to go home and wash the dishes by hand.


 In the bathtub.

And so I did.

Oh, the drama.

But wait. There's more. I accidentally closed the dishwasher door and it started up again unbeknownst to me. I left the kitchen and returned a few minutes later to see water pouring out from under the cupboard doors. It was pouring all over the sink guts that were lying on the kitchen floor. The same sink guts that, used correctly, keep the water contained under the sink. Now, they are nothing more than floor decor.

So I cleaned up that mess. And I was still sweating from all the yoga-ing I had done earlier. And the leaning over the tub for an hour. I was a sweaty annoyed lady. Have you seen those? They aren't pretty.

Then the man came home, with more drano, and a determination that spoke volumes to me in a silent way. It said something like, "I will conquer this plug and don't even mention a plumber to me because I am the victor in this story, not some stinkin' plumber."

We admire the man and his ambition.

I grinned, tucked my aggravation away, and watched him poor more drano down the pipe. And wait. And fiddle and fuss all about the sink. We stood staring at two sinks full of water wondering when this plague would lift.

By golly, oh plague of broken sinks and stinky dishes, be gone from this home.

He plugged up one side and ordered me to hit the garburator switch. Which I did because I am nothing if not a team player.

The sinks drain. It is a belated Mother's Day miracle.We stood in awe and amazement. And then we high fived because again, team players.

I have since cleaned up the kitchen, done multiple loads in the dishwasher and pretty much gone on my merry way.

And that, my friends, is how the Dabels do Mother's Day.

another friday mishmash

I was convinced that when I had two weeks off school I needed a project. I had a head full of ideas: I could paint a room, work on my book, clean up the hovel. I did none of it. Instead, I have run around, driving myself places, and I can't even remember where now. My head is swimming in bafflement, what do I do all day?

I bought groceries three days ago and they are still sitting on my kitchen floor. Canned goods and the such. Some might look at me, or my house, and assume a level of depression has fallen like a veil across my life. But I assure you, it is not so much a depression as it is an astoundingly high level of lazy. It's cavernous actually. A cavern of lazy, that I fell into when school finished and I took the time to stand still and check out the scenery. It took my brain a few days to realize that everything had just stopped. It was going full hog and then...it just stopped.

And boom, cavern of lazy.

So anyway, it is Friday, before the Wednesday when school starts again and I have nothing to show for it besides unemptied groceries, unfolded laundry, atrophied muscles and an unfinished novel.

So the other day I walked into a 7-11 and was followed by a person who turned out to be an old friend of mine. After we greeted each other she said, "Funny story, I saw you get out of your car and walk in here and I was watching you from behind and noticed your outfit and thought 'that is SOOOO Mormon'."

And hey! I'm a Mormon, so that's awesome. Or is it?

Still, my head is all abaffled. I don't know that I want to look SOOOO Mormon. What does that even mean? I mean, do Mormons have a look?

Okay okay okay. I know the layered look is a fairly common Mormon look and that whole spaghetti strap tank top over a t-shirt look is pretty Mormon. So I guess we can add maxi skirt and sweater to the uniform as well. Sigh...I didn't know. Not only am I a Mormon, but I look like one too.

Ba dum ching.

Here is the skirt in question.  I am not putting it on, so don't ask.

Back to being a student, I did not too badly this semester, having way overloaded myself with four classes. I am quite relieved. And all bafflety-like that with my level of confusement in all things Geology I still managed to get a B+. Not the best grade ever, but you try to decipher Greek for 4 months and then take a multiple choice test in it. I'll happily take the B+ and wish Geology a nice life for it I and are forever over.

Forever I say.

I know what you're thinking. You're wondering how someone who makes up their own words is allowed into a University. Well, they are. So there. And I will continue to make up words here, there and everywhere because there should be no such thing as words that make sense to me that aren't really words.

Make sense? Ofcourseitdoes

Happy Friday!

a friday catchup

Boo!

I know, you thought I had vanished, and I sort of did. I fell into the chasm of life and life can be a whirling dervish. But right now I am here, in my bed, with my laptop, nursing some hungry hormones and useless cramps and wondering why I feel panic at having nothing to do. Since the beginning of January I have had something pressing to do every minute of every day and now the semester is done, finals are done and I literally have nothing pressing at the moment. The man has gone skiing and so I feel that if I want to sit in bed and watch the Flix all morning then that is what I will do.

Thank you very much.

My 3 three old nephew calls it the Flix and he is dead right. It is flixy.

So let's update the blog and catch myself up with life. Let's see...where to start?

Let's start with the fosters. In a nutshell, I will say that having these fosters made me reevaluate life and when they moved out a couple of weeks ago we decided, or I did, that I am not fostering anymore. Having gone back to school, having difficult teens of my own, and basically being spread as thin as a chubby girl can be spread, it was time to take a look at what can go and what can't. Since it would appear unethical to rid myself of my own teens, and I have no intention of getting this far in my degree to walk away, it just seemed right to end a fostering career that didn't feel good anymore.

Maybe I'll tell you more about that later, maybe I won't. The boys moved in with family which is a good thing and so that is that.

Next, school. Yesterday I received two of my four class marks. One was for geology, which has terrorized me for the last 4 months and the other was for a Canadian pop culture history class. One of these appears to be an easy A and the other, as I said, terrorized me for the last 4 months. I don't know what it takes to get an A in this history class but I clearly don't have it. For as brilliant as I think I am, whoever marked all the writing I did for this class did not agree with me. I did better in geology, the terror, than in Canadian pop culture. How does one not get an A in hockey, rock n' roll and corsets?

I don't get it. University is baffling unto me.

Next, the gray. I have four gray hairs and I have named them all Jack. Okay, Cicely can have one. But Jack gets the rest. The punk.

What is the deal with teenagers? Can someone please enlighten me? Why are they wired to drive their parents nuts? I spend most of my day shaking my head in disbelief at their wild mood swings, their strange choices and just at their general...everything. How ever will I survive the next 15 years?

I would like to take this opportunity to publicly apologize to my parents for their gray hairs named Catherine. For I assume there are many.

If you have easy teens then move on. There's nothing to see here. I don't need to know. I already spend too much time trying to figure out where I am going wrong. I don't need more to think about.

Mostly I am being over dramatic. Or am I? I blame my hormones.

So how about you? Whassup?