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03 April 2014


Have I ever mentioned how much I hate April Fool's Day? I truly do. Not because I can't take a good hearted prank, or that my sense of humour is busted, but because I think it's a lame reason to pull a prank just for laughs, especially when they're expecting it. How about we just do it every day because it's funny as hell to fuck with people?

For real.

Generally I don't get pranked on April 1st. Probably because I'm not a fucking idiot. Just a wild guess. My friends and family know that I wouldn't fall for anything that day (ie: That I am not a fucking idiot) so my cousin decided that she'd set the stage the day before.

And I fell for it. Hook. Line. And sinker.

And to be honest? It was pretty fucking good. Nothing bad happened. No one got hurt. And most of all there were no repercussions. But it did freak me out. And isn't that the point of a prank?

Ever heard of Canada's Worst Driver? Apparently they're on season 8. Who knew... ? Any ways, my cousin has been threatening to apply for years. At my expense of course. Because telling your cousin she's a terrible driver is funny.


On March 31st, our text messages went as follows:

It continued on for a bit...but this post is getting a little out of hand with the images don't you think?

But the bottom line is this: I believed her. And I was pissed. And I was also embarrassed.

The next day she stopped by my work to drop off the consent form. It took me all of 4 seconds for it to become abundantly clear. I was had.

Well played, Naomi. Well played

04 March 2014

Bitch say what?

I'm 34.

That's tough to say for me sometimes. Mostly because I remember when my own Mom was 34 and I thought she was old as dirt, but also because it IS OLD AS DIRT.

Being in your mid-thirties has a stigma attached to it: We're supposed to be full of class and maturity, exemplary parents with a penchant for lemonade, curling, and cross-stitch and the mini van with the stick figure decals should be parked directly in the 2 car garage beside the mountain bikes and the cat carrier.


Clearly not I.

I think the only thing I do expected of me is raise my kids with a roof over their head, food in their bellies, and love. Love is everywhere. 

So basically what I am trying to tell you here is that I do not relate well to other 34 year old women. Or 33 year olds. Or 32 year olds. Or 25 year olds for that matter.

Because this weekend, some crazy-assed 25 year old (or something close-to) called me an old hag.


I probably shouldn't have parked my big fat cellulite-ridden ass in a chair at her table. And I probably shouldn't have flung my grey-streaked hair over my shoulder as I huskily whispered in the ear of the toddler man-child sitting next to her. And maybe I should have tried to cover up my wrinkles a bit better and wore a more supportive bra... but really... she didn't have to be such a bitch.

I was humiliated. And hurt. But most of all I was shocked. What generation is raising their kids to speak to ANYONE like that?

And that my friends, is exactly WHY I'm an old hag. Because instead of taking my fist and rearranging her wrinkle-free face, I thought about her parents and how disadvantaged she must be to have so much hate in her.

That's something my Mom would think. And she's old as dirt.

20 February 2014

And just when you thought you'd gotten rid of me...

You know that feeling when you have about 3,492 half (or barely) written blog posts in draft and every time you log-in to start writing, something else comes up?

(Like a kid pukes, or a work deadline pops up in your Outlook reminders and you realize it's actually 4 days old [WTF Outlook?!], or your alarm goes off to remind you of something and you've completely forgotten WHY you've set the alarm, or dinner is burning in the oven and one or more of your kids is screaming because the PVR didn't record their whole TV Show and life.will.end if they can't watch it, or you notice the unpaid electric bill on the corner of your desk, or your phone rings and it's the doctors office tellling you that you missed your appointment that day and the next one is three months from now?)

Yeah. That. Except that's not what happened here. Well partly. All that shit happened plus more insane shit except the 3,492 half written posts.

I could lie and say I have some really exciting and funny new posts for you, coming soon,  or I could tell you that my blog was hacked by aliens and every post I have written since the New Year magically was stolen and is now a best selling book on Mars (I like this one best), or I could tell you the truth: I HAVE BEEN FUCKING BUSY.

I yelled that to stress my point so I don't get grief from you.

But it's true. Life has gotten in the way of my therapuetic writing, and while I sit here typing my words I realize that I NEED A Life Less Ordinary, it doesn't need me. You guy's don't wait around with baited breath for my next ridiculous story, you don't get lonesome when I don't post for a month or two, and you most certainly don't take ANY of my advice because that would just be plain stupid and I don't want you to read my words if you're that dumb. Seriously. Stop. 

This place, as random as it is and as badly written as I choose to make it, is my little corner of solitude that allows me to escape from the messiness I call MY LIFE, in order to clear my mind of the stress, the hectic schedules, the JOB, the inane daily nuances that weigh me down.

I kinda love it here.

When I do take these 'leave of absences', I forget all that. And then I come back. And then I write this drivel. And then you all stop reading me because I bore you to tears.

But then something miraculous happens. I fall in love with A Life Less Ordinary again. And isn't that the point? This is my place. And the door is open.

I'm hospitable and shit. But don't spill on the carpet.

02 January 2014

Holy Hell it's 2014

Naw, this isn't going to be an obligatory New years post... mostly because I couldn't be bothered, but also because it's already January 2nd and I don't really have anything worthwhile to talk about.

Why change anything?

So basically, here's a wrap up of the latest shit since I last posted :

And that was it.

It's been a quiet few weeks really. Christmas came and went without incident (which, as you all know, in my family that's WEIRD) and New Years was uneventful as well (which, as you all know, in my family isn't weird at all because we're lazy and boring).

So for now, I leave you with these wise words from the very funny Laura Kightlinger:

"It goes Christmas, New Year's Eve, and Valentine's Day. Is that fair to anyone who's alone? If you didn't get around to killing yourself on Christmas or New Year's, boom, there's Valentine's Day for you. There should be a holiday after Valentine's Day called 'Are you still here?'"

Happy 2014.

10 December 2013

Smoking in the Bathroom.

They don't make the shower heads that low an more.
Just sayin' 
Well I did it again. I quit smoking. It started out a whole fuckload harder than I ever thought imaginable...and then BAM easy. In fact, I didn't even notice when it got easier.

Which in my head means I am so.fucking.over.it.

There was one moment back in mid-November that I think started the whole decent into clean and healthy lungs. I had just come home from a weekend trip to visit my sister and was doing my normal house inspection to find out exactly what kind of damage the kids and/or the ex had done in my absence when I came across something that literally made me gag back the vomit...

In my bathroom, on the ledge of my tub/shower, sitting in plain site on the window sill, was a cigarette butt.

WHAT.THE.FUCK, you ask? It certainly wasn't mine.

When I go away, my hubby's uncle comes to stay in order to help out with any of his necessary needs. Since the stroke, it makes sense to have another adult around if there are any long periods of time to make sure everyone is safe, cared for, and well...accounted for.

Now, calling his Uncle an adult might be stretching it a bit...

But he is family, And he does love E. But that's besides the point. He is a chain smoker. And apparently he likes to smoke in the shower.

WHAT.THE.FUCK, you ask? I know, right? I've weighed it in my mind a million times since then and I just can't seem to see how this could be remotely possible. Shower = water. Water = no fire. It seems pretty legit to me.

Regardless, I am on a path I am super excited to be on. And I most certainly won't (or ever) be smoking in the shower.

I am going to ask him how he does it though. Probably magic or some shit.

08 November 2013

An Elephant at the Gym

After my weight loss I sort of stayed 'status quo' and continued my healthy eating. The only exercise I was getting was a few slo-pitch games a week, but that doesn't really count since I was also consuming a drink or two at the same time.

And let's be honest, a few short sprints a game counts for about ZERO cardio.

I lost the weight without a single visit to the gym, and I've maintained the loss without a single visit to the gym, BUT, in order for me to tone those areas that I can't really do anything about with just eating right, I decided it was high time I picked my ass up off the couch and start going to the gym more regularly.

That spare tire around my butt isn't going to change itself. 

I'm one of those women that if I am going to put in the effort to put on cute work out clothes, fill my water bottle and drive the 5 minutes to the gym, I am going to put a shit-ton of effort in while I am there.

1. Because people SEE you. And they MOCK you (foreshadowing).
2. Because there are only 24 usable hours in every day and I'm not wasting any of them.
3. Because I pay for it and I am a cheap motherfucker.

So can you guess what irks me? Can you guess what really tweeks my nerves?

Those ladies that come to the gym in in designer work out gear, not a single hair out of place, make-up carefully applied and set with finishing powder, who use zero weights on the machines and walk almost backwards on the treadmill.

There are times I have had to bite my tongue from saying "Any idea what kind of workout you're getting there?"

True, they're paying for their membership too. True, they're already skinny and toned and beautiful. BUT COME ON... women hate women, it's a fact. So why would you put yourself in a position to be mocked and ridiculed only to look fantastic to a bunch of people who would respect you more if you looked like shit?

Baffles me. 

Once such woman happens to be at the gym almost every time I go. And for some weird reason, she likes to use the treadmill that's the closest to me, whichever one I happen to be using. She's teeny, she's cute, and she's a RIDICULOUS ELEPHANT.


She's 90lbs. I don't have a clue how she makes the noises she does. And I see absolutely no reason for her to lean forward on the machine, set it to mock speed, and jump like a ballerina.

I can't figure out why one of the trainers hasn't approached her (politely) to show her how to properly use the machine.

I give it a month and there will be a "out of order" sign on three or more of the treadmills because she's carried her carnage all over the place.

For me, running is a warm up; a time to get some good tunes going, my heart rate accelerated, and a build up to my weight lifting. 30 minutes of peace isn't a lot to ask for.

However, it does entertain me. And I guess since no one is doing anything about it, I shall continue to giggle, mock, and ridicule her 3 day a week. Because I am a woman, and I hate women.

So. Thank you?

18 October 2013

Let's skip the middle man shall we?

Toddlers are messy. Little boy toddlers even messier.

So it's only natural that we put a big 'ol huge plate of spaghetti with tomato sauce in front of them and expect them to stay clean, right?


It isn't rocket science, and yet I still think that the day will come when I can give him anything to eat, and he'll use his fork (or spoon), and every drop will go inside his mouth, and not painted all over the table and the kitchen floor.

One day. Riiiiiiiiiight. 

So, I may revolt. I may completely skip the 'middle man' and start throwing food on the floor, squirt some ketchup, sit him down and call it a day.

As much as the cleanup would be horrendous, the time saved by not frantically baby-wiping his face, his hands, the table and the floor throughout the meal would be well worth it.