WARNING: This post is about girly bits David was away all last week. So on Friday, I wanted to spiff up for his return. You know, wash and style the hair, shave the legs, groom the girly bits. I wanted to be all smooth and nice smelling – although frankly after a week of sleeping…
“He may only touch your boobs if he is doing it with two separate Swiffers held from the length of their poles.” My daughter is now of an age where there’s a real possibility that dudes will be touching her boobs. She has a boyfriend (whom I adore), but he’s still a teenaged boy with…
I woke up this morning and saw this in my backyard: Then out the kitchen window, looking east: And from our front window: I know that there are naysayers out there, who hate the snow, who grumble and pout at the first sight of it, but I’m not one of them. I love the first…
They all seem so innocent. Those plexi-glassed bins, with their silver scoops. The aisle with its spices and herbs – the colourful cake sprinkles. The plastic bags with their attending labelling closures. The cute little golf pencils, to label the afore-mentioned closures. A little of this, a little of that… “Ooooooh…. plantain chips! I LOVE…
Friday night. Bedtime. Rissa wriggles spasmodically under her blankets. “I’ve got something in my pants!” Sigh. “What do you have in your pants?” “A sliver or something!” “A sliver? How can you have a sliver?” “I don’t know, maybe from the dance studio.” Stalling. She is stalling the bedtime process. “Just ignore it.” “Ignore it?!?…
I am posting this… and so usher in the beginning of the holiday season… Merry Christmas! (Who knew that Kmart had it in ’em?)
“Just rip it out!! Please,” I begged. “Oh, love, I can’t,” said David. “Yes, yes, you can! Just take a spoon, or your thumb, or a FREAKING NAIL FILE, and pop out my eye. Scramble it if you have to, but get it out!!! Any of those will hurt less than the invisible railroad spike…
Ggggggggggrowl… grumble… grumble… grumble… “Stupid yoga pants! Stupid bra! My boobs don’t belong in a bra yet!” grumble… grumble… grumble… Stomp. Stomp. Stomp. “Stupid stairs.” Trip. Slip. “Stupid cat toy!” grumble… grumble… grumble… “Stupid morning.” “Still sleepy, huh?” Rissa comes over, enveloping me in a purple terry cloth hug. grumble… grumble… grumble… “Not awake yet…”…
I fell off the wagon last week – again. I answered the siren call of caffeine and gluten. We’ve got one of those single serve Keurig coffee machines at the office and I’m always jealous because there are all these snazzy, olfactorily orgasmic caffeinated flavours, wafting their way through the office air. Flavours that people…
WARNING – THIS POST IS RATED R FOR LANGUAGE. Rissa saw her first R rated film when she was probably 10. Yep, we were those parents. The movie was Love Actually. You know the one… Richard Curtis’s quintessential feel-good Christmas film? Probably one of the sweetest holiday movies ever? The one where even the most…