The boys and I took some time away over the weekend while Mike nursed his bronchitis / pneumonia to visit up north before the weather gets too bad and traveling will be far more challenging.  I feel conflicted about visiting each and every time I’m here. A part of me longs for the country atmosphere: the slower pace, the friendly faces and the three street lights there are in town. But the other part can’t fathom leaving the city life behind.

I can picture us leaving and coming to live. Leaving our jobs, our house, our other family to be where I grew up. The thought of my boys playing in the school yard of the same schools I attended, having some of the same teachers that had taught me. I think about the possibilities of Carter joining a soccer league and playing with my friend’s son. Mike and I on the sidelines, along my friends. Friends I’ve known for what seems like ever.

In my mind, it creates a perfect picture.

But then I remember how badly I wanted out. How much I fought to get out of this place, to disassociate myself with so many things that were home. I think about how I wanted nothing more than to be in the city, to forget the country life and how I could never, or would ever return to live.

I’m torn. I think it’s inevitable that I would be.

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Fear not my friends. I am here. CRAZY busy, but I am here.

Since Thursday night, life’s been a complete whirlwind for me. Through a couple of silly childish IM’s and fits of laughter and tears, Craftastrophe was born. I’ve been working practically day and night behind the scenes along side my wonderful teammates Karen Sugarpants and Double Agent Girl writing post after post of the most amazingly craptacular stuff. It’s seriously too easy. Who knew there was such a gold mine of this stuff out there?

Next mission will be to do reconassance missions at craft fairs. Seriously. I will.

Camera in hand, I will be stalking the craft fairs, bazaars and garage sales.

I never thought I would love crafts this much! It’s become an obsession overnight.

I have never really been a crafty person, like I mentioned, but it doesn’t mean that I don’t appreciate someone else’s hard work and lack of talent.

I crocheted a blanket once.

It was COMPLETELY crooked. Not so much crooked as is was just WRONG. Stitches were missing in some spots, too tight in others - and I only ever learned one stitch, which I believe I modified half way through the blanket and could never recover from.

I can’t even make an already-prepared-just-ice-the-shit-of-it gingerbread house. What can I say, I wasn’t blessed with the creativity gene.

Who knows, maybe Craftastrophe is just a whole pile of my own creations!? You’ll never know and I definitely won’t tell!

Are you crafty?

Do you like crafts?

If you’re not, what project made it clear to you that you just shouldn’t be doing this stuff?

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I don’t even remember all that much about it since it was rather traumatic and I’ve tried to push it from my mind.

But! That doesn’t stop me from poking fun at those who have talent, those who think they have talent and those that - well… just don’t and think they do.

Welcome CRAFTASTROPHE!

You will NOT be sorry.

Tell your friends, tell everyone, and SUBSCRIBE!

It’s a guilty pleasure.

Indulge.

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A day that the first ever black President was voted into office.

A day where the RIGHTS of fellow country(men) were taken AWAY from them.

To those who passed Prop 8 in California.

Let Freedom RING!

I heard it from her, who heard it from her, who heard it from him.

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I got about three quarters of the way through before I thought: Fuck it. I had a bad day. BIG WHOOP. We all have bad days.

There isn’t a parent on the planet that hasn’t eaten away their guilt with a bag of chocolate, cheese curds and a pint of raspberries. (Figuratively of course, because raspberries and cheese curds? Odd.)

There isn’t a parent that hasn’t passed their crying, screaming child off to their spouce, friend, whomever because it was either that or … who knows what.

I’m not ashamed to say I’ve felt the urge to just throw down gently place my screaming baby in a  safe location and go shop for smokes, booze and Xanax leave the room. It’s a natural reaction even in the most relaxed, well meaning and comfortable parent when you’ve had a very trying day of irreverence, defiance, whining, and all around craptacular day (RIGHT?). Carter was the ultimate trying child today. I sent him to bed at 5:30pm, straight after dinner because it was BEYOND enough. Beyond.

Now I’m drowning my sorrows in cheaply acquired Halloween candy (because dood, it’s all on SALE!) and watching election coverage of the US election (in case you didn’t know The Election was on) and feeling only slightly guilty that I didn’t even vote in the Canadian federal election last month.

I know! I didn’t vote.

(Better than You. You didn’t even know Canada had an election. Who feels bad now, huh?)

Horrible.

Now how can I honestly complain in good conscience about how shiteous our government is when I didn’t even cast a ballot?

It’s like complaining about who’s voted off So You Think You Can Dance when I didn’t even pick up the phone to vote. Because that? That is just blasphemous.

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Whenever I protest any sexual advances I get asked, “But what about the butterflies?”

Damn butterflies.

:::

Carter insists that I have a “China”.

I’ve repeatedly tried to correct him telling him that it’s called a Va-gina which he then calls “Bah-China”.

I think I’m gonna call it a Bah-China from now on.

Sounds so much more exotic.

:::

I’m not participating in NaBlopoMo this year. I thought about it, but November first came and went and I hadn’t written a post. I know, I know… you can thank me in Starbucks. Preferably a grande, non-fat Tazo Chai Tea Latte s’il vous plaît (that’s French for please).

:::

I have nothing intellegent to share so go read these guys.

Who knew he had it in him? Neil’s murderous confession.

My dear Tanis is pissed. Who are you pissed at?

Fighting for her life and she’s worried about us. Why aren’t there more people like her?

If only The Apple Store took this kind of fortune.

If you force her to share her personal information Sassy will run. you. down. (Or give cigarettes to your kids. Whatever.)

* That makes me giggle like a twelve year old boy. Spread. Ha!

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The sun seems brighter, the colours more bold.

Crisp.

Perfect mix of colour, so vibrant and captivating.

Spring and summer months should share the same colours that fall brings. Though, bare branches can still be just as enchanting.

What’s your favourite season?

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The Lame-O-Lantern*.

Carter chiseled chest Superman costume will be a hit with the ladies at daycare. I’ll be beating the girls off my little man.

Maybe I’ll use The Lame-O-Lantern.

And I haven’t bought candy yet because I know I’ll eat it all between now and tomorrow night. This way I’ll be scrounging for the craptastical candy and whatever isn’t given out will just be substitute for the stuff I steal from Carter’s good shit tossed in the trashed.

Happy Hallowe’en!

*Dear 20 year-old Carter;

Mommy is just kidding; that’s what she does. She’s a jokester. I really loved your lame-o-lantern jack-o-lantern.

And what the hell are you doing here? You do not want to read this. Trust Me.

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This morning we headed out to a local farm for some pumpkin action. We went on a family outing Sunday, to a different farm, for their fall festival where there was pony rides, petting zoo (which was about four different animals caged and hiding in a corner), corn mazes as well as a puppet show. This morning was pretty much a lot of the same with exception of the frigid temperatures! I can’t believe how much and how fast the weather has turned.

Clad in my spring jacket with a turtleneck sweater, I was sure I would wind up too hot, but the wind! The wind pierced right through me like a million tiny needles, while Carter freaked and clung to me with fear that the wind was going to take him away.

With tears brimming in his eyes, snot running down his face, he forgot about the wind for a few minutes while on a mission to find a pumpkin. He forged ahead as the wind fought back, he was going to find that pumpkin.

We were instructed to find one pumpkin per class (there were three classes in our group) to take back to the school, Carter would not leave his pumpkin. He sat and waited, insisting that this was the one for his class (which I agreed because it was very nice) and was beyond devastated when he had to leave it behind.

All was forgotten when I mentioned the lamest, most craptacular puppet show and cider.

[There is nothing like apple cider on a frigid fall day, but it HAS to be hot. At least warm. cold apple cider is a no-no. Period.]

I’m just glad it was only a half day. I don’t know that my spring jacket, or Hudson would have been able to hack an entire day. Winter is coming far too quickly.

Gratuitous baby picture:

*  I think my child was the snottiest and loudest there.

** I was really too busy trying to tend to my baby to notice if your child had a snotty nose, but they were screaming. A lot. I’m just glad I opted to drive my own car.

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Like the making out that doesn’t really lead to anything else but raw lips and a stubble rash (okay, so I was making out with boys a lit-tle older then moi). The making out that makes you want to get. it. on… but you don’t? Ya, that making out.

At fifteen I was “dating” a nineteen year old, kinda. Regardless, we would make out, a lot and you know? It never got old. That’s the great part about being young and “in love”. The heart flutters when you see them, the rush of panic mixed with lust the first time you hold hands. The bubbling over with excitement when you experience your first kiss together.

Mike and I, we were like that when we first started dating, but it wasn’t so much about the making out as it was about the - well, you know. Like, ALL. THE. TIME.

[Okay, I was going to write crazy hot sex, but then got scared because OMG, what if a family member is secretly lurking on my blog? so I wrote "well, you know" and I'm pretty sure even if there was a family member lurking - they would understand what "well, you know" means. Duh.]

So. Crazy hot sex. We have had it. We were passionate. In love and always in each others arms.

Eight years have gone by and we’ve slowly subsided into that typical parent-like relationship. The obligatory kiss in the morning, when he returns home from work, when we go to bed. In fact, it’s less of a kiss than it is a peck on the lips. Without thought, feeling, emotion - it’s just a kiss.

A kiss should never be just a kiss when it’s between lovers. A kiss should be passionate, heartfelt and warm. It would evoke emotion and urges. It should be meant.

It’s difficult with young children, pulling at you every second, requiring constant attention, that won’t let you put them down, and have needs that must be met NOW!; they don’t realize that when their parents are trying to share an embrace in the kitchen while dinner is simmering that it’s the first time they’ve been in each other’s arms all month week.

Dammit, I want to be kissed. I want to make out with my husband and maybe have it lead to - well, you know - I want a romance novel like scene where I’m swept up in his arms and kissed hard and passionately.  I want to wake up in the morning, spooning with my husband and not in a seperate bed with my infant son.

When I heard people complain about not having sex because there was no time or energy for it after having children I scoffed at them. What do you mean no time? There’s always time for sex! I was wrong. At least with small children, sex is just about the furthest thing from my mind.

I’ve tried to explain this to Mike by telling him that as soon as my head hits that pillow I want to nestle into its soft warm-y goodness and doze off to la-la-land rather than have my head banging off the headboard to which he responded: We can do it somewhere else then. The couch? The floor? On top of the washer?

[Okay, and here I was worried about lurking family reading about hot sex. Stoopid.]

You know what would be more appealing to sex at this moment? Having the laundry washed and put away. The dish washer unloaded; the carpets vacuumed. That would be on the verge of orgasmic for me right now.

Maybe he could dress like a Chip n’ Dale. Then we’ll talk about sex on the washer.

Kill two birds with one stone, no?

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