All this for freaking dishes

We were all sick on the weekend. Feeling like crap and about ready to die. Seriously. So I convince The Dad (aka the ex) take us to the doctor's. I'm sans vehicle so I have to beg for the favours whenever I can. He obliges and picks us all up. He's apparently a braver man than most because he'll be in close confines with us - at the doctor's office they masked us in the waiting room and then whisked us off into an exam room all by ourselves. Our doctor wore a mask the whole time she treated us and after she escorted us out the back door! Even though she had just declared us H1N1-free! (Which is obviously what all the precautions were about - everyone is scared sh*tless of this thing.) But anyway:

The Dad also stops at the drug store so we can fill our numerous prescriptions (whole family full of asthmatics that were apparently not managing our asthma very well, what with expired puffers, etc.) and we picked up some soup for lunch. Later on, after the girls and I have been fed (The Boy was out of town for the week) and are relaxing on the couch (read sleeping and snoring) I begin thinking of the various household chores that need to be done. And I cringe. I moan. I practically cry. Because I didn't do a damn thing all weekend - we were sick dammit.

The next day, we're all back to work/school (remember no one has H1N1, just me and The Girl have viral bronchitis, so we're doing the phlegmy cough thing and yes a bit contagious... but I sit off by myself in an office and haven't been talking to people too much, and she's just going in to pick up some work/do a class activity). So we suffer through Tuesday and then crash that again night. Note no mention of household chores being done. We're scraping by people. But at this point the kitchen sink at the very least needs some attention. And I am loathe to address it! I begin hinting to The Girl that the house is slowly turning into a sty and brace myself for the showdown.

But since I brought dinner home on Tuesday evening, The Girl is feeling a little giddy (it's called a Poutine High) and she actually offers to do the dishes. Say what?! I mean this girl has not washed a dish in weeks, I swear, and blatantly refuses household chores when I try to assign them to her (teenage girls are a lovely thing folks). And here she is offering to do the dishes. Well praise the Lord, now I am giddy. Ah the power of Poutine. But wait - she does clarify that she'll do them the next day, since she has no classes on Wednesdays. Hmm... now I'm suspicious. Then she adds taking the bins out to the curb (Thursday is waste collection) and I'm sold. Deal! I straighten up the dining room table and clean the bird's cage. It's the bare minimum but it'll do.

So the next morning I leave early in the morning and don't even think twice about the sink. I know my teenager would not mislead me, she wouldn't toy with my emotions about something as serious as doing the dishes. Except, she does. Meaning she doesn't do the dishes. All day on Wednesday she is home, by herself (the pets barely count), and she doesn't do them. Plus she adds more dishes to the pile. But I'm too drained to fight. I leave it. And tell myself I'll talk to her later or I'll find the energy to do them myself. I clean the bathroom sink that evening and decide that's all I got in me. Dishes be damned!

On Thursday morning I sweep right past them again (literally, I swept up the more noticeably bits of debris in the kitchen that morning instead of washing dishes)... but I know they're there, taunting me. I hate dishes. I'm out late on Thursday evening (Smalley has dance class) and when I get home I send up a prayer to Molly Maid that The Girl made good on her promise before I walked through the door. No such luck. Damn!

At this point we're eating out of the Tupperware and smell from the sink is becoming... unpleasant. So I casually ask about her promise to do the dishes and she pretends to have no clue what I'm talking about. And again, I am too tired to fight. *sigh* (However I will point out that it really was because I was sick. Anyone who knows me knows that I do not back down and I don't usually let her slide this much, but I just was Not.Up. To. The. Fight. cough hack)

Friday morning, I decide I need to document this atrocity. This is what my kitchen counter and sink looked like last Friday morning folks. And I warn you now, it's not pretty:

But I still left it. Friday morning is no time to deal with dishes like this. Heck I was willing to pick up the 12 pounds of dog sh*t in the front yard instead of facing this mountain. Besides, I knew they would be facing me that evening. And I'd find the courage to face them then. Because I know that despite her promise, The Girl was not tackling them without a fight.

But then, divine providence! The Girl text messages me during the day - she wants to sleep over at a friend's house that evening, is she allowed? As I sit at my desk reading her text the devious music begins planning in my head and the maniacal cackling begins - MUWHAHAHAhahahahahaha! I respond quickly: Yes! But only if the dishes are cleared before I get home!

Check and mate. She has no choice. She has to do them. I have been saved. I arrive home that evening with a spring in my step. I hit the couch with Smalley and we eat popcorn while we watch R. Patts on Ellen from the PVR (the Canadian equivalent of TiVO). And I enjoy the evening. Because I didn't have to do the dishes.

Sometimes you gotta bask in the small victories people.

Taming of my caterpillars

Been awhile eh? I was planning an in-depth how-to/recipe that I thought it would be interesting since it's a traditional Guyanese dish (how many other blogs are offering that?!) but then I procrastinated on getting the damn thing written, edited, photos laid out, etc. And I haven't posted anything in the interim - my bad. I will get to that recipe post, I swear! But let me just get on with a post in the meanwhile:


So The Girl refers to my eyebrows as caterpillars. Instead of knocking her one for this, I have to admit she is right. When I leave them au naturel, the little hairy beasts above my eyes do in fact resemble caterpillars. And unfortunately I let them grow in way too often.

I know an excellent esthetician that does wonderful things to my brows. My cousin Denise waxes, brushes, tweezes, threads, trims and shapes my caterpillars until they become fully-tamed, elegantly shaped, eyebrows. She takes her time and creates perfect brows. I have never seen anyone come out of her room who didn't look way better than when they went in. (She works out of Chris G Hair Salon at Midland/Lawrence, 416-750-1171, just in case anyone is looking for a good esthetician... and she gives a-maz-ing facials too.)

The problem is I don't get to her nearly as often as I should. I let weeks go by. Then the weeks turn into months (seriously) and then I finally stroll through her door and she makes me look human again. During the growing in stage I don't notice how bad it's getting until I glance in the mirror while brushing my teeth and realize the hairy little buggers are back.

The thing is I don't want to go to anyone else. I know there's a nail salon on practically every corner here in Toronto and they always have a back room where you can get waxed, threaded and plucked to your heart's content. But I trust Denise. (I've had a few bad eyebrow experiences over the years.) And I like going to her. Again, the problem is simply I don't get to her often enough.

This past weekend I took the girls (Smalley and Celine - my mother's goddaughter) and my Mom for pedicures. We had a blast picking out our colours, playing with the massage chairs, soaking our feet, giggling while they scrubbed, and oohing and aahing over one another's finished nails.

The woman doing my pedi glanced up at me once or twice and finally said, "I do your brows?" Damn! Busted. It had been approx. nine weeks since the last time Denise had tamed my caterpillars so I know they were looking wild. Regardless, I politely said "no thanks" and vowed to get myself to Denise stat. But this woman was persistent. She continued to ask me, politely mind you, but determined:

"Why? You scare? No worry, I give you nice shape. Only 8 dollahs."
"No, it's okay. I have someone I go to for that."
"Ah yes, you scare. No scare, I give you nice shape. Promise."
"Well..."
"You see, I do you nice. Good shape you face. You no worry."

We continued like this for a few moments and I finally relented. I don't know why. I have not let anyone else touch my brows for at least five years. And really she didn't do a bad job. I explained how I like them to look - but with Denise I don't have to. She just knows. But like I said this lady did an okay job. Better than that really. It's just the process that was a little weird.

She was fast. I mean super fast. She had wax on me and ripped off practically before I laid down. Then she started tweezing like crazy, in a fury almost, and I could see hairs flying up in the air. I started to get worried here, thinking she might be taking off too much (I'm not down with the skinny brow look). And she noticed because at this point she tells me "Stop worry, relax okay? And coze eye, don move!" Then she goes back into hypermode and I try to relax.

But the whole time, she's like climbing all over me. Seriously! She's leaning over me, resting her arm in the crease between my breasts, literally lying on top of me. She's a small woman and granted, I am not. But I swear it was way too much body contact for the waxer/waxee relationship. At one point I was convinced she was going nestled down between my breasts for a nap like Smalley still tries to do! Very strange. Plus she was a little rough. Fast, but still rough. Heck, she didn't even bother to properly remove the leftover bits of wax - for the record she did smear baby oil across my forehead with a rough piece of cotton, but it did nothing to get rid of the wax. It was an empty gesture really. And I walked around with hairs stuck the wax for the rest of the evening.

In the end, I came out with pretty decent brows, but am pretty certain there was a lot more groping going on than was necessary. Next time, I go back to Denise. She knows her place is at the top of the reclined chair and not all over me!

The well tamed version of my brows. Maybe I'll track the re-growth process and then post future pics of the beasties progress... that'll give nightmares!

Oh man, I just noticed the dark circles under my eyes... should not have taken this pic without my makeup on. Sheesh. I need some sleep. Someone send the Sandman my way... and Molly Maid while you're at it!

Costume Switching

So Smalley went to dance classes on Thursday and Saturday, as well as school on Friday dressed like this:



I made this dress years ago when The Girl wanted to be Bride of Frankenstein, and with a few new accessories, it quite nicely rolled into a witch costume. Add some make-up (little girls love make-up) and she was happy.

But by Saturday evening, she was getting bored of being a witch and wanted something new. Thanks goodness I don't toss Hallowe'en costumes. Into the box we went and after quite a few tries found something that still fit (sorry homemade Wonder Woman costume, you're too small), intrigued her ("Ew Mom, what's a jester?!") and was complete enough to be a costume (piggy ears and a tail may be okay for The Girl who surprisingly wanted to go out with us this year despite being 18! but not for a full-costume-seeking 7-year-old).

So for the official trick or treating event, Smalley was:



A flapper! Again, make-up makes everything better. But you will note that she still opted for the witch fake nails. And of course all costumes end up looking a little weird in T.O. when you have to wear layers underneath for the weather, but no biggie.

Celine (my mother's god-daughter who also joined us for trick-or-treating) was a "goth princess" - as I've said before, make-up, make-up, make-up. I think Celine's turned out pretty good. Plus she's a natural actress so she really got into the part:



I don't always dress-up but this year I made a effort. I was a pirate from the neck up (too lazy to put on anything else). We were a pretty good looking group too:



Now the only thing left is to pack away the decorations and monitor the kids' blood sugar levels over the next two weeks!

Heart attack in the making

As if I don't stress enough already, the other night Smalley nearly gives me a freaking heart attack. She comes out of the shower, walks into the kitchen (practically dripping wet, seriously, the girl simply refuses to dry her skin after she showers) and asks me, "Mom? Is there hair stuck to my back?"

*sigh* The randomness of it all kills me sometimes. But still I must go on: "Yes Smalley, of course there's hair on your back. You washed your hair didn't you?" (FYI: her hair is medium length, running about 4-5 inches down her back.)

Smalley: But Mommm, it's bugGGging me!"
dreag21: Smalley I don't have time for this right now. I'm making dinner. Get dried and get dressed and I'll fix your hair after.
Smalley: Okay Mom, thanks! (She's excessively cheerful sometimes.)

So this little exchange buys me peace for all of about two minutes. Because then she's back, but this time, when I turn around I notice that tears are streaming down her face and her eyes are wide as saucers. Before I can ask what's wrong she drops this on me:

"Mommy! Why's my hair coming out? Do I have DIABETIES?! Am I dying?! Waaah!" And she presents me with a big wet clump of her hair... in her hand!

So of course I drop the knife on the cutting board and quickly grab her head to see what the hell IS going on. She grabs another section of hair on her head, pulls and says, "See Mommy! What's wrong with me?!" as she pulls it right out of her head with no resistance whatsoever. And I nearly shit myself.

(An important side note: Smalley goes to a babysitter in the mornings and after-school while I'm at work. The babysitter's teenage daughter has diabetes. Apparently Smalley has been asking a lot of questions about diabetics and what it means. Just so you understand where that came from. Also, I took her to see Marley & Me last Christmas (no I still do not understand why I would do something so stupid - I'd read the book, I knew the dog would die yet I still took my highly emotional then-six-year-old to see this movie - stupid move, I know!) and she went through a scared-of-death-scared-to-sleep-scared-to-let-Mommy-out-of-her-sight phase for like three months. Anyway, back to the kitchen and Smalley's hair falling out.)

So at this point all I can think to do is stall. I tell her we need to go to the bathroom where the light is better and she follows me down the hall wailing the whole time. I finally ask her to "Shut up for a sec so I can think, please!" and get down to examining her head. As I touch her bangs a chunk of hair, literally all of her bangs, falls out. I grab a wisp from the back and it comes off in my hands. NOW I am thinking what the hell is wrong with my kid?!

I ask her: Smalley, did you put anything in your hair that shouldn't have?
Smalley: *sob weep cry* No Mommy, I promise I didn't. I just used my shampoo. *sob weep cry*
dreag21: Are you sure? You didn't rub anything into it at Heather's? Or in the shower? *choking back panic*
Smalley: *sob weep cry* NO Momma, I told you I just used my shampoo. *sob weep cry* And the little comb for the knots! *sob weep cry*
dreag21: (having a moment of clarity, tone of voice changes from worried to annoyed instantly) WHAT comb?
Smalley: (stops mid-sob having detected change of tone) The little white one in the shower on the shelf.
dreag21: Oh Smalley. That's not just a comb, it's a blade!

So here's where the story will require me giving a little TMI but it's necesary folks. The little white comb that Smalley has been pulling through her head is this thing:




Except mine is white. It's a razor comb. It holds a flat balde razor and is used for... er... ummm... personal grooming. Does a really neat job of it too, without getting too close, which can lead to some unpleasant aftereffects, you know? *cough* itchy! *cough*

So anyway, mistaking it for a small comb, Smalley was pulling this thing through her hair in the shower and probably amazed at how easily the knots were coming out. As I realized THIS is why her hair was falling out I had a serious Homer Simpson moment. I could have just choked her. But I was so relieved that nothing was actually wrong with her that I could have cried too.

So as I search her head for cuts, I begin another session of a conversation that Smalley and I have a lot. One that I think we'll continue to have for a long time. It goes like this:

dreag21: Smalley, do you know what you did wrong here that has made so much of your hair come out?
Smalley: No Mommy.
dreag21: Well you were troubling something, you used it incorrectly and you're lucky you didn't hurt yourself. What have I said about troubling things that don't belong to you? (Admittedly my tone varied between flabbergasted and almost yelling here, I mean really kid? You could have scalped yourself!)
Smalley: Not to.
dreag21: Then why did you trouble it Smalley?
Smalley: I don't know.
dreag21: Well now you'll have all the time that it takes for your hair to grow back to think about why you shouldn't trouble things that don't belong to you.
Smalley: Okay Momma.

She now has some very rough chunks in throughout the back, but they're not too noticeable, especially when her hair tied back in a ponytail. The bangs however are a really sight.

I have to hope the folks at the salon can do something about this:



My seven-year-old now sports a comb-over!

Too True Tuesday... on Thursday!

So I'm a couple days behind on Too True Tuesdays, a regular happening over at The Accidental Mommy. But I haven't spent a lot of time online the past two days except for work. So just sue me. Or not. That's the beauty of this blogging thing - I do it when I want, about whatever I want and there's nothing anyone can do about it! Heh. I dig that kind of power... it thrills me. (Note to self: if overinflated perceptions of 'power" get you giddy it's probably a safe bet that REAL power is not for you my friend. Can we say cor-rup-tion?)

Anyway, essie is asking the following:

What's the first thing you would spend lottery money on? Tell the truth! Spare us the crap about buying your kids a Carousel or paying off your parents mortgage. The REAL truth!

Hands down, no hesitation whatsoever: a hotel room. If I hit in big on the Lotto Max then without hesitation I am getting the hell out my crappy little bungalow with the mould in the north wall and the shaky floors and the pathetic water pressure. I would be instantly checking into a lovely little place like this, or This, or THIS! And I'd be staying there until I figure exactly what I'm doing with my lodes of cash. Heh... that would be sweet.

Have you done that? Played the "if I won the lottery..." game? I do it all the time (a firm standing in fantasy is healthy dammit and you won't convince me otherwise). My imagination always draws me towards a big house in a warm climate, with large high-ceilinged rooms and hand-polished wooden furniture, a bevy of household staff and private school for my kids (although in recent years I've been more and more drawn to the concept of homeschooling). Ooh, and travelling, lots and lots of travelling. Of course I want the shopping and cars, and blah, blah, blah... but the most exciting parts of my fantasy lottery-funded home are:

• the kitchen - with multiple in-wall ovens, a huge rangetop and grills, marble sinks, huge stainless steel appliances and a MASSIVE island for food prep... *sigh*
• the family room - big comfy couches, a well stocked games cupboard and card table, a well-worn wooden coffee table with enough space for propping up feet and holding drinks, magazines, big screen tv, huge fireplace, etc.
• the backyard - hammocks and trees, lots of space for gardening (which will be assisted by my grounds staff, natch) and most importantly, a securely fenced-in yard for my dog to run to his heart's content

So yeah, I think about it a lot. But it all starts with me getting out of this house ASAP and cooling my jets in a hoighty-toighty (sp?) hotel suite while I make all the important decisions (e.g. one BMW or two...)

Horror at the chalet!

Finally got around to unloading my camera so expect some pics and videos in the next few posts - this one is totally out of left field but was so good I had to share it:

So my family goes to a chalet near Collingwood, ON every summer for our vacation. We spend a lot time on the beach, kick around The Blue Mountains and The Village (btw: the Olde Stanton Store makes the best freaking fudge AND has some amazing jewelery) as well as horseback riding, picnic-ing, hitting up the yard sales and farmer's markets, poking around in all the small town shops, strolling the boardwalk at Wasaga, etc. All in all a nice time to relax and unwind with the bonus of campfires in the backyard whenever we want and the awesomeness of the Perseid Meteor Shower. We invite friends and extended family to pop in and visit with us since we usually say for two weeks and the place can easily sleep 12 people and do lots of barbequing.

This past summer we had an "unexpected" visitor one evening. We came back from some grocery shopping a little late and while unloading the car (in the dark) it seems a bat decided to fly in and join our party. Hairy, winged, possible rabid beast in the chalet... great.

Seeing as we're a mainly all-female family (more on that another time), we volun-told the only male in residence (The Girl's Boyfriend) that he'd have to get the dame thing out. Madness ensues:



I'm ashamed to admit it but yes, that's me filming... and screaming my head off... and freaking the fuck out because that thing was flying all over the damn room! Shortly after the camera turns off The Girl is trying to calm me down without luck. That conversation went something like this:

The Girl: Mom! Calm down, it's just a bat!
dreag21: Have you never heard of vampire bats?! AAAARRRRGGHHH!

After that the conversation sort of lost all coherence and I ran into the bathroom to hide. To hide and pee - I always gotta pee when I'm scared. Same thing when I was a young girl and I'd catch licks from my mom... one lash and I had to run to the bathroom. (But that's probably a tale for another time. lol)

As for the bat, no it wasn't a vampire bat. But still.. I was scared. My mom and The Girl's Boyfriend then devised an ingenious way to trap the bat in the empty garbage bin ("Shoo batty, shoo! Go into the bin, IN-TO the bin batty! Shoo!") that actually worked and we transferred him outside. And by transferred I mean I threw open the front door while The Girl's Boyfriend dashed out, dropped the bin on the front walk, ripped off the lid and then raced back inside.

We weren't expecting such excitement that night so needless to say large quantities of red wine was required after that!

Street View

So I came across this feature on Google Maps today... the street level view. I have read/heard about it back in the spring when the Google cameras were apparently making their rounds through the streets of Toronto. I know there was a bit of uproar about it but to be honest I didn't really pay a lot of attention to it at the time.

Anyhoo, I was legitimately searching for something today and a colleague pointed out that we could use the Street View to get more detail (you type in the address like normal and then from the zoom scale, pull the little orange guy right onto the map where you want to jump to a street level view). Well holy crap, NOW I get what all the talk was about. As soon as I got back to my desk I looked up my own house (instead of carrying on with the work I was originally focussed on) and could not believe it.






















This is my house! And it's just there on the Internet for anyone to see. How freaking creepy is that?! And yet... I can't stop looking at it. I can tell this pick was from a few months ago because the outdoor extension cord I used for the Christmas lights is still in a pile next to the porch and The Other Girl's little red shovel is still leaning against the steps even though the snow is long melted. (Hey! At least I got the Christmas lights down before this.)

And there's Sheila looking all whole and resting on the driveway... *sniff* You can see that the license plate is blurred out which is supposed to be for the privacy factor. But this still *feels* pretty personal to me. I mean there's my dog lying on the front porch (probably waiting for one of the kids to let him in). Heck if our curtains had been opened you probably could have seen straight into my living room! Weird.

So of course after this major freakout, I do the only logical thing I can think of... I start looking up all my family and friends' houses to see what was going on with their front yards a few months ago.

All in all it seems to pretty harmless, and could certainly be useful when travelling to unfamiliar areas, and realistically, who's looking up stranger's houses on Google Maps? And if you should see something at your place that you think is jeopardizing your privacy you can contact Google and ask them to remove it.

But in the meantime, get your stalker on!

R.I.P Sheila

* Updated to include final pics of Sheila *



She's dead. Dead and gone. Sheila... my faithful, trusty Sheila. I mourn her.

Sheila is the name I christened my first car. She was a silver 2000 Chevy Cavalier. (My ex jokingly called her the Cava-queer... any wonder why he's my ex eh?) I called her Sheila because the first summer I owned her, we spent a lot of time on the highway going to Wonderland and whenever this song came on (I love my 80s R&B) she would just eat up the ashphalt!

I bought her almost seven years ago. One month after I got my license. Two months after my last baby was born. She was the beginning of my sense of freedom, my love affair with the road. I'd been living on my own since I was 19 years old (having a kid at 15 will do that to you, but more on that later). So in fact Sheila was the first thing that made me feel like a "grown-up" Paying rent didn't do that because I'd been doing it since I was a kid. But owning a car. THAT felt very adult.

She's aged over the years of course, and gotten a little rundown (this was the first year she didn't pass the the provincial mandatory emissions test on the first try... AND I had to sink almost $1000 bucks to get her up to par!) but she was still my Sheila.

This afternoon she had a disagreement with a tree down the road from our house (mainly that she wanted to go a certain way and the tree felt it was there first). The tree won, natch. And Sheila is "most likely a write-off" as the considerate fellow from insurance company told me this evening.

*sigh*

Sheila you will be missed. And I will most likely be car-less for some time seeing as your book value wasn't really the secret to your charm, if you know what I mean.



PS: I was NOT at the wheel. (I think it's important that you know I am not a reckless driver, especially after the previous post. I may be a little lead-footed sometimes, and frequently in a rush to park and get to wherever it is I'm going, thus the frequent receipt of parking tickets.) But never reckless. And everyone is okay. No one was hurt, not even that rude tree.

Justice sux

So I attended my court date today. For a traffic violation... a traffic violation that I do not believe I was guilty of. A traffic violation that was going to cost me $190 bucks! So you know, I had to fight it.

But I did something stupid... I was late getting to court and that my friends (if there are any friends reading) messed me up big time. Let me explain:

I don't know how it works elsewhere but here in The Big Smoke (BTW: really don't understand why that's a nickname for Toronto. I get Hogtown - meat processing plants; and Muddy York - unpaved streets; and everyone gets T-dot; but The Big Smoke? WTF?). Anyhoo, here in The Big Smoke we can fight traffic violation and parking infraction tickets in court. And I take everything to court! Because half the time T.O.'s finest do not bother to show up since they only get a minimum amount of paid on-duty time to attend court dates. So if you show up and your cop isn't there, you tell the prosecutor you want to fight the charges and your case has to be dismissed since there's no witness to testify against you. Should you crap out and get the lone overzealous po-po who actually comes to court, you simple plead guilty with an explanation and get a reduced fine (and usually no demerit points taken from your license). Not a bad deal all in all, and one that I have taken advantage of a number of times in my driving career.

Today, I totally intended to follow a similar route. And as luck would have it, my cop totally didn't show up. But I totally screwed myself because I didn't get there early enough to check-in with the prosecutor and discuss the trial. So she didn't know my intentions before we had to appear before the judge. And she didn't have the opportunity to determine my cop was a no-show and be so kind as to throw my case out. Instead, I got there seconds (I kid you not people - seconds!) before the judge enters. The prosecutor hisses at me to "Sit down! I'll speak to you later!" And I know I am screwed.

About 25 minutes into the proceeding (mainly a lot of folks pleading guilty to lesser charges and asking for time to pay their fine) the freaking prosecutor asks the judge for a moment of indulgence to speak to a defendant that arrived late. Oh thanks lady! That'll help my case for sure. She then gives me the usual spiel about pleading down, etc. When I ask about fighting the charge she advises me that if I choose that route she'll have no other option but to post-pone the matter to another date since I arrived late. She then advises that me that if goes to trial and I am found guilty the fine could be increased (up to $500) and the three demerits points would be non-negotiable.

And this is the point when I lose all my bravado (I usually walk around with a hell of a lot of this shit) and I say, "okay, I'll plead guilty... ma'am." Dammit. I hate in when my balls shrink like that. (Yes, as a matter of fact I do have balls - not hermaphrodite-Caster Semenya-type testes mind you, but brazen-filled, spit-and-vinegar, psychological, lady balls.)

So I plead guilty. And I get a reduced charge of $85 with no demerit points. And I skulk out of that courtroom so fast with my stepson laughing at my back and saying "yo, you punked out! what happened back there huh?" Ridiculed by a teenage boy, great.

Thinking back on it now, I know the $500 that scared me. I couldn't risk that. And re-booking the court date meant another notice of trial being sent to me and the cop which meant another chance that he'd show. And I wasn't willing to risk it. I could have pushed for another trial date, I realize now. Lady Prosecutor *might* have backed down and thrown it out. Or I could have showed up at the second trial and changed my plea then if needed. But I didn't think of all that then. All I was thinking then was, "Girl you do NOT have $500 bucks to waste on this ish". And so I punked out. Simply put, LP played a better game of chicken than I did.

So I guess the lesson learned here is that I should stop being late all time and get to places on time. (I can hear my family saying "Hell ya" right now.) Cost me $105 (85 reduced fine + 20 court surcharge fee) to learn that lesson.

Or I could stop getting traffic tickets... nah! (I got two other trials scheduled for this year and two more coming next year! lol)

Finally... FINALLY!

So I started this "blog" a long time ago... and by started I mean signed up for a google account and saved the user name, and by a long time ago I mean a year+. *sigh* But then I never did anything with it. I just left it here, unused and seemingly unwanted, like the 2nd pair in a pack of dollar-store pantyhose that were purchased for an emergency (yes, a pantyhose emergency!). I didn't even name it back then, it was just blank. Today I put this name in because I think (hope) it might motivate me.

I mean I want to blog, I'm definitely interested in blogging. Heck, I think I'd be a good blogger... I'm just not sure what I'd blog about and that there is the problem. All the blogs I love seem to have a theme, some sort of unifying core that gives them a purpose.

Case in point - Ree Drummond, aka The Pioneer Woman writes all about her life on a cattle ranch, including humourous stories, delicious recipes and a-MAY-zing photos. I am not married to a rancher, I do not really make up my own recipes, I do not get around to downloading the pics off my dinky digital camera.

And Morgan over at One More Moore is so freaking crafty can't stand it. I drool over the lovely things she makes for her kids, her friends/family and her Etsy shop. I collect scrapbook supplies that I keep promising myself I'll use one day... but I haven't.

Pastor Ryan at This Is Reverb offers poignant thoughts and spirituality in addition to photography lessons and recipes. I love reading what he's writing about and I always feel like I've experienced something when I visit his site. I stopped going to church a few years ago (after a really long hiatus from org religion in general) and I think I'm kinda lost right now... not sure where I stand or how to go about figuring it out. And I already mentioned the camera thing. (Seriously folks it's bad - I think I still have last year's Christmas pics on there and the SD card is full so I haven't take shots of anything since August.)

And Bakerella makes the cutest freaking cake pops and cupcakes and so many others things that I wish I had the patience to do. I even bought a whole freaking lot of cake pop/cupcake supplies a few months ago, mixed up a big batch of cake pop batter AND went on a serious hunt to find the mini-cookie cutters she specifically recommended... me and the kids made one batch of so-so looking pops once, most the supplies (lollipop sticks, food markers, candy melts, etc.) are still in the plastic bag from the Bulk Store and the second batch of cake balls sat in the downstairs fridge for so long they got fuzzy. Ew!

A few days ago I found a blog that I absolutely love - Unfinished Business is a tribute to procrastinators everywhere. I could worship at Annie's feet because I love that she just puts in all out there, everything she has not gotten around to doing her good intentions gone nowhere, everything. She's so blunt about it and non-apologetic (at least as far as I've read, like I said I found it yesterday). I would LOVE to blog like that... but 1. SHE'S already doing it and 2. my Mom might read this one day and then I'd be in for it! (Yes I AM older than 30 thank you very much, but like and sensible and rational child of West Indian descent, I know the undeniable logic in fearing my mother.)

There are many other blogs that I like and read somewhat regularly but I'll stop there, thereby leaving myself something for another post! (And look at that, see what I did right there? Just came up with a little theme for my post - other interesting blogs!)

I don't quite know what this blog will shape up to be, I just know that I want and outlet. I need to write regularly again and I'm really hoping that this blog will help me do it. And hopefully, along the way, I'll pick up some folks that want to read it. If not, I'll keep writing anyway, it's mainly for my benefit.

I'll give a little info about me at this point, because it's indicative of what I'll probably write about most often. I'm a single mother of two daughters, ages 18.5 and 7. I'm on amicable terms with my ex, but that's definitely a closed door. I work full-time in the communication/pr field. I'm a former Girl Guide leader, former student council member, former teenage mother (these things will come up later, trust me). I'm the oldest of six siblings (between my divorced parents and their subsequent spouses) and I have a big of Mothering complex... and by that I mean I seem to think it's my job to take care of everyone, their needs and their problems - which is obviously impossible. I see what I just wrote there, I know the truth in it... but I still do it... A LOT! (Can't tell you how many times my therapist has said to me, "You can't mother the world!") So I should probably stop trying to do that.

Last thing about me - I am a procrastinator. BIG TIME. I have the best of intentions to get things done early, or even on time, to arrive on time, to not cram stuff together at the last minute, to not pull up in front the school, screech to a stop and shove my little one out the door while roaring, "Go, GO, GOOOOO!" and then calling out to have a good day while she flies to the front door. And I certainly mean to pay my bills on time (that one there is for any of my creditors that might reading - *waves* Hi Capital One!). But that's more an issue with quantity (e.g. not enough money!) than anything else.

So all that said, know that I intend to post here regularly (let's say a few times a week) AND post pictures AND try to keep it interesting... but if I were you I wouldn't hold my breathe. I'm just saying...