Tuesday, June 22, 2010

This may be why I prefer typing

A couple of weeks ago, my lovely friend Mumma Boo tagged me for this little project and I kept forgetting about it. Odd really, considering that I've been wondering what the heck I could write about. She had been tagged by someone else who had been tagged by Robin from The Not-Ever-Still Life for a Handwriting Project. I am finally getting around to it.

I love, love, LOVE getting handwritten notes. Just last week I found myself standing in my kitchen, tears running down my face, because I had received a handwritten letter from a very dear friend back in Canada. She could have told me all the same things in an email but it was SO much more special in a letter. Plus, it gave me some justification for checking my mailbox eleventy million times during the day. I swear most of my exercise comes from walking from my front door to my mailbox, over and over again.

My mother and father have had the same style of handwriting for as long as I can remember. Mum's is very easy to ready, almost printing with a little flair thrown in. Dad is full on cursive writing, but still easy to decipher.

My husband is left handed and, like most left handed people I've met, has atrocious handwriting. The one exception to this was one guy I went to school with who was not only left handed but had neater handwriting than any girl I'd met. My daughter is left handed and it still remains to be seen how her's will turn out. Boy Spawn is right handed (YAY!) but is only just coming up to 6, so I don't care.

Me? Well. Just like my fashion sense, my handwriting samples are a bit of an odd-ball collection. I have the stuff I use when I'm writing for the kids, the one I use when writing to the in-laws, the kind I use when I'm trying to look cool and then there's the professional job application type stuff. Oh. And my scrawl.

So Robin's idea was to have a look at the handwriting of all these people we read every day, but we only ever get to see their stuff in Times, Arial or, heaven forbid, Comic Sans. Wanna have a look?

The "rules" say to write down the following stuff, then take a picture & post it for y'all to see before tagging a few of you so that I can see what your scrawl looks like.

1. Name/Blog Name
2. Right Handed, Left Handed or Both
3. Favourite letters to write
4. Least favourite letters to write
5. Write: The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog.
6. Write in caps: CRAB
HUMOR
KALEIDOSCOPE
PAJAMAS
GAZILLION
7. Favourite song lyrics
8. Tag 7 people
9. Any special note or drawing




As you probably can't read my bubbly, "cool" writing, the people I tagged are:

Aunt Juicebox @ Bacon Is My Lover
Bossy Betty @ BOSSY BETTY
Angela Noelle @ Striking Keys
Dual Mom @ We're At Dad's That Week
Adrienzgirl @ Think Tank Momma
Gun Diva @ Just Another Perfect Day
Adia Belle @ I'm Addicted

What's really sad is that even after that one measly page, my hand hurt. I definitely prefer typing.






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Monday, June 14, 2010

The NNNs came to get me!!

If you are (un)lucky enough to have me on your Facebook, then you will have perhaps noticed my incessant blathering about how sick I've been and oh, poor me, won't someone please take pity on me and so on and so on. I woke up Friday morning with what can only be described as the head cold from the deep, frozen corners of Hell. To be honest, at first I thought I just had some sniffles. I donned my sexy mask to prevent all the old people from catching my bugs and headed off to work.

Catwalk sexy, no?


By Friday evening, in between blowing gallons of snot out of my nose and wiping my eyes so often that I looked like a stoned hippie, I had come to the conclusion that perhaps I had so upset my husband that he had hired some Nasty Nasal Ninjas (NNNs) to come and inject a half ton of liquid into my head. I spent Saturday gradually feeling worse and contemplating the possibility that the only remedy for this malaise would be to chop off my head.

I feel that there should be a department to write to when sick and feeling like there is a distinct possibility you might drown in a pool of your own snot. Once contacted, this department would dispatch a rescue crew armed with suction bulbs and Netti-Pots to do away with the NNNs.

Every time I started to feel better and consider actually resembling a human being for a while, I would have to go to work. As a Support Worker, I am in contact with the elderly and disabled. If I don't wear my sexy mask to cover my mouth & nose and I breath on them, cough on them, sneeze on them or spit in their dinner, then they will also get the plague. Apparently this could be grounds for punishment, so I kept donning the mask of gorgeousness.

Here's the thing with these masks. If you wear glasses, they are a pain in the huge, dimply arse. They fog up and leave you with all the limited visibility but none of the awesomeness of a sauna. (But less sweaty...that's a plus). Also, while wearing one of these Lone Ranger masks, you are essentially breathing in your own disease filled air. Quite aside from the obvious grossness of this, it leaves your face feeling rather ...um... moist. Moist. Moist. (Is anyone cringing at that word?) Moist. (Muahaha!) I came out of each and every house, ripped my mask off and felt like a bloodhound had just given me a tongue bath. It was gross. And it did nothing to alleviate the watering eyes and runny nose.

Super. Attractive.

As client after client laughed at me, and I worked my way through an entire jumbo box of tissue, I began counting down the hours (minutes!) until 8:45 p.m. Sunday night when I could collapse in a gelatinous puddle.

(How's my pity party workin' so far?)

Monday morning I woke up feeling refreshed. Two nights of at least 11 hours sleep will help with that. I promptly overdid it with exercise but oh holy hell - how wonderful it is to be able to breathe. Except that now I can smell my spawn. And the hubby. *sigh*

In other, not so sickly, news - Hotty Hubby will be working nights for awhile. While many people would be unhappy about this, it makes me rather happy. I get an entire queen size bed to myself for 5 out of 7 nights. He'll sleep while the kids are at school and I'm at work. We'll get just as much time together as we do now...but he gets $2 extra per hour AND overtime. Can we say WOO! ???


So how are you all feeling? Did I manage to pass on the Head Cold From Hell to any of you? Give it a whirl sometime...I promise you'll feel like shit.

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Tuesday, June 1, 2010

8 years and he hasn't killed me.....yet

We were young, HE was skinny and I was 8 months pregnant. My dad had a shotgun pictured in his head and we'd invited 40 of our friends and family to join us at a local park to stand in the blazing hot sun.


I forgot my bouquet at home in my mad rush to look as presentable as possible and my cousins ran around the park illegally picking flowers so that I had something to hold in my hands that might hide some of the massive expanse of belly.

One set of his grandparents were counting down the minutes til we could get to the drinking, the other set counting down the minutes til they could remove themselves from the travesty of their golden boy marrying the slut who had the audacity to get knocked up.

He went a ghostly shade of white, rocked back and forth on his feet and looked like he was going to pass out; I went a pretty shade of red and tried to ignore the baby kicking her feet into my cervix in a way that made me picture David Beckham (and not in a good way).

His best man looked handsome, my maid of honour looked irritated and bored. Turns out we were keeping her from a very important date. Yes. My wedding day and the ho bag had scheduled a date with her current bit of fluff while her husband was out of town with their daughter.

We honoured his mother with a picture of her on the table near us, sad that she wasn't there to share the special day with us - she'd been gone 13 years already. We remember my mother and sister, so far away in another country, unable to share the day with us.

We said our vows, taking out the bit about obeying because really, WTF?

In what seemed like seconds (or was it years?), it was over and we were no longer singles but a Mr & Mrs. We were a pair, a couple, a match. We were now tied to each other and were our own mini family. Soon, we would be three. We signed the book (I'm still trying to figure out who owns my soul now) and went to pose for more pictures.


We looked like we were 12 back then. Young. Innocent (we'll ignore the huge pregnant belly, shall we?). Looking happily to the future.

I didn't get my big white wedding with 15 bridesmaids, an open bar and dancing on the tables to kick ass music pumped out by an average DJ so hopped up on coke that he couldn't tell the difference between Jay-Z and Kanye.

But I did get my husband, my family and my friends all together for one of the most special days of my life.

Eight years on and we're still married. We're still a couple, a twosome, a force to be reckoned with. We've made it past the birth of two children, a year of being separated, "friends" causing trouble, real friends trying to help, multiple house moves and the 7 year itch, and we have yet to throw anything heavy (or at least with any accuracy).


When I think back on the last 8 years, I can think of a few things that might have sent a lesser woman running for the hills:

He snores like a water buffalo
~ Thankfully, I snore like a freight train so we tend to cancel each other out.

He rolls himself up like a cocoon in the blankets at night, leaving me to freeze my ass off on the other side of the bed.
~ I'm not opposed to elbowing him, kicking him or pushing him off the bed and then retrieving the blankets to regain my warmth.

He makes such a smell in the bathroom after work some days that it would make anyone not "in the know" think that something had died in there.
~ He's willing to de-tribble the shower drains for me so that I don't puke everywhere. Which he would also clean up for me, if asked.

He is irritatingly laid back so much of the time that it just makes you want to scream.
~ I'm high strung enough for the two us.

He hates to clean, doesn't like to cook, leaves clothes everywhere and would rather sleep than do anything productive around the house.
~ Same here.

And then I got to thinking about other stuff:

He is the one who keeps me going from day to day.

He is the one I look to in good times and in bad.

He is the one I look forward to spending my life with.

He is the one who makes me feel good about myself - even on my bad days.

He is the one who loves me - even when I am at my most UNloveable.

~ And for ALL of that (and so much more), I love that man.

So, to the love of my life, the man of my dreams and the better half of me.... I wish you a very Happy 8th Anniversary. I look forward to many more of these days and I'm glad I have you in my life. Even if you do snore. And smell.


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