Like sands through the hourglass, so are the boxes of our lives....

Oh dear blog readers. 

It's not that I don't love you.

Not at all.

It's just that I've been busy packing up the past two years and ten months of our lives into boxes I smuggled from work and blatantly stole from the grocery store.

Sometimes they have some really good boxes when there is nothing I need from that particular store.

I see it as doing them a favour.

(please don't tell on me)

When I'm not packing, I'm finding myself curled into the fetal position on the couch, sucking my thumb and watching the first Twilight movie (because I'm too lazy to open the packaging on the second one) and episodes of The Celebrity Apprentice where I admire Bret Michael's hair and wonder what it really looks like under that bandana (don't answer that, you'll only ruin it for me).  I know these things are far from productive when it comes to packing a three bedroom house up and somehow making it all fit into a two bedroom apartment, but sparkly vampires, werewolf penis and The Donald's happy orange face makes me happy.  Besides, I'm more of a fly by the seat of her pants kind of gal, I will pack the night before, using garbage bags.










Besides, the task at hand is pretty much impossible at this point.  I see that.  I am having a hard time figuring out what kind of things I have to get rid of in order to fit us into our cozy little apartment.  Truth is, I'm a bit of a hoarder.  Not nearly as bad as those people on that show that I've never seen but have heard so much about (I don't get TLC anymore *gasp*).  I keep things that should never be thrown away. For instance my Glow Worm collection.  What if something happened to all the other Glow Worms in the world and mine was the only one left and I had to donate them to a museum to keep the Glow Worm name alive. 

I also keep things like a newspaper clipping of a giant Lego man that washed up on a shore in some country, just because news like that makes me smile.  I also keep my son's teeth because they are cool and maybe one day I can make a necklace out of them.

So please bear with me, at least until I get settled, and I promise you I will take a picture of me wearing a tooth necklace once the rest of his 17 teeth fall out. 

Just a scab...

(I was going to Photoshop her and turn her into a witch but why waste my time.  Besides, I think somebody already beat me to it?)

Ann Coulter is a skid mark of society.  

but to be honest, I don't know much about her. From what I do know, I have now come to realize that she is just a scab. 

A putrid, rotten scab.  The kind that you pick at and itch and it never heals.  The more you pick and scratch, the worse it will get.  Leave it alone, and it will fade away, sometimes leaving a minor scar, but it is gone and the healing can begin.

The longer you pick at the scab, the more it will ooze and spread and it may even turn into an infection.  

Ann Coulter spoke at the University of Western Ontario yesterday, and while I didn't think much of it, as it turns out a lot of crap was spewed from this scab, but what did we expect really?  This particular scab has been known to spew out hatred wherever she may roam. I really wonder how Sunday dinners go with her family.  Do they all just call each other terrorists and baby killers and wish death upon each other?  

I'm just wondering why we keep picking at this scab named Ann?  It's like a freak show everywhere she goes, like a Jerry Springer episode if you will, where she rounds up a bunch of people who want to hear her bellow out hate.  

and it's sickening. 

It's time to get a bandage, cover up this scab, dab a little Polysporin on it and lock it away forever. 

Enough!

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Seriously, please enlighten me, I'm trying to understand why she is still around?  Why do we allow her on television and to speak to our students? I understand free speech, but when does it just become a freak show with no purpose other than to hear what Ann has to say next?

St. Patrick's Day....According to EVILBOY

A more organized mother would have had this up and ready first thing this morning. You know before half of the world was drunk downtown vomiting green beer into the sewer. I fail.

I'm so STRWEA

The other day EVILBOY was running around the house being silly.  I warned him to watch out for his drink many times, but of course EVILBOY failed to listen and next thing you know, I was scrubbing cherry Kool-Aid out of the carpet muttering links of profanities the whole time.

EVILBOY felt pretty bad so of course he ran off crying as I was scrubbing out the "Red 40" out of the carpet. He is a very sensitive boy, and I guess I was pretty angry about the whole mess thing.  I didn't think much of it when he stomped out of his room and went back in with a marker and paper.  Until he shoved this note in my face a half an hour later:

It reads:

Sorry
Mom
"his last name"
Duper

So which I guess would translate into something like this:

Dear Mother,
I am very sorry for being a jerk and knocking my drink onto the carpet which in turn made you have a hairy canary and have to scrub the heck out of the carpets because in a few weeks they will no longer belong to us and I'm pretty sure the new owners would have a bird and come and punch you in the face if they knew the carpet was stained forever.  Again, I am very sorry and I promise that I will do the dishes after dinner each night in our new apartment that does not have a dishwasher.

Love,
EVILBOY

Carrying pieces of him...

Moving day is fast approaching. 

This time it's different.  We have been here much longer than any other home we've lived in.  We've had people come and go from this home, many times.  It's been unstable, but good for us as well. 

More than anything I look forward to resting my head on my pillow each night and not worrying about burglars or gas stoves or 30 year old furnaces blowing up or someone breaking into my garage and stealing a box of my mom's crap, including our family photos, only to have them show up days later at my neighbours house. 

I'm not worried. 

Instead I worry about things like space and happiness and stomping on the floor, and complaining neighbours, and laundry rooms, oh my gosh I've never done laundry in a laundry room before.  I also worry about weird neighbours, because I just can't say no to a crazy person and if a crazy person happens to live in that building they will most likely end up being my friend and ruining my life. 

I also worry about leaving pieces behind. 

It happens every time we move. Bit by bit pieces of him disappear.  I know I promised myself I would keep these things forever.  I promised so badly that I would keep them for our son, but I just can't carry them any longer. 

I'm tired of opening up that small plain box each time we move and I am hit in the face with him.  The t-shirts he wore.  The last birthday cards he ever received.  The gift bag he got for his birthday.  His pants. 

I have held on to these things for four years and eleven months now.  For what? I don't know.  I guess I hoped that one day our son would appreciate these items. 

but they are just things. 

Things he wore that used to smell like him, but now just smell like the many different basements they have been stored in.  These things used to mean something, now they just bring back bad memories.  Memories of all the times I've failed at securing us a home, memories of each time I've opened the box and was reminded again of our life and memories of him, which for some reason are never initially good. 

Why is it that all the bad memories come first and only when you are shoving your face into a pillow to smother your sobs so your son doesn't hear and gasping for air do you begin to remember the good. 

I am taking this box back to his family. 

I'm not trying to forget or deny what happened or what is happening.  It was real and it is real and I know that.  I just can't keep carrying these things.

My life is too full of things as it is.  

PLUTO ...according to EVILBOY

You may have noticed that this was not posted on Thursday.  Truth is, life got in the way and of course by life I mean Survivor and Jeff Probst's hotness.  And by Jeff Probst's hotness I mean that older men are sexy.  And by older men I actually meant that I love that Rupert is back on...okay I will stop now.

RED....

Red.

I am going to paint that shelf red. Not just red, bright red, like a wagon. It's going to be red and beautiful and it's going to make his room more cheerful when we have to move to the apartment. This red shelf is going to make everything better for him.

I circled the block two, three times, stalking my prey, looking for a perfect time to stop, directly in a spot that was clearly marked NO STOPPING. "Just my luck" I huffed as I disobeyed the law and pulled the car to a halt in front of my treasure. I hurled open the hatch, slammed down the back seat and awkwardly fiddled with the shelf that now suddenly seemed not so spectacular as I once had pictured it. I shoved it in and ran around to the front of the car like I had just robbed a bank. I guess in a way I did, I robbed a bank of someone's trash, because I'm weird like that, and I can't stand to see beautiful things end up in a landfill.

I come from a long line of garbage pickers. My mom was a picker, specializing in antiques and old rotten chairs that came crashing down into a pile of splinters when my dad's big fat friends would come over and sit on them. Then my mom would be angry and hate my dad's friends until she found her next treasure. My grandfather was the greatest picker of them all. He actually figured out a way to make a living from trash picking. His specialty was lawn mowers. He probably had fifty of them in his garage at one time, each waiting to be fixed. Then he would sell them. Lawn mowers and riding toys for me were his treasures. My grandfather's father was probably a picker too. He most likely specialized in muskets and kittens to punch in the face. Not really, but I think he must have been a pretty mean dude so that's the first thing I thought of.

The shelf was yellowish, once white. It had a subtle smell of smoke, which explains the yellow stains on what once would have been a loved piece of furniture. The legs were wobbly and there were cobwebs firmly attached between the legs. It deserved to be red. It deserved to be a place for a little boy to keep his toys and books. This bookshelf did not belong in the trash.

Saturday morning I lovingly sanded the grime off the shelf. I tightened the legs and I opened a fresh can of red paint to bring this piece back to life.

One coat. It took hours.

I closed up the can and took my brushes in to wash the red out. I ran them under warm water and rinsed them with a tight grasp.

I only realized there was a problem when I saw the water beading on my skin.

and then this happened:

 

  

  

  

 

Looking at the pictures, I'm sure you can figure out my intentions and howI failed to remove the red paint from my now stained hands. To be honest, I don't remember exactly how I did get the red paint off my hands, I had so many mixtures of concoctions, trying to figure out the best way to make my hands no look like those of Dexter  before I had to a) drop EVILBOY off at a play date b) meet someone from KIJIJI to sell a DVD and c)go to the BEAVERS banquet.  So pretty much of all days to stain your hands blood red, that day as the worst.

My hands really didn't look much better by the time I had to drop EVILBOY off for his play date.  When the father opened the door at EVILBOY's best friend's house, I felt like he was staring at my red hands.  I laughed moronically and explained that it wasn't blood (WTF??) and that I was painting. Then I decided we needed groceries.  Again I could feel people watching me as I pushed my cart through the busy store.  When I made eye contact I just laughed manically and explained that I was painting. 

I spent the rest of the day explaining to a KIJIJI customer and scout leaders that I had painted something red.

and this was only after the first coat.

Suddenly the "wagon red" didn't seem like such a great idea. 

The moral of the story:
Never wash brushes out with your bare hands when you are working with glossy paint.  Also do not explain to normal people that your red stained hands are in fact not blood because more than likely they will nod and laugh, but secretly they are thinking you are a psycho murderer.