Here's a conversation I just had with my 3-year-old:
Mommy - "What do we use to smell with?"
Trouble - "Hmmm... My nose!" (Yes, he actually says "Hmmm..." before answering any questions)
Mommy - "What do we use to see with?"
Trouble - "Hmmm... My eyes!"
Mommy - "What do we use to listen with?"
Trouble - "Hmmm... Headphones!"
Um - yeah.
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Effective Advertising
I've ranted about ineffective ads in the past. Twice, actually. The airwaves seem to be rank with commercials that make you want to throw a brick through your television screen.
To give credit where credit is due, I have to admit that there are a few ads out there that are actually well thought-out and do the job they're supposed to do - namely, to make me and the little money I have part company.
One such set of commercials are the "Mac vs. PC" ads. You know the ones, where a not-so-young (notice I didn't say 'older') guy in a suit introduces himself as the PC and a younger guy in casual clothes represents the Mac. Now, I'm not so sure that I've actually been won over by the arguments that Macs are better than PCs. I think I'm just afraid of turning out like the PC guy. I mean, he's been taking some pretty nasty beatings during these commercials. First, he had a really bad virus and was sneezing all over the Mac guy. Then he was split up into a bunch of pieces so that parts of him were in other boxes. In the latest commercial, poor Mr. PC has been yanked unceremoniously off the desk by someone tripping over his power cord. He's been confined to a wheelchair with at least one broken arm and a brace around his neck. Not to mention the fact that he comes across as a bit of a stiff, almost accountant-like in his demeanor. I'd much rather be like the cool, young Mac dude.
Another series of commercials that aren't effective so much as they are entertaining are the Bell Sympatico ads featuring the beavers. Talking beavers are always good for a chuckle (or maybe that's just a Canadian thing). But, does anyone else giggle at the thought of beavers living in an apartment with hardwood floors and wooden furniture? I don't know why, but this one gets me every time.
Technorati Tags: Advertising ; Television ; Computer ; Mac ; PC ; Sympatico ; Beavers
To give credit where credit is due, I have to admit that there are a few ads out there that are actually well thought-out and do the job they're supposed to do - namely, to make me and the little money I have part company.
One such set of commercials are the "Mac vs. PC" ads. You know the ones, where a not-so-young (notice I didn't say 'older') guy in a suit introduces himself as the PC and a younger guy in casual clothes represents the Mac. Now, I'm not so sure that I've actually been won over by the arguments that Macs are better than PCs. I think I'm just afraid of turning out like the PC guy. I mean, he's been taking some pretty nasty beatings during these commercials. First, he had a really bad virus and was sneezing all over the Mac guy. Then he was split up into a bunch of pieces so that parts of him were in other boxes. In the latest commercial, poor Mr. PC has been yanked unceremoniously off the desk by someone tripping over his power cord. He's been confined to a wheelchair with at least one broken arm and a brace around his neck. Not to mention the fact that he comes across as a bit of a stiff, almost accountant-like in his demeanor. I'd much rather be like the cool, young Mac dude.
Another series of commercials that aren't effective so much as they are entertaining are the Bell Sympatico ads featuring the beavers. Talking beavers are always good for a chuckle (or maybe that's just a Canadian thing). But, does anyone else giggle at the thought of beavers living in an apartment with hardwood floors and wooden furniture? I don't know why, but this one gets me every time.
Technorati Tags: Advertising ; Television ; Computer ; Mac ; PC ; Sympatico ; Beavers
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Ellen on Blogs
I was watching the Ellen show this morning. In her opening monologue, she was chatting about creating a 'life's list' - a list of things you want to accomplish or experience in your lifetime. One of the items she revealed to us today is that she is computer illiterate and so wants to learn more about computers. To that end, she's going to have a daily segment about computers.
Today's computer segment was about blogs. Ellen had only recently learned about blogs and was fascinated by them. She decided she'd start her own blog about her experiences on the show.
I always find it entertaining when people first hear the word 'blog' and learn what they're all about. The reactions are almost always amusing.
First of all, the word 'blog' in itself is comical. For those of you who don't know it, the word 'blog' is actually derived from the term 'web log'. Being in the super-sonic, high-speed age that we're in, we apparently don't have time for two syllables, so we've shortened the term to 'blog'. It's always fun, though, to hear people wrestle with the word for the first time. They try to roll it around their tongues like it's a foreign language - blloooggggg. I actually find, when it's said quickly, that it sounds a little like the noise my dog makes when I catch her chewing on something and make her spit it out.
And then they ask you to explain the purpose of a blog to them. The conversation goes something like this:
"Well, it's sort of like an on-line diary."
"But what do you write in it?"
"Whatever you want."
"But who reads it?"
"Whoever wants to."
"So ... you just write about anything you want?"
"Yup."
"What do you write about?"
"Well, today I wrote about a TV talk show I was watching where the host learned about blogs for the first time and I thought that was funny."
"And people want to read that?"
"Apparently."
"You're all nuts."
Absolutely. Of course, not everyone is babbling about nothing, like I am - the Seinfeld of blogs (or, the Seinblog, maybe). Some people blog about their hobbies, imparting their knowledge to the world through cyberspace. Some people blog for money; they blog about their businesses or about a specific topic and then have a bunch of related Google ads or affiliate links plastered up and down their sidebars. Secretly (or maybe not so secretly anymore), I do it to keep my friends and family in line. You see, ever since I started blogging, everyone has been afraid that I'll write about something they did or said, so they've all been on their best behaviour whenever I'm around. Works like a charm (insert evil cackle here).
Technorati Tags: Blogs ; Computers ; Ellen ; TV ; Web Log
Today's computer segment was about blogs. Ellen had only recently learned about blogs and was fascinated by them. She decided she'd start her own blog about her experiences on the show.
I always find it entertaining when people first hear the word 'blog' and learn what they're all about. The reactions are almost always amusing.
First of all, the word 'blog' in itself is comical. For those of you who don't know it, the word 'blog' is actually derived from the term 'web log'. Being in the super-sonic, high-speed age that we're in, we apparently don't have time for two syllables, so we've shortened the term to 'blog'. It's always fun, though, to hear people wrestle with the word for the first time. They try to roll it around their tongues like it's a foreign language - blloooggggg. I actually find, when it's said quickly, that it sounds a little like the noise my dog makes when I catch her chewing on something and make her spit it out.
And then they ask you to explain the purpose of a blog to them. The conversation goes something like this:
"Well, it's sort of like an on-line diary."
"But what do you write in it?"
"Whatever you want."
"But who reads it?"
"Whoever wants to."
"So ... you just write about anything you want?"
"Yup."
"What do you write about?"
"Well, today I wrote about a TV talk show I was watching where the host learned about blogs for the first time and I thought that was funny."
"And people want to read that?"
"Apparently."
"You're all nuts."
Absolutely. Of course, not everyone is babbling about nothing, like I am - the Seinfeld of blogs (or, the Seinblog, maybe). Some people blog about their hobbies, imparting their knowledge to the world through cyberspace. Some people blog for money; they blog about their businesses or about a specific topic and then have a bunch of related Google ads or affiliate links plastered up and down their sidebars. Secretly (or maybe not so secretly anymore), I do it to keep my friends and family in line. You see, ever since I started blogging, everyone has been afraid that I'll write about something they did or said, so they've all been on their best behaviour whenever I'm around. Works like a charm (insert evil cackle here).
Technorati Tags: Blogs ; Computers ; Ellen ; TV ; Web Log
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
Ouch!
It was another fine summer's day here in our little neck of the woods. I was inside preparing dinner, Trouble happily playing with his new-to-him-via-Ebay GameBoy Advance. Mini-Me was outdoors playing with a couple of friends. Hubby had just stepped out to return a movie. The sky was blue, there was a light breeze - it was picture-perfect.
Then the clouds rolled in, literally and figuratively. The dog had warned me that there was someone at the door. I looked over my shoulder to see Mini-Me's little friend, Missy (But she's not my girlfriend, Mom! She's just a girl, who's a friend.), peering at me through the screen.
"What's up, Missy?"
"Mini-Me fell and now he's bleeding here and here and here and ..." as she points to various parts of her face and legs.
Lovely. Put dinner on hold, get Trouble into a pair of shoes and out the door we go. Mini-Me is sitting at the bottom of the neighbour's driveway, bawling for all he's worth. As I get closer, I can see the carnage. Oooh, that looks like it's gotta hurt. But I steel myself and put on my best "Oh, you're overreacting" mom face.
"What happened there, big guy?" I inquire in an upbeat tone.
Through gut-wrenching sobs, he manages to convey that they were playing some sort of chasing-the-bad-guys game. He was running, tripped and apparently tried to break his fall with his nose. He looked like Rocky Balboa before the all-important pep talk.
As I brought him inside to clean up his battle scars, I though Hmmm...it's been a while since we've had an accident. I guess we were just due. And then it dawned on me. School starts in less than two weeks. Just enough time for his wounds to scab over. Of course, that'll be followed shortly by school photos, right around the time when the scabs will have fallen off, leaving shiny new pink scars right in the middle of his face, where the camera's flash is sure to pick up the reflections quite nicely. Not that this is the first time he's sporting some sort of wound for a school photo. There's a picture on our wall from his second year in daycare, where he has a similar (although on a much smaller scale) scar across the bridge of his nose. It's almost become a tradition for our boys to record their mishaps for posterity.
Maybe for our Christmas card photos, he can give his brother a black eye. We must maintain our traditions, after all.
Technorati Tags: Parenting ; Children ; Kids ; Mothers ; Moms ; Accidents ; School
Then the clouds rolled in, literally and figuratively. The dog had warned me that there was someone at the door. I looked over my shoulder to see Mini-Me's little friend, Missy (But she's not my girlfriend, Mom! She's just a girl, who's a friend.), peering at me through the screen.
"What's up, Missy?"
"Mini-Me fell and now he's bleeding here and here and here and ..." as she points to various parts of her face and legs.
Lovely. Put dinner on hold, get Trouble into a pair of shoes and out the door we go. Mini-Me is sitting at the bottom of the neighbour's driveway, bawling for all he's worth. As I get closer, I can see the carnage. Oooh, that looks like it's gotta hurt. But I steel myself and put on my best "Oh, you're overreacting" mom face.
"What happened there, big guy?" I inquire in an upbeat tone.
Through gut-wrenching sobs, he manages to convey that they were playing some sort of chasing-the-bad-guys game. He was running, tripped and apparently tried to break his fall with his nose. He looked like Rocky Balboa before the all-important pep talk.
As I brought him inside to clean up his battle scars, I though Hmmm...it's been a while since we've had an accident. I guess we were just due. And then it dawned on me. School starts in less than two weeks. Just enough time for his wounds to scab over. Of course, that'll be followed shortly by school photos, right around the time when the scabs will have fallen off, leaving shiny new pink scars right in the middle of his face, where the camera's flash is sure to pick up the reflections quite nicely. Not that this is the first time he's sporting some sort of wound for a school photo. There's a picture on our wall from his second year in daycare, where he has a similar (although on a much smaller scale) scar across the bridge of his nose. It's almost become a tradition for our boys to record their mishaps for posterity.
Maybe for our Christmas card photos, he can give his brother a black eye. We must maintain our traditions, after all.
Technorati Tags: Parenting ; Children ; Kids ; Mothers ; Moms ; Accidents ; School
Friday, August 11, 2006
Ineffective Ads: Part Deux
Further to my previous post on the subject, I'd like to add yet another ineffective ad to the ever-growing list.
Have you ever seen the Febreeze ad? You know the one - where the mom picks up a bunch of stuffed animals from the carpet, puts them into the toy box and then sprays the carpet with Febreeze. When she turns around again, all of the stuffed animals that she had just put away are now face-down on the carpet, supposedly enjoying the fresh scent.
Now, I don't know about you, but this is not something I would enjoy seeing in my home. Especially that creepy little monkey they focus in on, with the huge, funky eyes. As a matter of fact, this would be one of the circumstances at the top of my "Get the bleep out of the house NOW!!" list. Seriously, there have been several horror films created on this very premise. How could anyone at the agency think this commercial was a good idea? Is their next brainstorming session going to produce commercials for Spray 'N' Wash where they demonstrate how their product could possibly have removed the pig's blood from Carrie's dress?
On a completely different note:
You all remember my dog, Wile E.? Well, she's taught herself another trick.
It started when we were at the neighbour's house and had left her in our yard. She apparently heard us talking through the kitchen window and decided she wanted to join us. So, she figured out how to climb the fence. Not jump it - climb it. She gets her front paws on the top cross-bar, and then climbs up the chain link with her back paws until her rear end is high enough to push herself over the top.
Originally, she was only doing it to join hubby or myself on the other side of the fence. Recently, she's been climbing at will to join the Lab next door for a little play time.
So, I figure this is my cue to get cracking on that back-yard agility equipment I've been meaning to build for her. Maybe, if she has enough of her own toys to play with and climb on, she won't be tempted to go looking for fun elsewhere. After all, a tired dog is a good dog, right? If anyone knows of any links to free, on-line plans, please post them in the comment section. Wile E. and I thank you!
Technorati Tags: Advertising ; Commercials ; Television ; Dogs ; Training ; Tricks ; Agility ; Equipment
Have you ever seen the Febreeze ad? You know the one - where the mom picks up a bunch of stuffed animals from the carpet, puts them into the toy box and then sprays the carpet with Febreeze. When she turns around again, all of the stuffed animals that she had just put away are now face-down on the carpet, supposedly enjoying the fresh scent.
Now, I don't know about you, but this is not something I would enjoy seeing in my home. Especially that creepy little monkey they focus in on, with the huge, funky eyes. As a matter of fact, this would be one of the circumstances at the top of my "Get the bleep out of the house NOW!!" list. Seriously, there have been several horror films created on this very premise. How could anyone at the agency think this commercial was a good idea? Is their next brainstorming session going to produce commercials for Spray 'N' Wash where they demonstrate how their product could possibly have removed the pig's blood from Carrie's dress?
On a completely different note:
You all remember my dog, Wile E.? Well, she's taught herself another trick.
It started when we were at the neighbour's house and had left her in our yard. She apparently heard us talking through the kitchen window and decided she wanted to join us. So, she figured out how to climb the fence. Not jump it - climb it. She gets her front paws on the top cross-bar, and then climbs up the chain link with her back paws until her rear end is high enough to push herself over the top.
Originally, she was only doing it to join hubby or myself on the other side of the fence. Recently, she's been climbing at will to join the Lab next door for a little play time.
So, I figure this is my cue to get cracking on that back-yard agility equipment I've been meaning to build for her. Maybe, if she has enough of her own toys to play with and climb on, she won't be tempted to go looking for fun elsewhere. After all, a tired dog is a good dog, right? If anyone knows of any links to free, on-line plans, please post them in the comment section. Wile E. and I thank you!
Technorati Tags: Advertising ; Commercials ; Television ; Dogs ; Training ; Tricks ; Agility ; Equipment
Monday, August 07, 2006
Extra Crispy
Sometimes, parents will adopt the old "Do as I say, not as I do" mentality. I never thought I'd be one of those parents. I sure proved myself wrong this week-end.
I'm a firm believer in sun screen. I will buy the best quality, highest SPF on the market and layer it on my children like cake frosting several times a day. So, you'd think, as I was preparing to attend an outdoor wedding this past Saturday (a lovely, blue-sky, blazing-sun day, I might add), that I'd automatically reach for the sun block before heading out the door.
Apparently, I was too pre-occupied to remember the sun block.
I didn't really notice the danger, truth be told. The ceremony was held at 11:00AM. Yes, the sun was right up there, beating down on the unsuspecting guests, but it wasn't as hot as it has been over the past few weeks, and there was a lovely breeze as well. Once the ceremony was over, everyone spread out to the few shady areas around the lawn, myself included. So, yeah, I was in the sun for a while, but not that long, and it wasn't that hot, so I should have been ok, right?
Unfortunately, the t-shirt I was wearing was lower cut than usual and had higher sleeves than I normally wear. This means that my standard farmer's tan left a few key, milky white areas on my body exposed to the cruel rays. Having never before seen the light of day, the top two inches of my biceps and the area between my neck and the top of my cleavage were left vulnerable to attack.
And an attack it most certainly was, my friends.
By Sunday morning, I was reaping the rewards of my forgetfulness. Can you say, "Ooooowwwww!"? I had barely slept the night before. Lying on my side meant that I had to put weight on one of my arms, which was an impossibility. Lying on my back had my boobs tugging at the skin on my chest, which felt like it was going to rip apart from the pressure. Sitting up only made my boobs apply pressure in a different direction. The very air around me hurt - before this night, I never realized air actually had a texture similar to sandpaper.
It's now three days later and I'm still gingerly tugging at the neckline of my t-shirt to relieve some of the stinging on my chest.
Learn from my mistakes, people. Never forget that sun screen, even if you're only stepping out for a moment or two, or if it doesn't feel that hot. The sun can be deceptively cruel. You wouldn't want to wind up like me, looking like someone's splashed a bottle of hot pink paint on your chest.
Technorati Tags: Sun Screen ; Sun Burn ; Outdoor ; Wedding
I'm a firm believer in sun screen. I will buy the best quality, highest SPF on the market and layer it on my children like cake frosting several times a day. So, you'd think, as I was preparing to attend an outdoor wedding this past Saturday (a lovely, blue-sky, blazing-sun day, I might add), that I'd automatically reach for the sun block before heading out the door.
Apparently, I was too pre-occupied to remember the sun block.
I didn't really notice the danger, truth be told. The ceremony was held at 11:00AM. Yes, the sun was right up there, beating down on the unsuspecting guests, but it wasn't as hot as it has been over the past few weeks, and there was a lovely breeze as well. Once the ceremony was over, everyone spread out to the few shady areas around the lawn, myself included. So, yeah, I was in the sun for a while, but not that long, and it wasn't that hot, so I should have been ok, right?
Unfortunately, the t-shirt I was wearing was lower cut than usual and had higher sleeves than I normally wear. This means that my standard farmer's tan left a few key, milky white areas on my body exposed to the cruel rays. Having never before seen the light of day, the top two inches of my biceps and the area between my neck and the top of my cleavage were left vulnerable to attack.
And an attack it most certainly was, my friends.
By Sunday morning, I was reaping the rewards of my forgetfulness. Can you say, "Ooooowwwww!"? I had barely slept the night before. Lying on my side meant that I had to put weight on one of my arms, which was an impossibility. Lying on my back had my boobs tugging at the skin on my chest, which felt like it was going to rip apart from the pressure. Sitting up only made my boobs apply pressure in a different direction. The very air around me hurt - before this night, I never realized air actually had a texture similar to sandpaper.
It's now three days later and I'm still gingerly tugging at the neckline of my t-shirt to relieve some of the stinging on my chest.
Learn from my mistakes, people. Never forget that sun screen, even if you're only stepping out for a moment or two, or if it doesn't feel that hot. The sun can be deceptively cruel. You wouldn't want to wind up like me, looking like someone's splashed a bottle of hot pink paint on your chest.
Technorati Tags: Sun Screen ; Sun Burn ; Outdoor ; Wedding
Tuesday, August 01, 2006
A Pet Peeve: Ineffective Advertising
Since I have nothing better to occupy my mind while watching TV, I find myself analyzing all the commercials I see. I've come to the conclusion that there are a whole lot of overpaid advertising people out there making one bad decision after another.
For example, if your ad winds up spinning around my brain like a bad Wiggles song for three days, but I can't remember what the product is that you're trying to sell, then you created an ineffective ad.
Another example: There's an ad being aired about a certain brand of cat litter. I can't remember which brand, which is your first clue that it's not a very good ad. In this commercial, the poor cat has to enlist the services of a Bloodhound in order to find his litterbox. The point of the ad is that the litter absorbs all odours, so your cat will have a hard time finding his litterbox.
Why is this ad so bad?
Anyone who has ever been owned by a cat can tell you exactly why.
If your cat cannot find his litterbox, the results will be neither comical nor endearing. More likely, they'll involve the cat wandering around for a couple of minutes before deciding, "Meh. Whatever," at which point he'll turn to your bathtub or potted plants for his immediate needs.
See? Ineffective. Why would any sane person want to buy cat litter that will turn their favourite African Violet into an outhouse for Princess KitKat?
Far more effective (and true-to-life) would be an ad depicting the people being unable to locate the litterbox while the cat rolls his eyes at their inadequacy as loyal servants.
Technorati Tags: Advertising ; Commercials ; Television ; Cats ; Litter ; Litterbox
For example, if your ad winds up spinning around my brain like a bad Wiggles song for three days, but I can't remember what the product is that you're trying to sell, then you created an ineffective ad.
Another example: There's an ad being aired about a certain brand of cat litter. I can't remember which brand, which is your first clue that it's not a very good ad. In this commercial, the poor cat has to enlist the services of a Bloodhound in order to find his litterbox. The point of the ad is that the litter absorbs all odours, so your cat will have a hard time finding his litterbox.
Why is this ad so bad?
Anyone who has ever been owned by a cat can tell you exactly why.
If your cat cannot find his litterbox, the results will be neither comical nor endearing. More likely, they'll involve the cat wandering around for a couple of minutes before deciding, "Meh. Whatever," at which point he'll turn to your bathtub or potted plants for his immediate needs.
See? Ineffective. Why would any sane person want to buy cat litter that will turn their favourite African Violet into an outhouse for Princess KitKat?
Far more effective (and true-to-life) would be an ad depicting the people being unable to locate the litterbox while the cat rolls his eyes at their inadequacy as loyal servants.
Technorati Tags: Advertising ; Commercials ; Television ; Cats ; Litter ; Litterbox
Friday, July 21, 2006
It's All Over Now...
Hey, blog fans. I know it's been a while since I've logged an entry here. Sorry. Been a little busy.
Nothing new has been going on in BikerMomma's world. Hubby is still home from work because of his surgery to remove a cancerous tumour. We're in the process now of deciding whether or not chemo would be a good course of action. The older child has been home from school for a little less than a month, so I've been spending my days and nights playing referee between the two siblings. The younger one ... well ... Trouble is being Trouble.
I've come to the conclusion, though, that I've already lost the fight. Trouble is going to steamroll right over me for the rest of my natural life, and there's not a darn thing I can do about it. He's not even three years old yet and he's already won. It's all over. How do I know?
We were at my parents' house last week. Trouble was doing something I didn't want him to do. I don't remember exactly what - moving furniture or swinging from a chandelier or some such nonsense. I told him, in my firmest Mom voice, to stop. His response was an equally authoritative "No!" So I pulled out my standard bluff, the one that has always worked in the past:
"Stop it right now or I'm going to spank your bum."
Now, I've never actually spanked him. I've never had to. Until that day, my bluff worked like a charm.
Trouble stopped dead in his tracks. He turned his back on me and stuck out his behind. He looked over his shoulder at me and, with a twinkle in his eye and the most charming grin God has ever created on his face, he gave his bum a little pat and said, "Come on, Mommy. Spank me!"
What do you do? Hubby is of the impression that I should have gone ahead and spanked him. Of course, that was presuming I would have been capable of leaving my seat. Which I wasn't. It took every ounce of muscle control I had at the moment to stop myself from dissolving into fits of laughter, scooping him up and kissing him a hundred times just because he was so damned cute. Instead, I turned my head to hide the tears welling up in my eyes and pretended to cough.
Trouble walked away, free to manipulate me another day.
Nothing new has been going on in BikerMomma's world. Hubby is still home from work because of his surgery to remove a cancerous tumour. We're in the process now of deciding whether or not chemo would be a good course of action. The older child has been home from school for a little less than a month, so I've been spending my days and nights playing referee between the two siblings. The younger one ... well ... Trouble is being Trouble.
I've come to the conclusion, though, that I've already lost the fight. Trouble is going to steamroll right over me for the rest of my natural life, and there's not a darn thing I can do about it. He's not even three years old yet and he's already won. It's all over. How do I know?
We were at my parents' house last week. Trouble was doing something I didn't want him to do. I don't remember exactly what - moving furniture or swinging from a chandelier or some such nonsense. I told him, in my firmest Mom voice, to stop. His response was an equally authoritative "No!" So I pulled out my standard bluff, the one that has always worked in the past:
"Stop it right now or I'm going to spank your bum."
Now, I've never actually spanked him. I've never had to. Until that day, my bluff worked like a charm.
Trouble stopped dead in his tracks. He turned his back on me and stuck out his behind. He looked over his shoulder at me and, with a twinkle in his eye and the most charming grin God has ever created on his face, he gave his bum a little pat and said, "Come on, Mommy. Spank me!"
What do you do? Hubby is of the impression that I should have gone ahead and spanked him. Of course, that was presuming I would have been capable of leaving my seat. Which I wasn't. It took every ounce of muscle control I had at the moment to stop myself from dissolving into fits of laughter, scooping him up and kissing him a hundred times just because he was so damned cute. Instead, I turned my head to hide the tears welling up in my eyes and pretended to cough.
Trouble walked away, free to manipulate me another day.
Tuesday, July 04, 2006
Italy ROCKS!
That's what my two little ones are running around the house chanting right now. And they're RIGHT!
In case you haven't heard yet (like, maybe you've been hiding under a rock somewhere with massive earplugs in your ears), Italy has beaten Germany today with two very beautiful goals in the dying seconds of extra time.
It was one heck of a game. The home field advantage certainly helped Germany and bolstered their spirits, but the Azzurri didn't give up until the fat lady sang - and boy, oh, boy did she ever belt it out big time!
You'll find plenty of game discussions and photos here at the FIFA World Cup website. I'd love to get into it with you, but I have to go celebrate with my fellow Italia fans.
Forza Azzurri!
Technorati Tags: Italy ; Italy ; Fifa ; World Cup ; Azzurri ; Germany ; Soccer ; Football
Thursday, June 29, 2006
An Unexpected Visitor
This morning started out like any other. I woke up at 7:00, hit the snooze button until 7:30, rushed to get the six-year-old dressed and fed and ready for his last day of school. I don't normally accompany him to the bus stop, I usually watch from behind the window or, at the most, our front deck. This morning, though, I wanted to wish the other moms a happy summer, so I headed down to the stop.
As the kids were boarding the bus, we noticed that there was a little white fluffiness prowling the nieghbourhood lawns. "Oh, he was there yesterday, too," said mom #2. "You won't be able to catch himi. The kids tried yeserday, but he just ran away."
It was a miniature poodle. Cream coloured. Clearly a male, judging from the way he was lifting his leg so high he was almost falling over. So, once the kids were safely on their way and the bus had rounded the corner, I tried my hand at capturing the elusive little critter.
In my happiest voice (strictly reserved for dog training and two-year-old rangling), I called out, "Here, puppy, puppy!" He came. Imagine that?
Yup, he's a boy, alright. A male, intact (that means his little package was present and accounted for), purebred miniature poodle, just wandering the streets alone. He was also filthy and soaking wet, presumably from being out in the torrential downpour that lasted the better part of yesterday and last night and included marble-sized bits of hail. No collar, no tattoos, nothing to hint at where he came from. I scooped him up amidst a flurry of licking tongues and wagging stub-tails and carried him home.
After drying him off and introducing him to a less than thrilled Wile E (who, I'm pretty sure, though he was a rabid squirrel, judging by the way she kept carefully out of his reach), I started making calls. The first was to the closest vet. No one had reported a lost dog, but I could bring him in to check for a microchip. So I put one of Wile E's old leashes around his little neck (remember, no collar, so I had to make do) and carried him into the car. We got to the vet's office where they checked for a microchip. Nope, no microchip either, although they did determine that he's between one and two years old.
Here's a little piece of advice for all of you dog owners out there. If you have a dog, get it microchipped. The cost varies, but mine was $40, one-time deal. They put a little chip, the size of a grain of rice, just under the dog's skin between the shoulder blades. The chip contains a number which is linked to the same number in a huge database. This number is connected to your contact information. Your information is kept in the database forever. If your dog somehow manages to get lost without its collar, this is the best way to make sure he/she gets back home to you, safe and sound.
Anyhoo, once we got home, I continued with my phone calls. I called every local vet and left my name and phone number along with a description of the dog. I called our local SPCA and did the same. I then called our town's animal control officer. Well, let's just say he's given me a topic for another blog on another day. Everywhere I called, no one had any reports of a missing poodle.
Now, I don't know about you, but if my dog were missing for two days, I think I'd be trying very hard to find him, wouldn't you? I'd be calling everywhere I could think of, putting up posters, knocking on doors. Mind you, my dog is tagged and microchipped, so anyone who found her would be able to find me very quickly. Not to mention the fact that she's a bit of a cling-on, so even if she did get out of our yard, she wouldn't go very far without me by her side (and I know this for a fact because she does get out on occasion, only to be found right behind our front door, waiting to be let back in).
So I started making plans. In the event that he isn't claimed by the week-end, I certainly can't keep him (Wile E is liking him less and less as the moments progress), so we'll have to find him a proper home. First things first, though, he's getting neutered! The last thing we need is another baby-maker running loose in the streets! My sister-in-law has been tossing around the idea of getting a pet lately, so maybe this is fate intervening on her behalf.
He was being quite the nosey little parker, so I stated calling him "Parker" in the interim. I kept him blocked off in my kitchen, to allow Wile E a chance to escape whenever she felt the need. Wile E can clear a baby gate without working up a sweat. Parker, while he clearly can attain the height needed, hasn't figured out how to propel himself forward, so he just bounced up and down on the other side of the gate.
Later in the morning, I thought we could all go outside for a little air. I put Parker on a leash, put Wile E's leash on (although she can go out without her leash, there's no fear of her running off, but I still put it on her just because it's the law) and put Trouble's hat on. As we stood there watching Daddy work on Mommy's motorcycle, I notice an elderly gentleman walking up the next block, checking in all the ditches and in people's yards.
Uh, oh. I think I've found the wayward owner. I battled with a little voice inside my head that wanted me to hide the dog in my house, and which was very close to winning for a moment.
"Are you looking for a dog, by any chance?" I call out to him.
"As a matter of fact, I am. A little one."
"This one?" and I pull Parker out from behind my car.
He smiles and comes over. "Yup, that's the one!"
The dog's real name is apparently 'Tic-Tac' (no wonder he ran away!). He belongs to the old man's daughter. Tic-Tac has the bad habit of sneaking out of his owner's yard through a tiny hole in their fence. "She really should do something about that hole," he said. Yeah, no kidding. "She said he usually comes back, but he was gone too long this time, so I came looking for him." There's that voice in my head saying, "I told ya so!" as I try not to think of how many females he could have impregnated in two days. I offer up the advice that she have him microchipped, just in case he escapes again. I told him it would cost approximately $40 at the nearby vet, and it's really the surest way to identify the dog if he were to ever get lost again. Seeing as how this wasn't his dog, I refrained from preaching about the benefits of neutering the dog as well. The old man thanks me, tucks Tic-Tac under his arm and heads on home.
About fifteen minutes later, I see an older man and a younger woman walking down my street together. As they get closer, I realize it's the same man who had just picked up Tic-Tac. The woman must be his daughter. I figured she wanted to know who had found her dog. They nod politely and walk on by. What?! Not that I performed any great feats of heroics or anything, but surely I deserved a word of thanks for potentially saving her dog from being hit by a car or eaten by coyotes (yes, they've been calling to each other in the back fields again) or, worse yet, picked up by a puppy miller who would put him to a lifetime of caged slavery pumping out some rediculous oodle-mix puppies?? Nothing. I got a nod and the backs of their heads. Nice.
Technorati Tags: Lost ; Dog ; Microchip ; Spay ; Neuter ; Overpopulation
As the kids were boarding the bus, we noticed that there was a little white fluffiness prowling the nieghbourhood lawns. "Oh, he was there yesterday, too," said mom #2. "You won't be able to catch himi. The kids tried yeserday, but he just ran away."
It was a miniature poodle. Cream coloured. Clearly a male, judging from the way he was lifting his leg so high he was almost falling over. So, once the kids were safely on their way and the bus had rounded the corner, I tried my hand at capturing the elusive little critter.
In my happiest voice (strictly reserved for dog training and two-year-old rangling), I called out, "Here, puppy, puppy!" He came. Imagine that?
Yup, he's a boy, alright. A male, intact (that means his little package was present and accounted for), purebred miniature poodle, just wandering the streets alone. He was also filthy and soaking wet, presumably from being out in the torrential downpour that lasted the better part of yesterday and last night and included marble-sized bits of hail. No collar, no tattoos, nothing to hint at where he came from. I scooped him up amidst a flurry of licking tongues and wagging stub-tails and carried him home.
After drying him off and introducing him to a less than thrilled Wile E (who, I'm pretty sure, though he was a rabid squirrel, judging by the way she kept carefully out of his reach), I started making calls. The first was to the closest vet. No one had reported a lost dog, but I could bring him in to check for a microchip. So I put one of Wile E's old leashes around his little neck (remember, no collar, so I had to make do) and carried him into the car. We got to the vet's office where they checked for a microchip. Nope, no microchip either, although they did determine that he's between one and two years old.
Here's a little piece of advice for all of you dog owners out there. If you have a dog, get it microchipped. The cost varies, but mine was $40, one-time deal. They put a little chip, the size of a grain of rice, just under the dog's skin between the shoulder blades. The chip contains a number which is linked to the same number in a huge database. This number is connected to your contact information. Your information is kept in the database forever. If your dog somehow manages to get lost without its collar, this is the best way to make sure he/she gets back home to you, safe and sound.
Anyhoo, once we got home, I continued with my phone calls. I called every local vet and left my name and phone number along with a description of the dog. I called our local SPCA and did the same. I then called our town's animal control officer. Well, let's just say he's given me a topic for another blog on another day. Everywhere I called, no one had any reports of a missing poodle.
Now, I don't know about you, but if my dog were missing for two days, I think I'd be trying very hard to find him, wouldn't you? I'd be calling everywhere I could think of, putting up posters, knocking on doors. Mind you, my dog is tagged and microchipped, so anyone who found her would be able to find me very quickly. Not to mention the fact that she's a bit of a cling-on, so even if she did get out of our yard, she wouldn't go very far without me by her side (and I know this for a fact because she does get out on occasion, only to be found right behind our front door, waiting to be let back in).
So I started making plans. In the event that he isn't claimed by the week-end, I certainly can't keep him (Wile E is liking him less and less as the moments progress), so we'll have to find him a proper home. First things first, though, he's getting neutered! The last thing we need is another baby-maker running loose in the streets! My sister-in-law has been tossing around the idea of getting a pet lately, so maybe this is fate intervening on her behalf.
He was being quite the nosey little parker, so I stated calling him "Parker" in the interim. I kept him blocked off in my kitchen, to allow Wile E a chance to escape whenever she felt the need. Wile E can clear a baby gate without working up a sweat. Parker, while he clearly can attain the height needed, hasn't figured out how to propel himself forward, so he just bounced up and down on the other side of the gate.
Later in the morning, I thought we could all go outside for a little air. I put Parker on a leash, put Wile E's leash on (although she can go out without her leash, there's no fear of her running off, but I still put it on her just because it's the law) and put Trouble's hat on. As we stood there watching Daddy work on Mommy's motorcycle, I notice an elderly gentleman walking up the next block, checking in all the ditches and in people's yards.
Uh, oh. I think I've found the wayward owner. I battled with a little voice inside my head that wanted me to hide the dog in my house, and which was very close to winning for a moment.
"Are you looking for a dog, by any chance?" I call out to him.
"As a matter of fact, I am. A little one."
"This one?" and I pull Parker out from behind my car.
He smiles and comes over. "Yup, that's the one!"
The dog's real name is apparently 'Tic-Tac' (no wonder he ran away!). He belongs to the old man's daughter. Tic-Tac has the bad habit of sneaking out of his owner's yard through a tiny hole in their fence. "She really should do something about that hole," he said. Yeah, no kidding. "She said he usually comes back, but he was gone too long this time, so I came looking for him." There's that voice in my head saying, "I told ya so!" as I try not to think of how many females he could have impregnated in two days. I offer up the advice that she have him microchipped, just in case he escapes again. I told him it would cost approximately $40 at the nearby vet, and it's really the surest way to identify the dog if he were to ever get lost again. Seeing as how this wasn't his dog, I refrained from preaching about the benefits of neutering the dog as well. The old man thanks me, tucks Tic-Tac under his arm and heads on home.
About fifteen minutes later, I see an older man and a younger woman walking down my street together. As they get closer, I realize it's the same man who had just picked up Tic-Tac. The woman must be his daughter. I figured she wanted to know who had found her dog. They nod politely and walk on by. What?! Not that I performed any great feats of heroics or anything, but surely I deserved a word of thanks for potentially saving her dog from being hit by a car or eaten by coyotes (yes, they've been calling to each other in the back fields again) or, worse yet, picked up by a puppy miller who would put him to a lifetime of caged slavery pumping out some rediculous oodle-mix puppies?? Nothing. I got a nod and the backs of their heads. Nice.
Technorati Tags: Lost ; Dog ; Microchip ; Spay ; Neuter ; Overpopulation
Friday, June 23, 2006
Couldn't I Have Her Eyes?
They say that dogs sometimes look like their people. In my case, it's the other way around. I've recently realized that I've taken on some of my dog's characteristics. Not the good ones, either.
Why couldn't I have taken on her athletic physique? She's built like Lassie - all tucked-in tummy and long, muscular legs. Me? I'm ... well ... not. She can run forever seemingly at the speed of sound without breaking a sweat. Yeah, I know, dogs don't sweat. You're missing the point here. Suffice it to say that, when we're discussing body structure, she's the clear winner. Kinda sad when you're jealous of your dog's metabolism, isn't it?
Maybe it's the eyes? Nope, that's not it either. My eyes are brown. That's it. No embellishments to be found anywhere. Wile E., on the other hand, has these lovely doe eyes in a mysterious amber colour with long, spikey lashes and thick, permanent eye-liner a la Cleopatra going almost back to her ears, for Pete's sake.
No, good readers, it's not the eyes or the body structure. I made the sad realization this morning while in the shower. The only thing my dog and I have in common is the shedding.
Yes, shedding. While I started out in a free-flowing shower, I soon found myself in a quickly mounting pool of water which was being held in by spidery masses of my very own hair. Too bad it's all coming off of my head, though. Wouldn't it be nice if once, just once, all the hair on your legs or under your arms or your bikini line just jumped off your body voluntarily? I mean, of course, without there being some sort of severe medical issue that causes the hair to jump off.
My shedding issues aren't restricted to the shower, either. My kids are quite used to pulling dog hair out of their food. What's an extra follicle or two amongst family? Take a close look at the dust bunnies under my bed and you'll realize that some of those dust bunnies have had dye jobs (and their roots are showing pretty badly, too).
Oh, well. I may not have the svelte figure or the Cleopatra eyes. But, when my guests are picking bits of fur off their behinds, at least I can blame it on the dog. :D
Technorati Tags: Dogs ; Shedding ; Hair Loss ; Humour
Why couldn't I have taken on her athletic physique? She's built like Lassie - all tucked-in tummy and long, muscular legs. Me? I'm ... well ... not. She can run forever seemingly at the speed of sound without breaking a sweat. Yeah, I know, dogs don't sweat. You're missing the point here. Suffice it to say that, when we're discussing body structure, she's the clear winner. Kinda sad when you're jealous of your dog's metabolism, isn't it?
Maybe it's the eyes? Nope, that's not it either. My eyes are brown. That's it. No embellishments to be found anywhere. Wile E., on the other hand, has these lovely doe eyes in a mysterious amber colour with long, spikey lashes and thick, permanent eye-liner a la Cleopatra going almost back to her ears, for Pete's sake.
No, good readers, it's not the eyes or the body structure. I made the sad realization this morning while in the shower. The only thing my dog and I have in common is the shedding.
Yes, shedding. While I started out in a free-flowing shower, I soon found myself in a quickly mounting pool of water which was being held in by spidery masses of my very own hair. Too bad it's all coming off of my head, though. Wouldn't it be nice if once, just once, all the hair on your legs or under your arms or your bikini line just jumped off your body voluntarily? I mean, of course, without there being some sort of severe medical issue that causes the hair to jump off.
My shedding issues aren't restricted to the shower, either. My kids are quite used to pulling dog hair out of their food. What's an extra follicle or two amongst family? Take a close look at the dust bunnies under my bed and you'll realize that some of those dust bunnies have had dye jobs (and their roots are showing pretty badly, too).
Oh, well. I may not have the svelte figure or the Cleopatra eyes. But, when my guests are picking bits of fur off their behinds, at least I can blame it on the dog. :D
Technorati Tags: Dogs ; Shedding ; Hair Loss ; Humour
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Echoes of Mom, Much?
Why get a parrot? I mean, they live for - what? - fifty-sixty some-odd years, don't they? If you really want to have a creature to follow you around all day repeating every word, every turn of phrase you utter, I'd suggest getting a toddler.
For example, I was sitting here reorganizing a years' worth of paperwork the other day. Trouble had disappeared from my side yet again, having grown bored with the movie he had asked to watch. Knowing what kind of carnage Trouble is capable of over a short period of time, I shouted from the bedroom/office, "Hey, Trouble! Where are you?"
The answer came from the living room, "I downstairs!"
Me: "Well, come back here and watch the movie with me!"
Trouble: "What?"
Me, slightly louder: "I said, come back here and watch the movie with me!"
Trouble: "I can't hear you! Come down here to talk to me! Don't yell across the house!"
I guess I can file that nugget of wisdom under "Do as I say, not as I do." Nothing better for a mom's ego than having a two-and-a-half year old show you with crystal clarity exactly how ridiculous you sound.
Technorati Tags: Parenting ; Children ; Toddlers ; Motherhood
For example, I was sitting here reorganizing a years' worth of paperwork the other day. Trouble had disappeared from my side yet again, having grown bored with the movie he had asked to watch. Knowing what kind of carnage Trouble is capable of over a short period of time, I shouted from the bedroom/office, "Hey, Trouble! Where are you?"
The answer came from the living room, "I downstairs!"
Me: "Well, come back here and watch the movie with me!"
Trouble: "What?"
Me, slightly louder: "I said, come back here and watch the movie with me!"
Trouble: "I can't hear you! Come down here to talk to me! Don't yell across the house!"
I guess I can file that nugget of wisdom under "Do as I say, not as I do." Nothing better for a mom's ego than having a two-and-a-half year old show you with crystal clarity exactly how ridiculous you sound.
Technorati Tags: Parenting ; Children ; Toddlers ; Motherhood
Friday, June 16, 2006
WAHM Bloggers' QOTW
This week's question from the gals at WAHM Bloggers is: What was your first job and what life lessons did it teach you?
Wow. My first job. What a blast that was! Seriouisly, what's more fun for a seventeen-year-old who refuses to grow up than a job at Toys 'R' Us?
I started out as a stock clerk. You know, unloading those eighteen foot trailers packed full of pallets of play sand, and doing it in a denim mini-skirt and heels. Now that's talent!
They quickly moved me up to cashier, mainly because it was nearing the Christmas rush and they needed bodies on the registers. Remember, ladies and gents, this was back when we still had to take imprints of people's credit cards and actually remember which copy belonged where. This was pre-debit cards and prior to electronic displays, when people paid mainly with - can you believe it? - cash, so we actually had to know how to count back their change properly.
Since I was one of the few girls who lasted past the Christmas (and boxing day) rush without having a nervous breakdown, I was promoted to head cashier shortly thereafter. I was one of the first to use the new-fangled computer-based cash register reconciliation system - oooh! I was there when they introduced the new debit card systems, and as head cashier, it was part of my duties to win the 'old timers' over to the new way of accepting payment. And it was during my capacity as head cashier that I caught my first major thief. Oooh, that's a juicy story, full of intrigue and high-level deception. I would tell you all about it, but I was sworn to secrecy (author casts furtive glances around her as she types).
What life's lessons did that job teach me? Well, for one, the strength & vigour of youth should not be underestimated. We pulled all nighters just to get the latest load of Cabbage Patch Kids on the shelves before the next major holiday or to get inventory counted in the allotted timeframe, and stayed the very next day for our regular shifts. We dined on pizza five days a week and still managed to maintain our target body images. We had the memory capacity to know exactly what someone wanted when they came in asking for, "...those little red things - you know - they're small - and red. Know what I mean?" We also had the patience to answer these same customers with a smile, and refrain from taking out our frustrations on those inflatable clown punching bags - at least, until we made it back to the staff lounge.
In all honesty, I learned that attitude really is everything, a smile and good service can change someone's day (or life). I also learned that, if I don't enjoy what I'm doing, noone else will. So, when you're contemplating a career path, make sure it's one you're going to be happy in, something you truly enjoy doing. Because your clients will know, in the end, whether you're satisfied with your job ... or miserable in it. ;)
Technorati Tags: QOTW ; WAHM ; First Job ; Toys R Us ; Life's Lesson
Wow. My first job. What a blast that was! Seriouisly, what's more fun for a seventeen-year-old who refuses to grow up than a job at Toys 'R' Us?
I started out as a stock clerk. You know, unloading those eighteen foot trailers packed full of pallets of play sand, and doing it in a denim mini-skirt and heels. Now that's talent!
They quickly moved me up to cashier, mainly because it was nearing the Christmas rush and they needed bodies on the registers. Remember, ladies and gents, this was back when we still had to take imprints of people's credit cards and actually remember which copy belonged where. This was pre-debit cards and prior to electronic displays, when people paid mainly with - can you believe it? - cash, so we actually had to know how to count back their change properly.
Since I was one of the few girls who lasted past the Christmas (and boxing day) rush without having a nervous breakdown, I was promoted to head cashier shortly thereafter. I was one of the first to use the new-fangled computer-based cash register reconciliation system - oooh! I was there when they introduced the new debit card systems, and as head cashier, it was part of my duties to win the 'old timers' over to the new way of accepting payment. And it was during my capacity as head cashier that I caught my first major thief. Oooh, that's a juicy story, full of intrigue and high-level deception. I would tell you all about it, but I was sworn to secrecy (author casts furtive glances around her as she types).
What life's lessons did that job teach me? Well, for one, the strength & vigour of youth should not be underestimated. We pulled all nighters just to get the latest load of Cabbage Patch Kids on the shelves before the next major holiday or to get inventory counted in the allotted timeframe, and stayed the very next day for our regular shifts. We dined on pizza five days a week and still managed to maintain our target body images. We had the memory capacity to know exactly what someone wanted when they came in asking for, "...those little red things - you know - they're small - and red. Know what I mean?" We also had the patience to answer these same customers with a smile, and refrain from taking out our frustrations on those inflatable clown punching bags - at least, until we made it back to the staff lounge.
In all honesty, I learned that attitude really is everything, a smile and good service can change someone's day (or life). I also learned that, if I don't enjoy what I'm doing, noone else will. So, when you're contemplating a career path, make sure it's one you're going to be happy in, something you truly enjoy doing. Because your clients will know, in the end, whether you're satisfied with your job ... or miserable in it. ;)
Technorati Tags: QOTW ; WAHM ; First Job ; Toys R Us ; Life's Lesson
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
BikerMomma's Slacking Off
And BikerMomma apologizes for it. It's been a little hectic around here lately, so I haven't been able to post as much as I'd like – or, at all, for that matter. Which is unfortunate, since there has been so much blog fodder going on, what with all the visitors and house guests and the kids being kids. Too bad I have a memory like a sieve, because I can't remember any of it now, although I distinctly remember thinking at the time, "Wow! This is great blog fodder!"
There have been visitors galore, and the phone hasn't stopped ringing off the hook. Like hubby said, "Gee! All I have to do to get people to come visit me is develop a potentially fatal condition!”
While hubby’s been having a great time receiving guests and gifts and phone calls from people he hasn’t spoken to in years, I’ve been running around like a chicken without a head. For one thing, I sometimes feel like the phone has been permanently melted to the side of my head. Another example - I made the mistake of washing my floors before my parents arrived, only to be told that I’m supposed to wait until after the party to clean up. Why do the same job twice? I like that logic. However, by the looks of it, my floors won’t be washed within the next six months, as the steady stream of well-wishers is showing no signs of slowing. Who knew hubby was this popular?
Then there’s the food. All these people need to be fed and watered, after all. It’s a good thing Mom and Dad showed up when they did. Mom always has crates full of homemade cookies in tow whenever she comes for a visit, so at least I can offer coffee and treats to my unannounced visitors. So far, only one of them had the – um – foresight to show up an hour before suppertime.
What is it with men and illnesses? They have no idea how to convalesce properly, do they? I know hubby’s going stir crazy. He’s not used to weeks of forced inactivity. We’re at the point now where I’m seriously considering the use of tether straps to keep him from overexerting himself. When my six year old doesn’t want to do his homework, I threaten to tell his teacher, which usually gets him moving. I’ve now resorted to the same strategy with hubby. “If you don’t sit still and relax, I’m going to call Dr. G and tell him what you’re doing!”
It’s a good thing I’m screening all his phone calls, too. Hubby doesn’t have the will power to resist the kind of temptation his so-called ‘friends’ are throwing at him. Just yesterday, exactly two weeks after his major abdominal surgery, hubby got a call from one ‘friend’ to ask if he’d be up to going dirt bike riding over the weekend. Sure! While we’re at it, why don’t I just rip your incision open with my bare hands? I’m sure that would be a lot of fun, too (excuse me while I wipe up the sarcasm that’s dripping all over my dirty floors).
I’ve discovered, though, that laughter truly is the best medicine. It’s working wonders for me, for one thing, and it does a great job of keeping hubby laid up in just the right amount of pain to remind him that he’s not completely whole just yet. Luckily, our family's antics are extremely laughable, so I have plenty of material to pull out of my hat whenever hubby's proving especially ambitious. We also have a friend who sends a daily compilation of jokes he receives from various sources. There's usually at least one per day that has me in tears, like the anecdote about the gentleman who thought his lizard was giving birth, only to be reminded that they lay eggs (I'll have to post that one for you some time - it's a classic).
Along with the guests and the phone calls and caring for the husband who won't sit still and two bored children and the bored dog and the offers for mystery shopping jobs that I had to turn down, I've also received - get this - one major engraving order from an existing client and one new offer for a freelance copywriting job, both worth several hundreds of dollars each. When it rains, it pours. In my world, it's apparently monsoon season. But, hey! Where would I get my blog fodder from if life were a picnic in the park? ;)
Technorati Tags: Visitors ; House Guests ; Illness ; Convalescence ; Jobs ; WAHM ; Work At Home
There have been visitors galore, and the phone hasn't stopped ringing off the hook. Like hubby said, "Gee! All I have to do to get people to come visit me is develop a potentially fatal condition!”
While hubby’s been having a great time receiving guests and gifts and phone calls from people he hasn’t spoken to in years, I’ve been running around like a chicken without a head. For one thing, I sometimes feel like the phone has been permanently melted to the side of my head. Another example - I made the mistake of washing my floors before my parents arrived, only to be told that I’m supposed to wait until after the party to clean up. Why do the same job twice? I like that logic. However, by the looks of it, my floors won’t be washed within the next six months, as the steady stream of well-wishers is showing no signs of slowing. Who knew hubby was this popular?
Then there’s the food. All these people need to be fed and watered, after all. It’s a good thing Mom and Dad showed up when they did. Mom always has crates full of homemade cookies in tow whenever she comes for a visit, so at least I can offer coffee and treats to my unannounced visitors. So far, only one of them had the – um – foresight to show up an hour before suppertime.
What is it with men and illnesses? They have no idea how to convalesce properly, do they? I know hubby’s going stir crazy. He’s not used to weeks of forced inactivity. We’re at the point now where I’m seriously considering the use of tether straps to keep him from overexerting himself. When my six year old doesn’t want to do his homework, I threaten to tell his teacher, which usually gets him moving. I’ve now resorted to the same strategy with hubby. “If you don’t sit still and relax, I’m going to call Dr. G and tell him what you’re doing!”
It’s a good thing I’m screening all his phone calls, too. Hubby doesn’t have the will power to resist the kind of temptation his so-called ‘friends’ are throwing at him. Just yesterday, exactly two weeks after his major abdominal surgery, hubby got a call from one ‘friend’ to ask if he’d be up to going dirt bike riding over the weekend. Sure! While we’re at it, why don’t I just rip your incision open with my bare hands? I’m sure that would be a lot of fun, too (excuse me while I wipe up the sarcasm that’s dripping all over my dirty floors).
I’ve discovered, though, that laughter truly is the best medicine. It’s working wonders for me, for one thing, and it does a great job of keeping hubby laid up in just the right amount of pain to remind him that he’s not completely whole just yet. Luckily, our family's antics are extremely laughable, so I have plenty of material to pull out of my hat whenever hubby's proving especially ambitious. We also have a friend who sends a daily compilation of jokes he receives from various sources. There's usually at least one per day that has me in tears, like the anecdote about the gentleman who thought his lizard was giving birth, only to be reminded that they lay eggs (I'll have to post that one for you some time - it's a classic).
Along with the guests and the phone calls and caring for the husband who won't sit still and two bored children and the bored dog and the offers for mystery shopping jobs that I had to turn down, I've also received - get this - one major engraving order from an existing client and one new offer for a freelance copywriting job, both worth several hundreds of dollars each. When it rains, it pours. In my world, it's apparently monsoon season. But, hey! Where would I get my blog fodder from if life were a picnic in the park? ;)
Technorati Tags: Visitors ; House Guests ; Illness ; Convalescence ; Jobs ; WAHM ; Work At Home
Friday, June 02, 2006
The Latest Groaner...
...courtesy of my sister:
A Tale of Two Robins
Two robins were sitting in a tree.
"I'm really hungry," said the first one. "Let's fly down and find some lunch."
They flew down to the ground and found a nice plot of newly plowed ground that was full of worms. They ate and ate and ate 'till they could eat no more.
"I'm so full, I don't think I can fly back up into the tree," said the first one.
"Let's just lay back here and bask in the warm sun," said the second.
"O K," said the first.
So they plopped down, basking in the sun. No sooner had they fallen asleep, when a big fat tomcat up and gobbled them up.
As the cat sat washing his face after his meal, he thought...
(scroll down)
(ready??)
(you're gonna like this one)
"I JUST LOVE BASKIN ROBINS."
Technorati Tags: Jokes ; Humour ; Robins ; Cats ; Baskin Robins
A Tale of Two Robins
Two robins were sitting in a tree.
"I'm really hungry," said the first one. "Let's fly down and find some lunch."
They flew down to the ground and found a nice plot of newly plowed ground that was full of worms. They ate and ate and ate 'till they could eat no more.
"I'm so full, I don't think I can fly back up into the tree," said the first one.
"Let's just lay back here and bask in the warm sun," said the second.
"O K," said the first.
So they plopped down, basking in the sun. No sooner had they fallen asleep, when a big fat tomcat up and gobbled them up.
As the cat sat washing his face after his meal, he thought...
(scroll down)
(ready??)
(you're gonna like this one)
"I JUST LOVE BASKIN ROBINS."
Technorati Tags: Jokes ; Humour ; Robins ; Cats ; Baskin Robins
Wednesday, May 31, 2006
Another Day In The Life...
So, hubby's had the surgery to remove his tumour. The official term for it is a 'right hemi-colectomy'. It went very well and we find out in a few days whether or not chemo is needed.
But the day leading up to his surgery was a series of events better suited to a Three Stooges' skit.
He was supposed to go in for 7:30AM on Tuesday. Monday night, at around 10:30PM, we receive a phone call from the hospital. "Hi, I'm calling from the hospital's surgical services department. We're having trouble with some of our equipment, so you don't have to come in at 7:30 tomorrow morning. Stay home. We'll call you when we're ready for you."
Equipment? What equipment?! Hubby is now in a bit of a panic. If you don't already know it, he's absolutely terrified of anything involving doctors and/or needles. I'm talking mind-numbingly, strap-him-down-or-he'll-bolt kinda fear. So, when he heard the words 'equipment problems', his heart rate just about tripled - not a good thing when you're anemic and awaiting surgery. He had visions of anaesthetic equipment malfunctioning mid-operation and him waking up to find his innards on his bedside table.
Needless to say, it wasn't a very restful night for him. Nonetheless, he was in fairly good spirits the next morning, figuring he at least was getting a little reprieve before having to go under the knife. Nothing like a little imposed procrastination to brighten your outlook. It was short-lived, though. At exactly 7:30AM, we received a call from the hospital. They're ready for us, we need to come in right away.
We arrived at the admission desk, commenting on how it appeared to be a little warm in the hospital that day. We were greeted by a nurse with a clipboard and a handful of papers. She knew who we were right away and had us take a seat. "The doctor wants to speak with you."
Right on cue, in walks the surgeon. The 'equipment problem' was actually an air conditioning malfunction. The problem is that the sterilization room is heavily air conditioned. If there is no air conditioning, there is too much humidity in the air, and they can't sterilize anything. We now have a choice. We can either get hubby admitted - he already has a room and a bed waiting for him - they'll start him up on an IV and he can wait here until they get everything straightened out, or he can go home, remain on clear fluids all day, and they'll call us when everything is a go, most likely some time after supper today or tomorrow at the latest. Uh, gee, what were my choices again? We're out the door faster than you can say, "Please sign this consent form."
That was around 9:00AM. Hubby had enough time to get home, swallow another bowl of Jell-O and was in the middle of his extra-large glass of water, when the phone rang. "Have you had any fluids? Yes? Well, stop." But the doctor said... "Yes, but we think we'll be ready for you around 3:00 this afternoon."
It's now 11:30AM, so the rest of the family starts making plans for lunch while hubby watches longingly from the wings. Ring, ring! It's the hospital again. We're ready for you. Now. But you said...! Oh, never mind. So much for a reprieve. We say goodbye to the family - again - and off we go to the hospital, with poor hubby's nerves about as frayed as Daisy Duke's little shorts.
This time, they send us straight up to his room. They want him ready and down in OR for 3:00PM. Poor Nurse Cari has the pleasure of trying to introduce the IV to hubby's rapidly retreating veins. He's so tense that the muscles in his arms are actually clamping around the veins, effectively shutting them off from Cari's prying needle. After failed attempt number three, Cari wraps his arms in some soothing warm blankets and heads off in search of a smaller needle - or maybe a bottle of Jack Daniels, whichever comes to hand first.
On the fourth attempt, Nurse Cari manages to get a precarious IV going. She tapes the crap out of the thing in the hope that hubby's veins don't somehow manage to spit it right back out after she leaves. She tells us that the 'pain management nurse' will be in shortly to discuss hubby's options.
Nurse Kelly comes in and very cheerfully announces that the best option, the Cadillac of pain management, would be an epidural. I start to giggle involuntarily. Hubby loses what little colour he had left in his cheeks. You see, his only experience with an epidural was with my first pregnancy. After twenty hours of labour, they had to get one in me for an emergency c-section. Without going into great detail, suffice it to say that hubby was more traumatized by the experience than I was. There was a lot of moaning and crying out in pain on my part, it apparently took a few attempts before they were successful, and there was blood spurting across the room like a low-budget B-grade horror flick.
But we managed to convince him to go for the epidural because it apparently makes a world of difference in recovery. We explained to him that it would be a completely different experience from mine because a) he did not have a nine pound alien trying to escape from his body, and b) they would be giving him a light sedative beforehand, so even if it did hurt, he probably wouldn't remember it afterwards.
No such luck. He remembered every excruciating detail, including the facts that they had to try to get it in him twice and that it hurt like hell. But they finally got him all settled in and he apparently didn't even get the chance to start counting backwards from one hundred before he was out like a light.
As I said in the intro, the operation itself did go well. The surrounding organs were checked and nothing appeared to be infected. A couple of lymph nodes gave the surgeon some cause for concern, but we won't know anything for sure until the pathology report comes back in the next week or so. Meanwhile, hubby gets to spend a week in hospital, enjoying the luxury of having the TV to himself all day long, and trying to get back on his feet. I had half-jokingly said we were going to work his scar into a nice tattoo, but then I remembered that tattoos involved needles, so I don't think he'll be volunteering for one of those any time soon.
Technorati Tags: cancer ; Colo-rectal ; Colon ; Hemi-Colectomy ; Epidural ; Lymph Node
But the day leading up to his surgery was a series of events better suited to a Three Stooges' skit.
He was supposed to go in for 7:30AM on Tuesday. Monday night, at around 10:30PM, we receive a phone call from the hospital. "Hi, I'm calling from the hospital's surgical services department. We're having trouble with some of our equipment, so you don't have to come in at 7:30 tomorrow morning. Stay home. We'll call you when we're ready for you."
Equipment? What equipment?! Hubby is now in a bit of a panic. If you don't already know it, he's absolutely terrified of anything involving doctors and/or needles. I'm talking mind-numbingly, strap-him-down-or-he'll-bolt kinda fear. So, when he heard the words 'equipment problems', his heart rate just about tripled - not a good thing when you're anemic and awaiting surgery. He had visions of anaesthetic equipment malfunctioning mid-operation and him waking up to find his innards on his bedside table.
Needless to say, it wasn't a very restful night for him. Nonetheless, he was in fairly good spirits the next morning, figuring he at least was getting a little reprieve before having to go under the knife. Nothing like a little imposed procrastination to brighten your outlook. It was short-lived, though. At exactly 7:30AM, we received a call from the hospital. They're ready for us, we need to come in right away.
We arrived at the admission desk, commenting on how it appeared to be a little warm in the hospital that day. We were greeted by a nurse with a clipboard and a handful of papers. She knew who we were right away and had us take a seat. "The doctor wants to speak with you."
Right on cue, in walks the surgeon. The 'equipment problem' was actually an air conditioning malfunction. The problem is that the sterilization room is heavily air conditioned. If there is no air conditioning, there is too much humidity in the air, and they can't sterilize anything. We now have a choice. We can either get hubby admitted - he already has a room and a bed waiting for him - they'll start him up on an IV and he can wait here until they get everything straightened out, or he can go home, remain on clear fluids all day, and they'll call us when everything is a go, most likely some time after supper today or tomorrow at the latest. Uh, gee, what were my choices again? We're out the door faster than you can say, "Please sign this consent form."
That was around 9:00AM. Hubby had enough time to get home, swallow another bowl of Jell-O and was in the middle of his extra-large glass of water, when the phone rang. "Have you had any fluids? Yes? Well, stop." But the doctor said... "Yes, but we think we'll be ready for you around 3:00 this afternoon."
It's now 11:30AM, so the rest of the family starts making plans for lunch while hubby watches longingly from the wings. Ring, ring! It's the hospital again. We're ready for you. Now. But you said...! Oh, never mind. So much for a reprieve. We say goodbye to the family - again - and off we go to the hospital, with poor hubby's nerves about as frayed as Daisy Duke's little shorts.
This time, they send us straight up to his room. They want him ready and down in OR for 3:00PM. Poor Nurse Cari has the pleasure of trying to introduce the IV to hubby's rapidly retreating veins. He's so tense that the muscles in his arms are actually clamping around the veins, effectively shutting them off from Cari's prying needle. After failed attempt number three, Cari wraps his arms in some soothing warm blankets and heads off in search of a smaller needle - or maybe a bottle of Jack Daniels, whichever comes to hand first.
On the fourth attempt, Nurse Cari manages to get a precarious IV going. She tapes the crap out of the thing in the hope that hubby's veins don't somehow manage to spit it right back out after she leaves. She tells us that the 'pain management nurse' will be in shortly to discuss hubby's options.
Nurse Kelly comes in and very cheerfully announces that the best option, the Cadillac of pain management, would be an epidural. I start to giggle involuntarily. Hubby loses what little colour he had left in his cheeks. You see, his only experience with an epidural was with my first pregnancy. After twenty hours of labour, they had to get one in me for an emergency c-section. Without going into great detail, suffice it to say that hubby was more traumatized by the experience than I was. There was a lot of moaning and crying out in pain on my part, it apparently took a few attempts before they were successful, and there was blood spurting across the room like a low-budget B-grade horror flick.
But we managed to convince him to go for the epidural because it apparently makes a world of difference in recovery. We explained to him that it would be a completely different experience from mine because a) he did not have a nine pound alien trying to escape from his body, and b) they would be giving him a light sedative beforehand, so even if it did hurt, he probably wouldn't remember it afterwards.
No such luck. He remembered every excruciating detail, including the facts that they had to try to get it in him twice and that it hurt like hell. But they finally got him all settled in and he apparently didn't even get the chance to start counting backwards from one hundred before he was out like a light.
As I said in the intro, the operation itself did go well. The surrounding organs were checked and nothing appeared to be infected. A couple of lymph nodes gave the surgeon some cause for concern, but we won't know anything for sure until the pathology report comes back in the next week or so. Meanwhile, hubby gets to spend a week in hospital, enjoying the luxury of having the TV to himself all day long, and trying to get back on his feet. I had half-jokingly said we were going to work his scar into a nice tattoo, but then I remembered that tattoos involved needles, so I don't think he'll be volunteering for one of those any time soon.
Technorati Tags: cancer ; Colo-rectal ; Colon ; Hemi-Colectomy ; Epidural ; Lymph Node
Wednesday, May 24, 2006
Speaking Of Ducks...
As the popularity of blogs continues to explode, yet another international corporation has jumped on the blogwagon.
This one is a little sexier than most company blogs, though. No, it's not Victoria spilling all her innermost secrets. It's from Federico Minoli, head honcho at Ducati Motor Holdings, maker of Ducati motorcycles. He's decided to start up a blog so he can keep everyone abreast of his comings and goings in the motorcycle world.
For those of you who don't know what a Ducati is, let me enlighten you. Ducati is the Ferrari of motorcycles. They're sleek and sexy. They're the epitome of Italian design. They're the 'beautiful people' of the motorcycle world - except that they are available and attainable and fun to be around. They turn heads with their stunning good looks and very distinctive sound. It's like dating a supermodel, but without all the pretention - and she doesn't mind if you stop for a burger now and again. (Photo from Ducati Manchester)
And Ducati's blog is no different than the bikes themselves. It's written in both English and Italian. If you're reading it in English, though, you have to put on a really sexy Italain accent. It just 'sounds' better that way. Reading the comments is a lot of fun, too. Most of them are in Italian, and will therefore make no sense to the average North American. But it's fun to scan through them just the same. It's like taking a European vacation without leaving your desk.
Federico isn't just another suit, either. He's a motorcycle enthusiast and proud Ducati rider as well. His blog will take you from high-society galas to the race track to the Italian countryside in the blink of an eye - or with the blip of the throttle. I may be way off base here, but I get the feeling from his blog that he would be the kind of guy who'd gladly sit with you for hours and chat about bikes over a glass of wine.
If that is the case, then I'd like to extend an open invitation to him. Sig. Minoli, if you're ever in Canada and have some time to kill, drop me a line. My husband would love to bend your ear for an hour or two. All I ask is that you give me enough notice to get a few bottles of my father's best shipped to us in honour of your visit. I guarantee you won't be disappointed. :D
Technorati Tags: Ducati ; Federico Minoli ; Motorcycle ; Sport Bike ; Supersport ; Monster ; Racing
This one is a little sexier than most company blogs, though. No, it's not Victoria spilling all her innermost secrets. It's from Federico Minoli, head honcho at Ducati Motor Holdings, maker of Ducati motorcycles. He's decided to start up a blog so he can keep everyone abreast of his comings and goings in the motorcycle world.
For those of you who don't know what a Ducati is, let me enlighten you. Ducati is the Ferrari of motorcycles. They're sleek and sexy. They're the epitome of Italian design. They're the 'beautiful people' of the motorcycle world - except that they are available and attainable and fun to be around. They turn heads with their stunning good looks and very distinctive sound. It's like dating a supermodel, but without all the pretention - and she doesn't mind if you stop for a burger now and again. (Photo from Ducati Manchester)And Ducati's blog is no different than the bikes themselves. It's written in both English and Italian. If you're reading it in English, though, you have to put on a really sexy Italain accent. It just 'sounds' better that way. Reading the comments is a lot of fun, too. Most of them are in Italian, and will therefore make no sense to the average North American. But it's fun to scan through them just the same. It's like taking a European vacation without leaving your desk.
Federico isn't just another suit, either. He's a motorcycle enthusiast and proud Ducati rider as well. His blog will take you from high-society galas to the race track to the Italian countryside in the blink of an eye - or with the blip of the throttle. I may be way off base here, but I get the feeling from his blog that he would be the kind of guy who'd gladly sit with you for hours and chat about bikes over a glass of wine.
If that is the case, then I'd like to extend an open invitation to him. Sig. Minoli, if you're ever in Canada and have some time to kill, drop me a line. My husband would love to bend your ear for an hour or two. All I ask is that you give me enough notice to get a few bottles of my father's best shipped to us in honour of your visit. I guarantee you won't be disappointed. :D
Technorati Tags: Ducati ; Federico Minoli ; Motorcycle ; Sport Bike ; Supersport ; Monster ; Racing
Monday, May 22, 2006
Lovely Weather, If You're A Duck
We've gotten over the initial shock of our really, really bad news and have decided that we're going to be just fine, thanks. Hubby is going for pre-op tomorrow and is scheduled for surgery on the 30th. In the mean time, we're enjoying an unbelievable amount of support from family and way more friends than we realized we'd been blessed with.
The first wave of our out-of-town support team arrived on Saturday. It was my brother, his wife and their little girl. They came to offer their shoulders for a couple of days. Their daughter is four months younger than Trouble. Between the two of them, there was enough sweetness floating around the place to send everyone into diabetic shock.
Having just come from Montreal, where it's apparently been raining for two straight years (to hear them tell it), they were looking forward to our somewhat drier shores. No such luck. The rain had defied all laws of meteorology and followed them westward. It was chilly but sunny when they got here, so the children got in a couple of hours' worth of play time before the clouds caught up with them.
Much to everyone's dismay, Sunday dawned soggy and frigid. I believe our daytime high hovered somewhere around six degreesCelsiuss, with a windchill of minus a hundred. I kid you not. Even the dog refused to go out, unless it was to pee. At that, the poor thing had to battle against the wind to the point that she quickly learned to pee downwind. After a bout of small hail stones, we witnessed something that looked suspiciously like snow. I kid you not. As we stared agog at the tiny whiteness before our eyes, we all wondered if frogs and locusts would shortly follow.
My brother and his family departed Sunday night after dinner. On Monday we started making plans for our arc. That turned out to be unnecessary, though, as the clouds soon scattered and the sun poked his happy little face out once again. No doubt, the rain decided to head home to Montreal. I'm guessing, if nothing else good comes of it, the mushroom harvest in Quebec is sure to be a good one this year.
Technorati Tags: Weather ; Rain ; Hail ; Snow
The first wave of our out-of-town support team arrived on Saturday. It was my brother, his wife and their little girl. They came to offer their shoulders for a couple of days. Their daughter is four months younger than Trouble. Between the two of them, there was enough sweetness floating around the place to send everyone into diabetic shock.
Having just come from Montreal, where it's apparently been raining for two straight years (to hear them tell it), they were looking forward to our somewhat drier shores. No such luck. The rain had defied all laws of meteorology and followed them westward. It was chilly but sunny when they got here, so the children got in a couple of hours' worth of play time before the clouds caught up with them.
Much to everyone's dismay, Sunday dawned soggy and frigid. I believe our daytime high hovered somewhere around six degreesCelsiuss, with a windchill of minus a hundred. I kid you not. Even the dog refused to go out, unless it was to pee. At that, the poor thing had to battle against the wind to the point that she quickly learned to pee downwind. After a bout of small hail stones, we witnessed something that looked suspiciously like snow. I kid you not. As we stared agog at the tiny whiteness before our eyes, we all wondered if frogs and locusts would shortly follow.
My brother and his family departed Sunday night after dinner. On Monday we started making plans for our arc. That turned out to be unnecessary, though, as the clouds soon scattered and the sun poked his happy little face out once again. No doubt, the rain decided to head home to Montreal. I'm guessing, if nothing else good comes of it, the mushroom harvest in Quebec is sure to be a good one this year.
Technorati Tags: Weather ; Rain ; Hail ; Snow
Wednesday, May 17, 2006
Worst Day Of Our Lives
This is not a happy post. I can usually put a funny spin on just about anything. Sorry, not today.
You see, my thirty eight year old husband has just been diagnosed with colon cancer. We've been told the outlook is good, since he's young and they apparently caught it early. I'm going to tell you the whole story, just in case anyone out there is feeling the way my husband did before seeing a doctor, and is thinking it's no big deal.
Because, you see, it all started out very innocently. Hubby was feeling tired and a little run down. Perfectly normal feelings for someone who had been working up to sixty hours per week. Until, that is, the company began cutting back on the overtime. Then, with all the free time and week-ends off, we thought he would be getting some of his vigour back. Not so. He began feeling even more tired, if that was possible. So, after a month of feeling really lousy and having several people tell him he looked terrible, he finally went to see our family physician.
The doctor wasn't impressed with his heart beat. It was irregular, suggesting a murmur or possibly arrhythmia. Blood work was ordered. Lots of blood work. Which was no consolation to my poor husband, who is terrified of needles. I managed to drag him to the lab where they squeezed out the four vials they needed. We'd hear from our family doctor in about a week, they told us. This was Friday morning.
Saturday at around noon, I get a phone call. It's the family doctor. Hubby's hemoglobin is at approximately sixty - one third what it should be. He's severely anemic. This tells us he probably is bleeding internally. We need to get him to the emergency room, and don't be surprised if they tell us a transfusion is required.
Sure enough, as soon as we arrive at the ER, they waste no time in getting hubby into a wheelchair and into an exam room, leaving me to fill out the paper work. By the time I can get back to see hubby, he's hooked up to all sorts of monitors and with an IV in his arm doling out fluids. He's already been through the dreaded 'rectal probe' while I was having him registered.
The doctor comes in to tell us he's going to start a transfusion. He believes we're dealing with a very slow leak somewhere within the body, most likely an ulcer, given hubby's age. Hubby will be admitted for the week-end. Our first order of business is to get the blood levels back to where they belong (or at least out of the danger zone). On Sunday, he'll start prepping for a pair of scopes. Yup, from both ends. A colonoscopy and an upper endoscopy.
At this point, hubby is in a complete panic at the thought of a camera being driven around his insides. I was trying to be helpful by telling him about my own experience with a colonoscopy. He didn't find it amusing. Nonetheless, he was a trooper and took his medicine with only minimal cajoling on my part.
He went in for his scopes on Monday. By four o'clock, I hadn't heard back, so I called the nurses' station. Sure enough, he was too doped up to talk to anyone at this point. As soon as he's awake, they'll have him call me.
At around five thirty, I get the dreaded phone call. It's the surgeon. The doctor who was initially dealing with my husband had asked him to come in and consult with us. It turns out that it isn't an ulcer. It's a tumour. On the right side of his colon. We're going to schedule him for surgery ASAP. In the mean time, though, they've already called my sister to go pick hubby up because he really wanted to come home.
And here we are. He's been for a CT scan so the doctor has a clearer picture of what he's dealing with. Surgery is scheduled for the end of the month. They're going to (unless the plan changes once they see the CT scan) remove the part of the colon where the tumour is located, and then connect the rest back together. Hubby is feeling like a pincushion. And, as much as he hates needles, he's now grown quite used to them, and will become heartily sick of them before all is said and done, I'm sure.
The moral of this story is - no matter how bad you think a colonoscopy might be, it's nowhere near as bad as cancer. So, please, please have yourselves screened. Convince your loved ones that they need to see a doctor if they're feeling 'off'. The signs aren't always blatant. It can start out as simply as feeling a little tired.
Technorati Tags: colon ; cancer ; anemia ; hemoglobin ; fatigue ; colonoscopy ; endoscopy
You see, my thirty eight year old husband has just been diagnosed with colon cancer. We've been told the outlook is good, since he's young and they apparently caught it early. I'm going to tell you the whole story, just in case anyone out there is feeling the way my husband did before seeing a doctor, and is thinking it's no big deal.
Because, you see, it all started out very innocently. Hubby was feeling tired and a little run down. Perfectly normal feelings for someone who had been working up to sixty hours per week. Until, that is, the company began cutting back on the overtime. Then, with all the free time and week-ends off, we thought he would be getting some of his vigour back. Not so. He began feeling even more tired, if that was possible. So, after a month of feeling really lousy and having several people tell him he looked terrible, he finally went to see our family physician.
The doctor wasn't impressed with his heart beat. It was irregular, suggesting a murmur or possibly arrhythmia. Blood work was ordered. Lots of blood work. Which was no consolation to my poor husband, who is terrified of needles. I managed to drag him to the lab where they squeezed out the four vials they needed. We'd hear from our family doctor in about a week, they told us. This was Friday morning.
Saturday at around noon, I get a phone call. It's the family doctor. Hubby's hemoglobin is at approximately sixty - one third what it should be. He's severely anemic. This tells us he probably is bleeding internally. We need to get him to the emergency room, and don't be surprised if they tell us a transfusion is required.
Sure enough, as soon as we arrive at the ER, they waste no time in getting hubby into a wheelchair and into an exam room, leaving me to fill out the paper work. By the time I can get back to see hubby, he's hooked up to all sorts of monitors and with an IV in his arm doling out fluids. He's already been through the dreaded 'rectal probe' while I was having him registered.
The doctor comes in to tell us he's going to start a transfusion. He believes we're dealing with a very slow leak somewhere within the body, most likely an ulcer, given hubby's age. Hubby will be admitted for the week-end. Our first order of business is to get the blood levels back to where they belong (or at least out of the danger zone). On Sunday, he'll start prepping for a pair of scopes. Yup, from both ends. A colonoscopy and an upper endoscopy.
At this point, hubby is in a complete panic at the thought of a camera being driven around his insides. I was trying to be helpful by telling him about my own experience with a colonoscopy. He didn't find it amusing. Nonetheless, he was a trooper and took his medicine with only minimal cajoling on my part.
He went in for his scopes on Monday. By four o'clock, I hadn't heard back, so I called the nurses' station. Sure enough, he was too doped up to talk to anyone at this point. As soon as he's awake, they'll have him call me.
At around five thirty, I get the dreaded phone call. It's the surgeon. The doctor who was initially dealing with my husband had asked him to come in and consult with us. It turns out that it isn't an ulcer. It's a tumour. On the right side of his colon. We're going to schedule him for surgery ASAP. In the mean time, though, they've already called my sister to go pick hubby up because he really wanted to come home.
And here we are. He's been for a CT scan so the doctor has a clearer picture of what he's dealing with. Surgery is scheduled for the end of the month. They're going to (unless the plan changes once they see the CT scan) remove the part of the colon where the tumour is located, and then connect the rest back together. Hubby is feeling like a pincushion. And, as much as he hates needles, he's now grown quite used to them, and will become heartily sick of them before all is said and done, I'm sure.
The moral of this story is - no matter how bad you think a colonoscopy might be, it's nowhere near as bad as cancer. So, please, please have yourselves screened. Convince your loved ones that they need to see a doctor if they're feeling 'off'. The signs aren't always blatant. It can start out as simply as feeling a little tired.
Technorati Tags: colon ; cancer ; anemia ; hemoglobin ; fatigue ; colonoscopy ; endoscopy
Thursday, May 11, 2006
WAHM Bloggers QOTW
This week's assignment from the ladies at Work-At-Home-Mom Bloggers is to answer the question: How do you stay fit mentally and physically?
Physical fitness has never been a problem for me. I'm in perfect shape. Unfortunately, that shape is 'round'. Being a work-at-home-mom means that money and me-time are luxuries I'm not going to enjoy for the next few years. Therefore, a gym membership is definitely out of the question. I do own a large, heavy treadmill. The only exercise I've ever gotten on that thing, though, was from periodically moving it around the house. I'm hoping my arteries will hold out for another two years. At that time, Trouble will be in Junior Kindergarten. This will mean that the dog and I can go for walks at a speed somewhat higher than half a metre per hour, which is as quick as we can go right now with Trouble thoroughly investigating every weed and rock and candybar wrapper along the way.
Luckily, mental fitness is easier (and cheaper) to come by. Being the freak of nature that I am, I enjoy a good ('good', not 'difficult') logic puzzle now and again. Another way I like to stretch my brain a little is with a game of Tile Rummy (or Rummy-O or Rummy Squares - I've never seen a game with so many names). Teaching an old dog new tricks is a great way to exercise the ol' cranial muscle, so I learn as much as I can about websites, blogs and the internet in general whenever the opportunity arises. Writing in my blog really is a great form of intellectual stimulation. It's also an exercise in building patience, as my cursor struggles to keep pace with my typing and my screen refreshes for no apparent reason, leading me to believe that Blogger is going down yet again, meaning my entire post will soon be lost if I don't save it soon. Hang on a sec ... I'll be right back ...
Now, where was I? Writing - right! Did you know that I've always wanted to be a writer? For better or for worse, life got in the way of that little dream, so it looks like blogging is as close as I'm going to get. Unless someone reads this blog and likes my style enough to offer me a gig, in which case my e-mail link is in the left-hand menu (*wink*). The experts will tell you to write what you know. I know sarcasm and self-deprecating humour, which, thankfully, appear to work well in a blog. How does that manifest itself into mental fitness? Let's just say that my goals are more in line with 'week-end warrior' rather than 'decathelete'.
There you have it, folks. BikerMomma's secret guide to everlasting beauty and a rapier-sharp mind. Not buying it? How about 'Body by McDonald's' and 'enough brains not to walk into things'?
Technorati Tags: WAHM ; QOTW ; Fitness ; Exercise
Physical fitness has never been a problem for me. I'm in perfect shape. Unfortunately, that shape is 'round'. Being a work-at-home-mom means that money and me-time are luxuries I'm not going to enjoy for the next few years. Therefore, a gym membership is definitely out of the question. I do own a large, heavy treadmill. The only exercise I've ever gotten on that thing, though, was from periodically moving it around the house. I'm hoping my arteries will hold out for another two years. At that time, Trouble will be in Junior Kindergarten. This will mean that the dog and I can go for walks at a speed somewhat higher than half a metre per hour, which is as quick as we can go right now with Trouble thoroughly investigating every weed and rock and candybar wrapper along the way.
Luckily, mental fitness is easier (and cheaper) to come by. Being the freak of nature that I am, I enjoy a good ('good', not 'difficult') logic puzzle now and again. Another way I like to stretch my brain a little is with a game of Tile Rummy (or Rummy-O or Rummy Squares - I've never seen a game with so many names). Teaching an old dog new tricks is a great way to exercise the ol' cranial muscle, so I learn as much as I can about websites, blogs and the internet in general whenever the opportunity arises. Writing in my blog really is a great form of intellectual stimulation. It's also an exercise in building patience, as my cursor struggles to keep pace with my typing and my screen refreshes for no apparent reason, leading me to believe that Blogger is going down yet again, meaning my entire post will soon be lost if I don't save it soon. Hang on a sec ... I'll be right back ...
Now, where was I? Writing - right! Did you know that I've always wanted to be a writer? For better or for worse, life got in the way of that little dream, so it looks like blogging is as close as I'm going to get. Unless someone reads this blog and likes my style enough to offer me a gig, in which case my e-mail link is in the left-hand menu (*wink*). The experts will tell you to write what you know. I know sarcasm and self-deprecating humour, which, thankfully, appear to work well in a blog. How does that manifest itself into mental fitness? Let's just say that my goals are more in line with 'week-end warrior' rather than 'decathelete'.
There you have it, folks. BikerMomma's secret guide to everlasting beauty and a rapier-sharp mind. Not buying it? How about 'Body by McDonald's' and 'enough brains not to walk into things'?
Technorati Tags: WAHM ; QOTW ; Fitness ; Exercise
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
I'm Not Going To Say It...
I'm not, I'm not, I can't ... must ... resist ... temptation ...
Oops! ... She did it again!
Sorry. What can I say? I'm weak.
It would appear that Britney Spears is expecting baby number two. Rather than sending out cute little announcement cards, she preferred to share her joyous news by making an 'unscheduled' appearance on the Late Show with David Letterman.
I know the article says she chose to make the announcement on the Late Show because she wanted to beat out the tabloids. However, I can't help but get the impression that it was more of a desperate plea for attention. After all, the media has been a-buzz for quite some time with news of TomKat's and Brangelina's respective progeny. All we've been hearing about Britney lately are stories of visits from the Child Welfare offices.
Unfortunately, the whole TomKat/Brangelina market saturation has started putting people (namely me) off of the 'star spawn' craze. So, they can breed. So can a bazillion other people on the face of the planet. You want to impress me? Publish pictures of what you look like after a month of midnight feedings. Let me see what your breasts are doing after you've stopped breastfeeding and before you schedule the appointment with your plastic surgeon. Show me your manicure after you've changed a couple years' worth of dirty diapers by yourself.
What I really want to see, though, is a video clip of Brad getting peed on when he tries to change his first diaper. That would impress me!
Technorati Tags: Britney Spears ; Tom Cruise ; Katie Holmes ; Brad Pitt ; Angelina Jolie ; David Letterman ; Pregnancy ; Babies ; TomKat ; Brangelina
Oops! ... She did it again!
Sorry. What can I say? I'm weak.
It would appear that Britney Spears is expecting baby number two. Rather than sending out cute little announcement cards, she preferred to share her joyous news by making an 'unscheduled' appearance on the Late Show with David Letterman.
I know the article says she chose to make the announcement on the Late Show because she wanted to beat out the tabloids. However, I can't help but get the impression that it was more of a desperate plea for attention. After all, the media has been a-buzz for quite some time with news of TomKat's and Brangelina's respective progeny. All we've been hearing about Britney lately are stories of visits from the Child Welfare offices.
Unfortunately, the whole TomKat/Brangelina market saturation has started putting people (namely me) off of the 'star spawn' craze. So, they can breed. So can a bazillion other people on the face of the planet. You want to impress me? Publish pictures of what you look like after a month of midnight feedings. Let me see what your breasts are doing after you've stopped breastfeeding and before you schedule the appointment with your plastic surgeon. Show me your manicure after you've changed a couple years' worth of dirty diapers by yourself.
What I really want to see, though, is a video clip of Brad getting peed on when he tries to change his first diaper. That would impress me!
Technorati Tags: Britney Spears ; Tom Cruise ; Katie Holmes ; Brad Pitt ; Angelina Jolie ; David Letterman ; Pregnancy ; Babies ; TomKat ; Brangelina
Tuesday, May 09, 2006
Road Trip
We're home! Oh, the joys of sleeping in your own bed after a week-end away. Oh, the joys of having your children sleep - period - after a week-end away.
There was a family function to attend in La Belle Province. Since hubby is running short on vacation time, we decided to save his few remaining vacation days for - well - his vacation. So, my sister and I loaded our children into my car and hit the road. Her teenage son (we'll refer to him as 'SuperStar') preferred to stay home. Gee, I wonder why. "Stay home with my girlfriend and buddies, or spend seven hours in a car with my kid sister to go visit my grandparents where I'll have to listen to lame jokes about my piercings and share the computer with at least ten other people." Choice? What choice? So he was left for two days with a set of rules a mile long, and all the neighbours, as well as his uncle, popping in to check on him when he least expected it.
The ride there was nothing short of heavenly. Three children crammed into the back seat - Mini-Me in his booster, Trouble in his car seat, and my niece (let's name her 'Butterfly') stuffed into the two-inch space between them. You'd think this was a recipe for disaster. Hubby and I had learned from our last road trip, though, that two children plus one set of headphones for the DVD player equals straightjackets for Mom and Dad. So we had bought an extra set of headphones for Trouble. Butterfly had her own personal DVD player which my sister had bought during their last road trip (no doubt having suffered through the same lesson we had just benefitted from). So the ride there was made in relative peace. When anyone asked me how the ride was, I boasted expansively about how wonderful those headphones were, the best investment I've made in years, we didn't hear anything out of the kids during the whole trip, yadda, yadda, yadda... Did you hear that? That would be the sound of Fate laughing long and hard at my boasting. She was gonna teach me a lesson, but good.
Night number one was spent at my brother's house. His two children are close in age to Butterfly and Mini-Me, and so they always have fun together. And a great time was had by all. Bed time rolled around, so we set the kids up on the living room floor with a pair of inflatable mattresses - boys on one, girls on the other.
I slept in my niece's bed with Trouble. I learned two things that night. One: For such a little guy, Trouble takes up a surprisingly large amount of space in bed. Two: He leads with his head. He doesn't just flip and flop and toss and turn. He points his head in the direction he wants to go, and then gives an almighty heave with his freakishly strong little legs. I slept very little that night, as Trouble brought back fond memories of my pregnancy with him, where he would plant his skull in one of my kidneys and dig in with all his might.
As if Trouble wasn't giving me a hard enough time, Mini-Me decided to take a few years off my life. When I went for my middle-of-the-night-pee, I decided to look in on the kids in the living room. There were the two girls, but where were the boys? I checked my nephew's bedroom. OK, there's my nephew, but where's my son? Back to the living room - nope definitely not there. Maybe he snuck into my bed during the fifteen minutes I was sleeping? Nope, not there, either. Full blown panic has now struck. In my mind, I'm having visions on Mini-Me suddenly developing a sleep-walking habit, and he's now wandering around the streets of a strange neighbourhood in his Hulk pyjamas. I bolt down to the basement to wake my sister. Hang on, there's an extra lump in her bed. There's my son, snuggled in next to his aunt. OK, I can breathe again. My sister had woken up at this point, so I asked her why he was there. "Why didn't he want to come to bed with me?" asks the hurt little voice inside my head. "Oh, he said he didn't want to sleep up there. The girls were making too much noise."
Of course, he was right. By the time I got back to bed, there was no way I was getting to sleep. For I was now painfully aware of a fact about inflatable mattresses of which I had previously been blissfully unaware. Every time one of the girls would roll over or shift positions, the mattress would emit sounds that made me think someone was building six foot tall balloon animals in the living room. Fabulous. Two hours of sleep after a seven hour drive. No problem. I can catch up on my sleep the next night, right?
Not so much. Night number two was spent at my parents' house on the inflatable mattress with both Mini-Me and Trouble, and a cousin on the sofa next to us who is a self-proclaimed 'violent sleep kicker'. One of the many downfalls of sleeping on the living room floor is that you have to wait until everyone else in the house goes to bed before you can do the same. This happened around midnight. I settled in with Mini-Me on the outside edge, Trouble in the middle and me taking the perilous spot mere inches from the violent sleep kicker. Around three o'clock in the morning, I discovered that Trouble doesn't enjoy sleeping in the middle. He really needs his space after all. He woke up crying loudly, and no amount of cooing or shushing from me would get him to calm down. So I picked him up and cuddled with him in an armchair. He fell immediately and deeply back to sleep. Great. I can't stay in this armchair all night, though, so now what? I gingerly place Trouble back on the inflatable mattress, where he rearranged himself into a suitably sprawled position, and didn't wake up again.
Well, that was good for him, but there wasn't room for me anymore. I tried in vain to attain a comfortable sleeping position in that armchair. I gave that up for a bad idea after the first half hour. I thought I'd try to sprawl across the foot of the air mattress. This would have worked, except that my legs from the knee downwards had no mattress underneath them. Add to that the fact that air mattresses are very much like waterbeds without a frame. If you move a fraction of an inch, everyone else on the bed goes for a trampoline ride. And, if you lie too close to the edge, the air in the mattress rolls out from underneath you and you get tossed rather unceremoniously off the bed.
As I clung precariously to my little corner of the bed, it never occurred to me that the mattress had, in fact, three other sides. At about four o'clock that morning, there was a loud 'ker-THUMP!' Mini-Me had learned the perils of rolling too closely to the edge of the treacherous air mattress. He was fine - had, in fact, jumped right up and climbed back into bed on his own without even waking up. I really didn't want a repeat performance, though, so I spent what was left of the night with one arm and one leg out at ninety degree angles, trying to keep Mini-Me and Trouble from rolling off the bed again.
So, a seven hour drive followed by two hours of sleep, followed by a party, another three hours of sleep, and another seven hour drive. The icing on the cake was my alarm going off at seven o'clock this morning so I could get Mini-Me off to school. The real kicker? As I protested weakly and pounded on my snooze button, Mini-me bounced out of bed, got himself dressed, and poured his own bowl of cereal and milk. Trouble woke up shortly thereafter, actually singing. *Sigh!* There went any hopes I had of lying comatose until noon.
Technorati Tags: Road Trip ; Parenthood ; Sleep ; Air Mattress ; Travelling ; Children
There was a family function to attend in La Belle Province. Since hubby is running short on vacation time, we decided to save his few remaining vacation days for - well - his vacation. So, my sister and I loaded our children into my car and hit the road. Her teenage son (we'll refer to him as 'SuperStar') preferred to stay home. Gee, I wonder why. "Stay home with my girlfriend and buddies, or spend seven hours in a car with my kid sister to go visit my grandparents where I'll have to listen to lame jokes about my piercings and share the computer with at least ten other people." Choice? What choice? So he was left for two days with a set of rules a mile long, and all the neighbours, as well as his uncle, popping in to check on him when he least expected it.
The ride there was nothing short of heavenly. Three children crammed into the back seat - Mini-Me in his booster, Trouble in his car seat, and my niece (let's name her 'Butterfly') stuffed into the two-inch space between them. You'd think this was a recipe for disaster. Hubby and I had learned from our last road trip, though, that two children plus one set of headphones for the DVD player equals straightjackets for Mom and Dad. So we had bought an extra set of headphones for Trouble. Butterfly had her own personal DVD player which my sister had bought during their last road trip (no doubt having suffered through the same lesson we had just benefitted from). So the ride there was made in relative peace. When anyone asked me how the ride was, I boasted expansively about how wonderful those headphones were, the best investment I've made in years, we didn't hear anything out of the kids during the whole trip, yadda, yadda, yadda... Did you hear that? That would be the sound of Fate laughing long and hard at my boasting. She was gonna teach me a lesson, but good.
Night number one was spent at my brother's house. His two children are close in age to Butterfly and Mini-Me, and so they always have fun together. And a great time was had by all. Bed time rolled around, so we set the kids up on the living room floor with a pair of inflatable mattresses - boys on one, girls on the other.
I slept in my niece's bed with Trouble. I learned two things that night. One: For such a little guy, Trouble takes up a surprisingly large amount of space in bed. Two: He leads with his head. He doesn't just flip and flop and toss and turn. He points his head in the direction he wants to go, and then gives an almighty heave with his freakishly strong little legs. I slept very little that night, as Trouble brought back fond memories of my pregnancy with him, where he would plant his skull in one of my kidneys and dig in with all his might.
As if Trouble wasn't giving me a hard enough time, Mini-Me decided to take a few years off my life. When I went for my middle-of-the-night-pee, I decided to look in on the kids in the living room. There were the two girls, but where were the boys? I checked my nephew's bedroom. OK, there's my nephew, but where's my son? Back to the living room - nope definitely not there. Maybe he snuck into my bed during the fifteen minutes I was sleeping? Nope, not there, either. Full blown panic has now struck. In my mind, I'm having visions on Mini-Me suddenly developing a sleep-walking habit, and he's now wandering around the streets of a strange neighbourhood in his Hulk pyjamas. I bolt down to the basement to wake my sister. Hang on, there's an extra lump in her bed. There's my son, snuggled in next to his aunt. OK, I can breathe again. My sister had woken up at this point, so I asked her why he was there. "Why didn't he want to come to bed with me?" asks the hurt little voice inside my head. "Oh, he said he didn't want to sleep up there. The girls were making too much noise."
Of course, he was right. By the time I got back to bed, there was no way I was getting to sleep. For I was now painfully aware of a fact about inflatable mattresses of which I had previously been blissfully unaware. Every time one of the girls would roll over or shift positions, the mattress would emit sounds that made me think someone was building six foot tall balloon animals in the living room. Fabulous. Two hours of sleep after a seven hour drive. No problem. I can catch up on my sleep the next night, right?
Not so much. Night number two was spent at my parents' house on the inflatable mattress with both Mini-Me and Trouble, and a cousin on the sofa next to us who is a self-proclaimed 'violent sleep kicker'. One of the many downfalls of sleeping on the living room floor is that you have to wait until everyone else in the house goes to bed before you can do the same. This happened around midnight. I settled in with Mini-Me on the outside edge, Trouble in the middle and me taking the perilous spot mere inches from the violent sleep kicker. Around three o'clock in the morning, I discovered that Trouble doesn't enjoy sleeping in the middle. He really needs his space after all. He woke up crying loudly, and no amount of cooing or shushing from me would get him to calm down. So I picked him up and cuddled with him in an armchair. He fell immediately and deeply back to sleep. Great. I can't stay in this armchair all night, though, so now what? I gingerly place Trouble back on the inflatable mattress, where he rearranged himself into a suitably sprawled position, and didn't wake up again.
Well, that was good for him, but there wasn't room for me anymore. I tried in vain to attain a comfortable sleeping position in that armchair. I gave that up for a bad idea after the first half hour. I thought I'd try to sprawl across the foot of the air mattress. This would have worked, except that my legs from the knee downwards had no mattress underneath them. Add to that the fact that air mattresses are very much like waterbeds without a frame. If you move a fraction of an inch, everyone else on the bed goes for a trampoline ride. And, if you lie too close to the edge, the air in the mattress rolls out from underneath you and you get tossed rather unceremoniously off the bed.
As I clung precariously to my little corner of the bed, it never occurred to me that the mattress had, in fact, three other sides. At about four o'clock that morning, there was a loud 'ker-THUMP!' Mini-Me had learned the perils of rolling too closely to the edge of the treacherous air mattress. He was fine - had, in fact, jumped right up and climbed back into bed on his own without even waking up. I really didn't want a repeat performance, though, so I spent what was left of the night with one arm and one leg out at ninety degree angles, trying to keep Mini-Me and Trouble from rolling off the bed again.
So, a seven hour drive followed by two hours of sleep, followed by a party, another three hours of sleep, and another seven hour drive. The icing on the cake was my alarm going off at seven o'clock this morning so I could get Mini-Me off to school. The real kicker? As I protested weakly and pounded on my snooze button, Mini-me bounced out of bed, got himself dressed, and poured his own bowl of cereal and milk. Trouble woke up shortly thereafter, actually singing. *Sigh!* There went any hopes I had of lying comatose until noon.
Technorati Tags: Road Trip ; Parenthood ; Sleep ; Air Mattress ; Travelling ; Children
Thursday, May 04, 2006
Ooh! Me! Pick me!
I read on Yahoo! news today that Bill Gates doesn't like being the world's richest person.
Well, boo frickin' hoo! Here's my daily act of charity. Mr. Gates, if all that money is really making you miserable, I'll gladly ease some of your suffering by taking a few billion dollars off your hands. A link to my e-mail address can be found in the left-hand menu, at the bottom of the page. I look forward to hearing from you in the near future.
Now that's one e-mail I'd love to receive. Wouldn't you? It'd be a darn sight better than what I've been getting lately, I'll tell ya. Now, I know that you're taking your chances and should expect a certain amount of spam when you create websites and put yourself out there on the WWW. But what I'm realy itching to know is, where on the internet does it indicate that I'm a seventy year old horn dog looking to buy bucketsfull of Viagra so I can satisfy my inflate-a-date? And where, or where, did I ever sign up for the e-mail in foreign languages that apparently offer me nothing other than gratuitous pornography?
Seriously, Bill, I could really use some of that cash you're so tired of being saddled with. Maybe then I could afford to hire a team of investigators to track these people down and return the favour by subjecting them to floods of unwanted parenting advice and cute children's stories.
Technorati Tags: Bill Gates ; Microsoft ; Money ; Rich ; Spam
Well, boo frickin' hoo! Here's my daily act of charity. Mr. Gates, if all that money is really making you miserable, I'll gladly ease some of your suffering by taking a few billion dollars off your hands. A link to my e-mail address can be found in the left-hand menu, at the bottom of the page. I look forward to hearing from you in the near future.
Now that's one e-mail I'd love to receive. Wouldn't you? It'd be a darn sight better than what I've been getting lately, I'll tell ya. Now, I know that you're taking your chances and should expect a certain amount of spam when you create websites and put yourself out there on the WWW. But what I'm realy itching to know is, where on the internet does it indicate that I'm a seventy year old horn dog looking to buy bucketsfull of Viagra so I can satisfy my inflate-a-date? And where, or where, did I ever sign up for the e-mail in foreign languages that apparently offer me nothing other than gratuitous pornography?
Seriously, Bill, I could really use some of that cash you're so tired of being saddled with. Maybe then I could afford to hire a team of investigators to track these people down and return the favour by subjecting them to floods of unwanted parenting advice and cute children's stories.
Technorati Tags: Bill Gates ; Microsoft ; Money ; Rich ; Spam
Wednesday, May 03, 2006
Amateur Blogger Tips
No, I don't mean that I have tips for the amateur blogger. Au contraire. I mean that, as an amateur blogger, I'm going to dole out a few tips of my own, for whatever they're worth. These tips come from my heart after having spent some time surfing a few random blogs on the Blogger network. They may seem like common sense to those of you who - well - have common sense. Clearly, though, there are a lot of people out there who simply don't.
1) While I understand that some bloggers are artists, I'm not sure half of a badly formed sentence would constitute 'art'. I came across a blog that had one entry to the effect of "I am happy to have my wet." That was it. There was no "click here to read the entire post" button. Instead, there was one comment. The comment was made by the original poster. This comment said, "Dragon." Uh, huh. Right. Gotcha.
2) Interestingly enough, the Blogger TOS does not disallow pornography. However, you'd think it would be common sense to, at the very least, have a massive disclaimer at the top of your screen to the effect of "THIS SITE CONTAINS PORNOGRAPHY. IF YOU'RE NOT AT LEAST EIGHTEEN YEARS OF AGE, PLEASE DO NOT SCROLL DOWN PAST THIS DISCLAIMER!" That way, when I happen to come across your site while surfing, I don't have to explain the concept of S&M to my six year old who's hanging over my shoulder at the time.
3) Ads, ads, ads. This blog is all about ads. How do I know it's about ads? Because the ad poster has used the word 'ad' in their ad about fifty million times. Ad. Not only that - ad - they've interspersed the word 'ad' into their ad amongst a bunch of other words that don't make any sense when strung together. Replace the word 'ad' in the preceding sentences with whatever they're trying to sell, and you'll get the picture. Maybe, if you read these blogs backwards, they'll convey some hidden message from Satan, kind of like playing and Alice Cooper album in reverse. (If you don't know who Alice Cooper is, or what an album is, then I'm going to have to ask you to leave because you're making me feel old.)
4) Now, I know not everyone who blogs is a professional writer. Heaven knows my grammar, spelling and punctuation leave a lot to be desired, but at least I make an effort. Come on, people! They are called 'periods' and they go at the ends of your sentences. Some of these posts actually make my eyes bleed just by trying to follow them.
Now, then. If you want some real tips from some real experts, I would suggest you check out a few of the folks in my list of links and my blogrolling sections to the right. Elizabeth has plenty of tips at her blog, 'Blogging - What's In It For Me?' And Michele has a whole bunch of neat tools at 'Cool Blog Tools' to make blogging fun and easy.
Happy blogging! :D
Technorati Tags: Blogging ; Tips ; Tools
1) While I understand that some bloggers are artists, I'm not sure half of a badly formed sentence would constitute 'art'. I came across a blog that had one entry to the effect of "I am happy to have my wet." That was it. There was no "click here to read the entire post" button. Instead, there was one comment. The comment was made by the original poster. This comment said, "Dragon." Uh, huh. Right. Gotcha.
2) Interestingly enough, the Blogger TOS does not disallow pornography. However, you'd think it would be common sense to, at the very least, have a massive disclaimer at the top of your screen to the effect of "THIS SITE CONTAINS PORNOGRAPHY. IF YOU'RE NOT AT LEAST EIGHTEEN YEARS OF AGE, PLEASE DO NOT SCROLL DOWN PAST THIS DISCLAIMER!" That way, when I happen to come across your site while surfing, I don't have to explain the concept of S&M to my six year old who's hanging over my shoulder at the time.
3) Ads, ads, ads. This blog is all about ads. How do I know it's about ads? Because the ad poster has used the word 'ad' in their ad about fifty million times. Ad. Not only that - ad - they've interspersed the word 'ad' into their ad amongst a bunch of other words that don't make any sense when strung together. Replace the word 'ad' in the preceding sentences with whatever they're trying to sell, and you'll get the picture. Maybe, if you read these blogs backwards, they'll convey some hidden message from Satan, kind of like playing and Alice Cooper album in reverse. (If you don't know who Alice Cooper is, or what an album is, then I'm going to have to ask you to leave because you're making me feel old.)
4) Now, I know not everyone who blogs is a professional writer. Heaven knows my grammar, spelling and punctuation leave a lot to be desired, but at least I make an effort. Come on, people! They are called 'periods' and they go at the ends of your sentences. Some of these posts actually make my eyes bleed just by trying to follow them.
Now, then. If you want some real tips from some real experts, I would suggest you check out a few of the folks in my list of links and my blogrolling sections to the right. Elizabeth has plenty of tips at her blog, 'Blogging - What's In It For Me?' And Michele has a whole bunch of neat tools at 'Cool Blog Tools' to make blogging fun and easy.
Happy blogging! :D
Technorati Tags: Blogging ; Tips ; Tools
Thursday, April 27, 2006
Do You Know The Muffin Man?
I do! And his name is Trouble.
Earlier this evening, I thought I'd treat my boys by making a batch of muffins. OK, don't get excited. It's the Quaker stuff in the bag. But they love it, so we don't need to tell them that I'm cheating.
Anyhow, I set the muffin pan on top of the stove to cool and head into my cavern - I mean basement - to work on a plate I need to engrave for a customer. The boys were in the adjoining room, watching TV.
At least, that's where the older one was.
Trouble had other schemes brewing in his mischievous little skull. He had stolen away upstairs, dragged a chair over to the stove, climbed up and proceeded to pull the tops off of all the muffins. Then he ate the evidence. Well, most of it, at any rate.
By the time my overworked Mom radar sounded, it was too late. Mental note to self: must call the shop to have that radar looked at - Trouble may be tampering with it while I sleep. I hurried back to the kitchen to find Trouble standing across the room with a muffin top in each hand. As soon as he spotted the me coming up the steps, he backed himself against a wall, both hands (still clutching the muffin tops) behind his back, eyes wide, shouting, "No! No! No! No! No! No!...."
So, what do you do at this point? It's time for dinner. Trouble, surprisingly, isn't hungry.
"If you don't eat your dinner, you're not getting any ... oh, wait ... never mind."
Technorati Tage: Parenting ; Children ; Muffins
Earlier this evening, I thought I'd treat my boys by making a batch of muffins. OK, don't get excited. It's the Quaker stuff in the bag. But they love it, so we don't need to tell them that I'm cheating.
Anyhow, I set the muffin pan on top of the stove to cool and head into my cavern - I mean basement - to work on a plate I need to engrave for a customer. The boys were in the adjoining room, watching TV.
At least, that's where the older one was.
Trouble had other schemes brewing in his mischievous little skull. He had stolen away upstairs, dragged a chair over to the stove, climbed up and proceeded to pull the tops off of all the muffins. Then he ate the evidence. Well, most of it, at any rate.
By the time my overworked Mom radar sounded, it was too late. Mental note to self: must call the shop to have that radar looked at - Trouble may be tampering with it while I sleep. I hurried back to the kitchen to find Trouble standing across the room with a muffin top in each hand. As soon as he spotted the me coming up the steps, he backed himself against a wall, both hands (still clutching the muffin tops) behind his back, eyes wide, shouting, "No! No! No! No! No! No!...."
So, what do you do at this point? It's time for dinner. Trouble, surprisingly, isn't hungry.
"If you don't eat your dinner, you're not getting any ... oh, wait ... never mind."
Technorati Tage: Parenting ; Children ; Muffins
On A Lighter Note...
I'm a huge Robin Williams fan. The man is a comedic genius and master ad-libber. His acting range is as broad as Bill Gates's credit rating. His stand-up always has me falling down.
He's been on a few talk shows lately to promote his new movie, RV. I've seen the trailers on TV, and I'm not entirely sure this is going to be one of his finest moments. None-the-less, I went to check out the movie's website to see if there might be something I'm missing in the commercials.
On the website's main page, there is a picture of the title's rv perched precariously and teetering at the top of a very pointy rock.
My youngest (you know him as Trouble, the two and a half year old) took one look at the picture and said, "Whoa-ho-ho! A flying bus! Dat's not good!" Hmmm....Foreshadowing, maybe?
At any rate, I'll be waiting for this movie to come out on DVD before logging my official review. I have a feeling it's not as bad as the trailers make it appear. I just don't think it'll be worth the cost of admission. Besides, something tells me it'll be a lot funnier with Trouble sitting beside me, offering his commentary as we go along. ;)
Technorati Tags: Robin Williams ; RV ; Movie ; Comedy
He's been on a few talk shows lately to promote his new movie, RV. I've seen the trailers on TV, and I'm not entirely sure this is going to be one of his finest moments. None-the-less, I went to check out the movie's website to see if there might be something I'm missing in the commercials.
On the website's main page, there is a picture of the title's rv perched precariously and teetering at the top of a very pointy rock.
My youngest (you know him as Trouble, the two and a half year old) took one look at the picture and said, "Whoa-ho-ho! A flying bus! Dat's not good!" Hmmm....Foreshadowing, maybe?
At any rate, I'll be waiting for this movie to come out on DVD before logging my official review. I have a feeling it's not as bad as the trailers make it appear. I just don't think it'll be worth the cost of admission. Besides, something tells me it'll be a lot funnier with Trouble sitting beside me, offering his commentary as we go along. ;)
Technorati Tags: Robin Williams ; RV ; Movie ; Comedy
Monday, April 24, 2006
The Comfort Zone
I admit it. I am a mindless drone. Doing exactly what advertisers tell me to do.
I'm so desperate to potty train my youngest that I'm dishing out fistsfull of cash for products that I know in my heart won't work. Disposable training pants. You know the ones. You can get them with cute little cartoon characters on them that disappear when your wee one piddles, or, the latest concoction, the liner that actually allows your child to 'feel' wet.
Here's the problem with these training pants.
My child apparently likes his - um - warm and squishies. He is either ignoring the mess completely, or he's decided it's comfortable. His own portable comfort zone, so to speak. Maybe it affords him extra padding during play time. I don't know. Whatever his reasoning, he refuses to tell me when he 'goes' and puts up quite the fight when I mention trying the toilet. I've tried bribery. You know, the usual - stickers, treats, toys, etc... Heck, I was willing to buy him a $50 custom painted dinosaur toilet seat today if it would have coaxed him onto the can. Nothing doing.
That's why these training pants won't work. My son is too comfortable in them. Disappearing designs mean nothing to him. He's a boy. They're only designs, after all. He can pick up a set of markers and make his own designs, if he really wants to.
Those feel-wet liners aren't the greatest either. I tried them once. Either my son has a bladder the size of a 25 year old frat boy's after a kegger, or the manufacturer miscalculated the tensile strength of the liner. After one all-nighter, I was cleaning up a bazillion little crystals from my son's nether regions because the liner had disintegrated from over-use.
So why do I keep spending money on these things? Well, I have to put something on him if I don't want to spend my days chasing him around with a black light and a mop. And, while I'm not generally the kind of person who cares about what other people think, it's a little embarrassing having him in regular diapers at his size & age. Besides, I don't think those little tabs would hold up to his brand of horseplay.
Come summertime, though, we can move on to Plan B. We're going to spend every waking moment outdoors, where he can run around in a little bathing suit and nothing else. If he piddles down his leg a couple of times, maybe he'll finally get the message and start taking me up on my toilet training offers. Or, maybe he'll just like his newfound 'freedom' and decide on his own that those comfy training pants aren't that comfortable after all. With my luck, though, he'll probably enjoy peeing outdoors, at which point he'll start competing with the neighbour's dog for height on the fence posts.
Technorati Tags: Toilet Learning ; Potty Training ; Training Pants ; Toddlers ; Parenting ; Motherhood
I'm so desperate to potty train my youngest that I'm dishing out fistsfull of cash for products that I know in my heart won't work. Disposable training pants. You know the ones. You can get them with cute little cartoon characters on them that disappear when your wee one piddles, or, the latest concoction, the liner that actually allows your child to 'feel' wet.
Here's the problem with these training pants.
My child apparently likes his - um - warm and squishies. He is either ignoring the mess completely, or he's decided it's comfortable. His own portable comfort zone, so to speak. Maybe it affords him extra padding during play time. I don't know. Whatever his reasoning, he refuses to tell me when he 'goes' and puts up quite the fight when I mention trying the toilet. I've tried bribery. You know, the usual - stickers, treats, toys, etc... Heck, I was willing to buy him a $50 custom painted dinosaur toilet seat today if it would have coaxed him onto the can. Nothing doing.
That's why these training pants won't work. My son is too comfortable in them. Disappearing designs mean nothing to him. He's a boy. They're only designs, after all. He can pick up a set of markers and make his own designs, if he really wants to.
Those feel-wet liners aren't the greatest either. I tried them once. Either my son has a bladder the size of a 25 year old frat boy's after a kegger, or the manufacturer miscalculated the tensile strength of the liner. After one all-nighter, I was cleaning up a bazillion little crystals from my son's nether regions because the liner had disintegrated from over-use.
So why do I keep spending money on these things? Well, I have to put something on him if I don't want to spend my days chasing him around with a black light and a mop. And, while I'm not generally the kind of person who cares about what other people think, it's a little embarrassing having him in regular diapers at his size & age. Besides, I don't think those little tabs would hold up to his brand of horseplay.
Come summertime, though, we can move on to Plan B. We're going to spend every waking moment outdoors, where he can run around in a little bathing suit and nothing else. If he piddles down his leg a couple of times, maybe he'll finally get the message and start taking me up on my toilet training offers. Or, maybe he'll just like his newfound 'freedom' and decide on his own that those comfy training pants aren't that comfortable after all. With my luck, though, he'll probably enjoy peeing outdoors, at which point he'll start competing with the neighbour's dog for height on the fence posts.
Technorati Tags: Toilet Learning ; Potty Training ; Training Pants ; Toddlers ; Parenting ; Motherhood
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