Everyone around me is losing weight. I need to get serious, as of tonight I will no longer consume food or alcohol while I sleep.
I awoke this morning to find another dead hummingbird in our living room. The current count is three. Out of the three black ninja sisters I am positive it is Agatha. She is the smallest and has the most to prove. If animals can be gay she is the one to lead the parade, not too imply that being gay has anything to do with stalking and eating Hummingbirds. In fact considering our home consist of two adults, one teenager, three boys, four cats, six chickens, a fish and a dog, I’m sure out of the eighteen of us living in our urban 900 sq ft home, one or more of us must be gay. We just don’t have enough room to come out yet. Wait for the renovations. Back to our special opts trained cat, how exactly can a cat catch a Hummingbird? Are they not so fast that wildlife photographers need special camera settings to slow them down enough that humans can in fact see how fast they are? Perhaps my cat uses her stealth, sleek, black body to distract the Hummingbird first. May be she disorientates him with her crazy, mad ninja moves. Perhaps she uses her Jedi mind tricks to slow him down. In any case I am concerned about the karmic debt she is accumulating. I will spend today looking into black cat ninja intervention programs. A treatment program for cats to save Hummingbirds from extinction. Dr. Doolittle Rehab, coming to cable soon. I guess my choice is simple really. Continue to let her outside and roam the dark nights killing birds as a Ninja cat and accept the Circle of Life or lock her in our home as an indoor cat only so that Cinderella pussy can never kill again.
PS: a note to the 17 occupants called my family, if anyone really wants to come out there is still plenty of room in our house for you, you don’t have to wait for the renovations.
I received my Mother’s Day gifts this morning. William made a clay owl at school. William’s card said he thinks I am prettiest when I am sleeping. My husband disagreed. Louis gave me a card. I was a bit concerned about his card. I was making dinner last night while he was writing it. He was asking me how to spell words. He said ” Mom, how do you spell regret?” “Mom, how do you spell hate?” “Mom, how do you spell boring?” I am happy to report my son does not regret that I am his mother, nor does he hate me and think I am boring. His card was all about how he regrets having to write a Mother’s Day card because they are so boring and how much he hates writing paragraphs. Whew! dogged that bullet. I must admit it is a bit odd when your son announces he is making you a card and in the same breath asks you to spell regret. Henry my eldest just walked into the room in his P.J.’s and asked if he can face time his friends on Mine craft. I said “yes”. As he was leaving Louis said “Henry, did you make a card for Mom?” Henry walked back into the room. Looked at me with sleepy eyes and said “Happy Mothers Day. I love you, and saying that is better than any card or gift” He turned quickly on his heels and headed to the computer room. Louis and William have instructed me not to enter the kitchen or leave the couch. I caught a flash of William in dress up clothes. He is wearing a hat, sunglasses, shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. The are planning a play for me. I think the play may be cancelled as they have become distracted watching Henry on Mine craft. So, Happy Mothers Day Ladies, I hope your children celebrate you as much as mine do………tee, hee!
Lately I have been taking photo’s of myself with my smartphone when I am feeling low in spirit. This way I can inspect the photo to see just how fat I really am. I can ask myself questions of moral integrity such as “If I was someone else looking at me would I think that chick is a fatty?” or “If I met this women on the street would I think she looks old and likes cookies?” I discovered a few things about this exercise. One, it does not help to eliminate my crippling self doubt, second, at forty four years old I can in fact take an ugly picture of myself. I don’t mean to sound unjustifiably conceited but in my twenties and thirties I was very photogenic. I don’t remember having an ugly picture of myself taken. In fact I was often too proud of the photos. It has come as a rather humbling awakening that at this age/stage of my life I more often have ugly pictures of myself taken than attractive one’s. I don’t remember the double chin in my twenties or the cracking dessert skin. I don’t remember looking at a picture of myself in my twenties and thinking ” Well, that’s just fucking scary” I certainly remember posing with an ugly or silly expression on my face, but somehow with the miracle of youth and photography it would just turn out to look like a photo of a pretty woman trying to look ugly. That is not the case today. If I try to look pretty it ends up a photo of an old and ugly woman looking like an old and ugly woman. So what is the lesson or moral of this story? No, really, what is it? I want you to tell me. When plagued with self doubt and loathing put down the smartphone camera? or perhaps except that I am a woman of mature age and every photo of me will from this day on reflect that? I may need to ponder this one a bit longer. While I am pondering I’m going to have a cookie and take a picture of myself to see what I look like while I’m eating. Then I will update my Will and hide the kitchen knives.
It’s interesting how boys will interpret “The Talk”.
I was saying goodnight to my boys, the nine year old was not in bed yet. He was still upstairs finishing his homework with his Dad. (or at least it started out that way) Later I would find out from my husband that he was blindsided during turtoring fractions into a sex education Q and A. Eventually my son came into his room and said to me, “Sorry I took long mom. Dad and I were having a conversation about penis science”
Second day of the trots. What I mean by ‘trots’ is that I have soup ass. What I mean by ‘soup ass’ is that I am on day two of shitting my pants. I did manage to drive the boys to school without shitting in the Uplander. It helped that I was distracted by a rather handsome man smiling at me as he crossed the road. I thought he was flirting until I looked at myself in the rearview mirror and saw my pasty lime green face. My face looked like what the ‘Hulks’ face would look like if he was decomposing and transgendered. Perhaps the handsome man may not have been flirting with me across three lanes of traffic. Perhaps he was feeling compassion for the hybrid beast/human before him that is shitting her way to heaven.
Came home early tonight from a Mom’s night. (10:00) Walked in the front door to complete silence. Dogs in crate, boys and husband in bed. I stood for a moment breathing in the peace. I didn’t want to leave it. I decided to stay up. Watch some trash TV and have another drink. In the fridge was a new container of our first eggnog of the season. Some spiced rum would go well with the eggnog. Oh, dam! The liquor cabinet was emptied a few months ago. We changed the cabinets and hadn’t put the new lock on the liquor cabinet. We emptied it temporarily, put all the bottles into our bedroom closet. Shit! This is a dilemma. If I want some rum in my eggnog I would need to rescue the rum from the floor of my bedroom closet. Which of course happens to be where my husband is sleeping. If I wake him up there goes my plans for alone time. How badly do I want a rum and eggnog? So there I am crawling in the dark on my hands and knees across the bedroom floor. Like a bandit in the night trying to get to my rum without waking my husband. The creaking of the closet door seemed to past the test. (Still sleeping.So far so safe). Getting closer to the rum every minute. I reach out in the dark of the closet floor feeling my way to thirst. Bloody hell, how many bottles do we have in here? How the hell can I tell which is the rum bottle by feel? Crap! As I realize this is futile I slowly back out of the closet still on my hands and knees, kicking my right foot into the corner of the bed. Fuck! Oh shit, did I say that out loud?(Still sleeping) I’ve invested this much time and energy I may as well go all the way.Fuck it! I stand up turn on the bright lights and run to the closet grab the rum bottle, turn to head out as a hand grabs my thigh. I scream and drop the bottle. Fuck! Did I say that out loud? My husbands groggy voice calls out through squinting eyes,” are you home, did you have fun?” “yes, I’m home early” I play it cool. The bottle still in one piece. ” I’ll come to bed soon, I’m going to watch a bit of TV first” I hear a groggy “O.K” as I back farther out of the room. When I reach back into the hallway I breathe again. I’m holding the rum bottle, the eggnog is waiting in the fridge and hubby is fast asleep again. So here I am watching trash TV enjoying my second…oh, I mean my first rum and eggnog of the season.
Happy Holidays, may you enjoy peace this season that does or doesn’t involve crawling around in the dark on your hands and knees.
I woke up this morning to an artistic display of anarchy compliments of the local racoon gang. Our garbage can was knocked over and the contents spread across the driveway. The focal point of the exhibit was my bloody feminine hygiene pads ripped apart and laundered throughout the array of chicken bones and egg shells. It’s not enough that all my neighbours now know I am menstruating but now the Racoon Gang does too. The War is On!