If I start wearing jeggings, you'll know what happened.

I got a stupid flu shot. Now I feel drunk or something (I hope it lasts), so of course I'm going to write a poorly constructed blog entry about it.

Before getting it, the health nurse at the clinic asked me if I am allergic to formaldehyde or thimerosal while I signed a waiver: um, isn't everyone allergic to formaldehyde and thimerosal? Thimerosal contains mercury, in case you're wondering. Mercury causes MadNeSs.

So how do you even know if you're allergic to neurotoxins? I seem to be okay, right? The last time I had formaldehyde cookies, I might have gotten a weensy bit itchy- but overall I think I'm okay. I also think the school "peanut & formaldehyde/mercury free lunch" policy is a little drastic. Do we have to deprive them of EVERYTHING they love just because a couple of kids caught madness? Psh. Just look at old Vladimir Lenin. He loves his formaldehyde and he's a pretty important guy. Besides, I had plenty of formadlehyde and thimerosal when I was a kid and I don't have any more brain damage than anyone else from my generation graduating class. It's not just a neurotoxin after all, it's also an important preservative and fungicide. MmmM... stick it in my muscles, please.

Here's a story: We used to play liquid mercury blob hockey with our pencils in the the science lab in ninth grade while our teacher was ignoring us. It was pretty cool. Am I digressing? What? Mercury? Hmm? Also, we usually left the gas on at our bunson burner stations. Small town schools have small budgets for things like 'safety' or 'common sense' or 'teaching' (no offense, DBS). I've always wanted to make fancy hats for the Queen.

This guy sticks his bare hands in mercury all the time and he doesn't look very crazy at all.

So anyway, I did not go to the clinic this morning thinking that I was going to be injected with anything and to tell you the truth, I have been doing a fair bit of yapping about how I'll never get a flu shot and how the flu shot is to blame for everything from jeggings to hipsters, is a big government/drug company conspiracy to control our minds with formaldehyde, fear and mercury and it's not even organic etc etc. So why did I break down and do it? There are 3 things that happened to make me get injected, and I'll tell you them:

1. I pretty much work entirely on impulse. To say I'm impulsive is like saying that there is a crumb or two under my couch cushions, when really I've planted a lovely garden of rare mushrooms on top of the layer of dust and new topsoil which rests upon my kids' toys, remote controls, cordless phones, dvd cases and granola bar wrappers. It's called making the most of a bad situation, you guys.

So... impulse. They had a poster saying that I could get a flu shot TODAY, it was FREE and there was already a stranger standing there with her needles ready, I had a 10 minute wait... so... yep. I would have gotten my blood sugar tested at the next poking booth if I'd have had more time. Is that a heroin booster clinic? Why even think about it? Sign me up.


2. The impulse was driven by the fact that my 2 year old had to get her booster shot, which is why I was at the clinic to begin with and I thought she'd feel better if I got a needle too. This decision took 4 seconds to make.

PS. She didn't care that I got a needle, she was just pissed in general over hers. She snarled & threw her Cinderella sticker at the nurse as hard as she could and basically turned into this creature for the rest of the day:


3. I watched 4 episodes of AMC's Walking Dead with Neil last night and decided that I never want to actually catch anything or end up living in a tent town outside of Atlantic City with a ragtag group of offensively stereotypical people. I also want to avoid crowded areas while riding on my stolen horse in case I am attacked by zombies (or geeks). They'll eat your horse too, you know. They don't even CARE about horses. So, injecting myself with things will prevent that, right? Of course. So basically, now I think that the drug companies are in cahoots with zombie movie makers to get you to get a flu shot. I'm already a victim. Yeah, I don't know why you're still reading this, either. But here I go, just type type typing away and you're reading it.


4. They still have a giant, colorful bowl of free condoms at the front desk of the clinic. That doesn't have anything to do with this post (or does it? they did have 2 other poking stations, after all), but I blushed when I looked at it. Because condoms=sex and that=feelings. Especially if you look at the bowl of condoms and then accidentally make eye contact with another person in the waiting room. What if they think you looked at the condoms and then looked at them because you want to use the condoms on them? That could be pretty awkward. Especially if you look at the old woman offering to test your blood sugar after looking at the condom bowl? What if she tested it and found prude cells in your blood sugar? That would be pretty embarrassing. I'd probably shift around in my seat and check my blackberry, pretending to text people if they found that out. I'd even say, "ZOMG that made me L.O.L" to make it seem more authentic. I wouldn't really text people though, because that gets expensive.



The End.

Oysters, Cat Rumspringa, Pee. Three important topics in one blog.

1. I ate a raw oyster. I was peer pressured. I thought it would be the devil, like cooked oysters are, cooked oysters are the tiny little taste-like-sweat devil... but I sucked it up. Get it? Sucked. It. Up. Like you do with oysters. Not funny? Okay.

I treated it like a little oystery jello birthday shot (which was kindly). Anyhow, turns out that I like slimy, saucy, little grey globs of flesh. The point is that once again I have to take back all the libelous slander I've expressed about oysters the same way I had to backtrack on sushi being yucky... which it isn't... if you don't order it in Northern Alberta at a place called, "Prairie Sushi". What is happening to me? I'm mutating or something. I'm all wild and adventurous.

2. My cat, Smarties, is back from her rumspringa. Her coming of age event where she snuck out and left for two days of sinning. The little ho. Thank the two year old for mangling the screen door so she could get away from the house. Anyhow, she was missing, during which time I knew that if she came home, she'd be pregnant; because she's in heat every 8 seconds. See how that works? So now I've been eyeballing her accusingly every time I walk past her.

"NAPPING, SMARTIES??? ARE YOU?? HMM???? TIRED FROM BEING A TOTAL PREGNANT WHORE?? Huh?? I see you came slithering back home. Make some poor choices did you? If you're pregnant, expect no help from me. You made your bed, cat. Do you even know who the father is??? Probably not, right? What's your next move? Cat welfare?? (Wait... do they have that? Because $$$).... OR maybe you want to go to the doctor and y'know... take care of this....? You could still get your life together, smarties. What about community college?? Was it the feral cats at Parliament, Smarties? Huh party girl? Couldn't resist, eh? Whore."

No really, is there such thing as cat abortions? Probably for a million dollars. Also, then I'd live in eternal guilt for forcing that solution upon my cat. Every time she looked at me in the future, I'd have to avert my eyes and bite my fist. Living forever with her leaving cat-pro-life pamphlets on my nightstand.... writing "KITTEN MURDERER" on my mirror in red lipstick, little cat picketers all around my house forever..... watching her try to herd around and mother the kids' stupid, horribly annoying zhu zhu electric hamster pets...... Waiiiiiit..... this could work.....

Oh fine. I'm going to hell for talking about cat abortions. I get it. Stop glaring at me through your fancy cd roms. She might not actually even be pregnant. Maybe she really listened to the talk I gave her about the facts of life. Maybe I'll just make her wear a scarlet letter.



3. Don't you think it would make more sense if the old fairy tale was, "The Princess and the Pee"? Because a pea? PEA? No... but if you pee in my bed, I'm going to get really princessy and cranky with you.

Me: OH EM GEE. Did I just feel something wet?
Bed: Yah. I'm peed. Everyone is waiting to see how you react
Me: WHAT? Everyone who?
Bed: The prince.... well Neil. He won't marry you if you're not grossed out.
Me: What?
Bed: Yeah. But you passed. You win.
Me: Do I? Do I really win?
Bed: Yep. There is only one loser here and it's me.
Me: Ha. Jokes on you, bed. I'm going to go sleep in the guest room
Bed: Yeah... Guest bed is a little starved for attention... you might not like what you find there. It took it to the next level so to speak... to see if you're a Queen and stuff. Think "princess and the corn".....
Me: Ooooh... nooooo... Oh man, Bed, you've always got my back. Can I get you anything?
Bed: Yah. A towel and some purell.
Me: Sooooo sleeeepy......glaughhhhhh
Bed: Yeah but could you... just...
Me: Crashing in 3.....2..........1
Bed: Hey... pssst.... wakey wakey.....about that towel?.... Hey! *shake shake*
Me: *snore*
Bed: please?

That's what I was thinking about as Barney the dinosaur sang to kids about the importance of getting married as soon as possible on tv... or something (Ha. tell that to SMARTIES *zing*). I wasn't paying that much attention, as I was imagining what I would do if someone peed in my bed to find out if I was a princess or not- rather than just ask.

Well aren't you going to ask? If you don't ask, I'm just going to go ahead and sleep on the couch.

In Turkey, they're called 'kaput'.

Sooo... The clinic today had a large, colorful candy dish filled to the brim with an assortment of condoms in shiny & attractive packages and a sign that read:

"PLEASE HELP YOURSELF!"...

...With little smiles and exclamation points and STICKERS. Like the adults wouldn't know what the bowl held without stickers attracting them to it. You know who's attracted to stickers? NOT adults. Adults are attracted to condoms. Just to be clear. Any condoms. Decorated or not. "Say.. is that a condom over there? Let me at it. I want to look at it", we'll say. "Hmm.. looks pretty plain, I'll take it anyway." To reiterate: no need for stickers.

Now I could go into the different nuances and deep societal relevance of that statement being pasted to a free condom dispenser, heaven knows I agree. We should help ourselves and the clinic is all about helping people help themselves and that is important... but Guuuuuuuys! Put the freebee condoms higher up on the shelf PLEASE?? Not out beside the kid prizes for good behavior. The adult prizes should be separate from the kid prizes. ALWAYS SEPARATE. Giant Bowl-o-Prophylactics: Top shelf. Every time. Here is why:

The thing is, I already have to drag 3 kids into the clinic and try to keep them occupied while we wait because they have no toys, no books & no TV; just a giant, enchanting, photogenic, attractive, sticker laden bowl full of candyesque condoms. It's like a cruel game of keep-away from the cauldron full of rainbow mystery. Of course the kids gravitated around it. Once I saw it, III was even tempted to fill my pockets because they went all out and bought a sparkle-rainbow assortment. But I don't actually need them *ahem* or anything so.... It was best to leave them for others. I'm a good person that way.

Anyhow, just so you know, I would have happily avoided the whole condom discussion for another couple of years- However, my rotten little kids can read and they KNOW about free samples (what was I thinking, teaching them to READ?? It's just asking for trouble if you really think about it). We go to Costco specifically to see what kinds of samples are available as a fun family outing. Everyone looks forward to Sample Day. LOVE samples. Howeverrrr, we were one of only two families waiting in the waiting room... the other family also had 3 curious little children following my kids every move. My kid grabbed 3 of the condom packages and walked over to me. Not to be outdone, my other kid grabbed about 8 of them. Then the conversation ensued:

"No, I'M having the blue one. "

"I saw it first!"

"No, you have this one, it has a picture of a rooster."

"NO WAY, I get the blue one... MOOOOOOoooOom!"

"What are you guys even doing??" I say.

"FREE SAMPLES, MOM! CAN WE HAVE ONE? "

"Free samples of what? GAH! UH.... NO."

"BUT THEY'RE FREE, SEE? Saaaaaaamples!!"

"Yes, they are free, but you don't need one."

"WHY NOT?"

"Because you don't."

"What are they?"

All tiny heads in the room snap toward me for the moment of truth, even the other peoples' kids. Now, Readers, I am not in the habit of lessoning the children of strangers about the ins and outs of condom use. (Get it? Ins and OUTS?? Fine. Don't laugh, I knew this was going to be awkward).

"They're just grown up stuff, we'll talk about it at home"

"WHY? WHAT ARE THEY FOR?"

"They're condoms, honey. They're not for kids."

"CONDOMS? COOOOonnnnNNNdOmmmms.... What's that? Candy? "

"No"

"Is it like a wet napkin?"

"NO"

"*whispering audibly* Is it for your lady problems?"

"Apparently. My lady problems currently involve a whole bunch of kids... so.."

"I DON'T GET IT. Why can't we have a sample??"

"You don't need a sample of that."

"It's circle shaped. Feel."

"I know it is. Stop feeling that. Put. Them. Back. In. The. Bowl."

"AWW.. I was going to make a tower."

"You can't make a condom tower."

"Whyyyy? I'm BORED."

*Whisper-yelling* Because they are for butts, okay? They're for people's butts. Are you happy? They are balloons and they're for people's butts.

*Intrigue heightens x 298,348%*
*Other mother bores holes through the side of my head with her steely glare*
*stranger kid whispers in her sister's ear*
*sister's eyes become huge*
*My ears bleed from the sonic anger boom coming from the other mother's soul*
*She has ninja mind powers and my head is shriveling up, good thing we're at a health clinic, the doctors will help me get my head back to it's proper, average size*
*maybe I can ask them to just sort of, leave the frontal lobe area a little larger so that I have more thinking space*

"OH MY GAWD. WHY DO YOU NEED BALLOONS FOR YOUR BUTT???"

"SO.... Who wants...... *checking purse*...... $13 and 43 cents? Was that a store with candy I saw just downstairs? Eh, kids? Mmm... we love candy... and me with this money and nothing to spend it on...."

Now, at this point I am sure you are judging me through your computer monitors for not being an upfront and articulate parent... but you have to admit that they ARE balloons and that they ARE for your butt. So that's one mom-point for Michelle. *high five*

Then I arrived at home & went to hang up my child's jacket and what falls out of his pocket? Yeah. The blue one. My mom-point is gone now. I'm just glad I didn't get a call from the school on Monday about it. At home is the best place for unwanted condom samples to fall out of your child's clothing. We can ALL agree with that. Or worse, he could have made it to the birthday party he's been invited to on Sunday with a pocket full of previously undetected condom samples. How would THAT have played out?

So I like to see life's bowl of condoms as half empty instead of half full..and empty is better because it means that people are taking steps to protect themselves.. or it means that I have to check my kids' backpacks before school. So maybe the bowl IS half full. All I know is that half the condoms are missing and someone is responsible. Ideally a very lucky grown person with a consenting partner has emptied it.... So you see? There is always a silver liner. GET IT? Liners are like condoms... kind of. So it's a joke. Anyway, I'm not very funny right now because of all the condoms & stress. Basically, I can't tell what is going on.


Bonus: Love in any language:
English- Condom
Turkish- kaput (<--haha). Czech - Kondom
Finnish- kondomi
French- préservatif
German- Präser
Spanish- profiláctico
Polish- prezerwatywa
Swahili- kondomu
Dutch- condoom or kapotje

You're welcome.

I take no responsibility for anything I post in the next five days

I'm just saying. I am planning on visiting lots of blogs with hilarious percocet-comments. That's what I call them. Perco-comments. It has a nice feel, doesn't it? Anyway, be prepared to have your mind blown by the deep responses I'll be coming up with after skimming the first sentence of whatever you've posted because actually reading them through gives me vertigo.

Oooh. That made me dizzy. Gravol time.

Also, my broth is yucky. Don't tell Neil. He worked really hard on it.

Look! Sparkly psychedelics/the cat!

I think, instead of writing lots of NEW stupid blogs like this one, I'll just come back and keep adding to this very post. Good idea, Self. I'm pretty sure everyone is going to be waiting in anticipation for fantastic new ideas from you. I mean me.

I'd better go watch a movie and put the self publishing away now.

*Why is my itunes downloading something called 'rebel yiddish writers'? I am not even making it up.

*I think my comment on kurt's new blog entry is pretty much the definition of brilliance.

Dear Oozing, Gum-Chewing Eyelids of Mine,

Your timing couldn't be more exemplary: Halloween! What a wonderful time to have conjunctivitis. It's very festive to go around seeing the world in a cloudy haze. You can all go ahead and turn off your expensive fog machines, now (unless you have one of those cool ones that also makes maniacal laughing sounds... BWaHahAHHaaA! You leave that bad boy on ALL YEAR, you hear me?). All you have to do is simply touch your eyeball to my eyeball and watch the thin string of slime that connects us in conjunctive matrimony as it stretches between our mutual gaze- and then in a few short hours, you'll get the very same, all natural visual effect. I will be starting a pink eye selling stand at the end of my driveway later this afternoon, when all the kids are walking home from school. Or maybe I'll hand out pink eye instead of Halloween treats. Who knows? Heaven knows, I'm full of money saving ideas these days.

What was really fun, though, was when I took 3 kids to the dentist yesterday, not fully realizing that I actually looked like someone had lubricated my eyeballs in vanilla pudding (HA. You'll never eat pudding again. This is great for your diet). They were fine when I left, I swear- perhaps a titch itchy but that can be easily blamed on the kitten (like most things that go wrong in my life. Damn you, kitten, for messing with my taxes!!). By the time I arrived, I looked like a viral monkey.


Now whenever I want to bat my eyelashes at the imaginary pool boy or a Canadian celebrity, such as Rick Mercer, I'll have to put on some kind of germ proof barrier, or wear one of those ducky yellow suits that Dustin Hoffman wore in Outbreak. Then maybe a hole will be accidentally punctured in the suit, leaving everyone vulnerable, as I lean over the hospital bed in despair as Rene Russo dies. I hope you're happy, Conjunctivitis. I hope you're reeeeeal happy.

Love Michelle.

Open Letter to Faulty McFaulterson

Dear $%&*

Thank you for causing my dining room ceiling to start leaking all over the place in 8 different places appx 3 hours before I go for a surgical consultation on my jaw. What I really needed was yet another reason why I am going to look forward to my post operative painkillers, and toilet water filled ceiling pimples are just the ticket. Besides, who needs to shower before going to a doctor's appointment? Doctors totally see filthy, stressed out people EVERY DAY. Today I get to be one. New experiences are important. So it's great that the water is shut off. :D

Now, I realize that you think it's HIGH-LARIOUS that my back teeth do not freeze, even if they inject enough freezing product into my head to cause me to go into shock and then sick a dental assistant on me to watch from 6 inches away looking uncomfortable as I shake more tempestuously than Michael J Fox and Katherine Hepburn making out on washing machine during an earthquake, then turn me upside down on my head so that blood can "go back to my brain", because hey- that's pretty funny in a very tactless way (which is usually the best way). I couldn't even read my Canadian Living at Home magazine about stuffing turkeys with nylons and things while having a seizure in peace. Besides, what's the big deal? I just want my damned tooth fixed. I could have dealt with the pain if I'd have shut my trap and tried to pretend that I wasn't convulsing. "No Dr Nabnorfnsjdnfis53de, YOU'RE shaking. No YOU are. YOU. YOU ARE. NO. YOU ARE." Do you know that the freezing stuff they put in you contains epinephrine? I do. I do know that. Was it also necessary to wreck my house, though? Oh it was. I see.

I'd like to make something else nice and clear straight away, %&$#. If you somehow cause my surgeon to decide that Lamby Baby Bunny Tylenol 3 is going to be good enough after all of this, you can just step away and punch yourself in the throat right now. I'll pause to give you time..... Are sure that was hard enough? Sure, do it again. Better? Good. Me too.

Love

Chelle.

How is Fluffy Sparkles adapting to the kitten, you ask?

This morning's mouse arrangement.

Maybe she needs counseling, she seems to be taking her anger out inappropriately. I dunno. I'm going to slip some leftover brandy in her catfood later.

Silence of the Yams

*LOUD OMINOUS THUMP*

6 year old: Um... I need some paper towel.

Me: Hurgh?

6 year old: The watermelon broke and it's leaking.

Me: The watermelon BROKE? How did the watermelon break?

6yo: I was going to wake you up with it.

Me: With a GIANT WATERMELON? How was that going to go down?

6yo: I was going to surprise you.

*silence*

And there it is. A watermelon laying on the floor, cracked open like a giant, delicious skull. That could have been me....

So my son plots against me with produce. I guess it IS a bad idea to buy him a potato cannon after all... or is it? Maybe I should nurture his interests. Good moms do that, right? Maybe I should be encouraging him to be a produce villain, maybe we should put in a garden for the young Lord Vitamin C so that he can pursue his ultimate goal of ruling the world through fruit violence. Lord knows if I don't support him, I may wake up one morning, impaled by some celery & cheeze whiz. Messy messy business.

That freakshow, Captain Vegetable had better be looking over his freakin' shoulder from now on, that's all I know.

Facilitating your weight gain.

You're welcome. So I snagged this recipe for 5 minute chocolate cake. Made in a cup... for one person. It's like some sort of... cup... or... mugcake™.

I thought, "Eh, what the hell. Worst case scenario, it'll be a star in my ugly bread category if it's horrible and grotesque.", then I thought about how fun it was at the grocery store when I'd hauled my kids in, grocery shopped, got to the check out and realized I had no wallet and had to go home to get it. Then I thought about the bird crap on my vehicle. Then I remembered that funny .gif of David Hasselhoff's hypnotic speedo. Then I remembered about the cake.

(Try and move past this hypnotic animation and finish reading my blog entry. Also, if you happen to be hypnotized now, vote for me- and send money.)

"Okay, Self, lets make this sucker." I said out loud.

So I did... say it... and make it. And it was awesome. More plum puddingy textured but extra chocolate-induced coma-ish and less disgustinger than plum pudding (more delicious is what I'm saying). I suggest using some white chocolate chips for extra fanciness.

So the bottom line is that this recipe is evil and of the devil because any idiot (read: idiot=me) can make it- and make it often.

So here's the recipe:

Chocolate mugcake for lazy people who want good cake right the &%$# now:

4 tablespoons flour
4 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons cocoa

1 egg

3 tablespoons milk

3 tablespoons oil

3 tablespoons chocolate chips

a small splash of vanilla extract

1 large coffee mug

Add dry ingredients to a big microwave safe (that's advice for you extra idiotic idiots) mug. Mix the crap out of them with a fork. Pour in the rest of the stuff and mix mix mix, making sure you get all the dry ingredients mixed out of the bottom. Add vanilla and mix some more.

Stick it in the microwave and cook it on high for 3 minutes. Watch it with glee as the cake rises over the top of the cup. Worry and fret that it's going to boil all over, then squeal with delight when it doesn't, it just poufs all up like a soufflé. Feel disappointed when the steam escapes at the end of cooking time and the cake deflates a little. Dump it on a plate if you're feeling fancy. Observe that many of the chocolate chips migrated toward the bottom and take note so that if you ever have to share it in the future, you can ensure that you get the bottom part. Put ice cream on it. Eat it. Repeat it.

Oh Glorious Earth. (Plants are not sexual objects for people.)

Lookie look what is going on in my killing field flower bed. You might be asking yourself at this moment, "Does that shrubbery have a cauliflower-esque sexually transmitted rash like the ones we had to look at in high school health class when they showed us the Captain Condom VenErIaL DiSeASe educational cartoons?" I hope not. I mean no. It's LEEEEeEEEAVES!!

It happened so fast, too! I haven't even had to time to kill them with well intended plant love yet (I said it's NOT an STD, move on). I'm just trying to tell you how much I kill plants. Even the spicy little rosemary plant that I had for my window sill hung itself in my closet last week.

K. I'm off to do something about Christopher Lloyd sneaking into my bedroom and doing my hair juuust like his in the dead of night. That bastard. Wait a minute... Maybe he did something sinister to my shrubberies, too. Maybe it's not leaves. Christopher Lloyd will you just leave us alone???!!?

I think everyone here pretty much gets the point, which is to use protection when you're in a foreign shrubbery. Also- Hurray, winter is over. As you can see, the two issues are closely related. (Also, Christopher Lloyd, if you're reading this... I know what you did.)

*Snicker- I totally stole the Captain Condom header from their website. Just spreading the good news.

I covet Dale's ricotta, okay?

I was going to take my camera to boot camp today, but at 5:30 am, I am satisfied that I even remembered to wear pants (this time). Not that anyone else there would notice. Most people arrive blinking with their hair still mashed to one side of their heads and really, the only thing anyone can focus on is Instructor Dale's breakfast smoothie. "What's in the smoothie, Dale?" 8 or 11 women ask, eyeballing it the way a bunch of out of shape Eves in the Garden of Eden would eyeball the forbidden fruit of knowledge- and Dale is the snake/devil tempting everyone. "Field berries and ricotta." Says Dale/Satan. "Ricotta, huh?" The women ask. "Yeah *smirk*. It's a long story."

I'll bet it is. I bet it's a very long, intriguing story about berries & lasagna cheese all blended together that we would all laugh heartily at and feel enlightened about thereafter. "Ohhhh..... I seeeee." We'd all say while nodding thoughtfully after Dale related the long, complicated story to us. Then we'd make mental notes to purchase ricotta and field berries (I also think that a couple/few ounces of Jamaican rum would be nice in it) for the next boot camp class.

The point is that I don't really care WHY there is ricotta in it (even though it's the cheese intended for lasagna). I would personally like to just steal Dale/The Devil's smoothie, sneak out to the hall and give it a try, but I just know there are stool-pigeons in that class. (They're the perky ones who already know why someone would put ricotta in their smoothie and also feel smug about this knowledge) I'd get busted and then what? Everyone would be watching me like vultures and I'd be looking behind my back for the rest of the boot camp sessions- possibly forever. They might even give me a nickname like- 'The Bootcamp Breakfast Bandito' or 'That crazy freak at bootcamp' or 'Shirley' (because why not?). Well I don't want to get caught up in that kind of criminal lifestyle anyway. My family is just too important to me.

All I know is that it sits on the counter and everyone's head does a wide eyed, owl-esque 180 as they run past it. Who's gonna be the first to steal the forbidden fruit? Huh? WHO?

Who? Who? WHO?

The Hills have I.

Today I ran up a big fat, steep grassy hill. I haven't done that since I was a kid. I was pretty exhilarated that I was so nimble vaguely capable. So once at the top, I enjoyed the view of Moonie's Bay while trying to will away my butt cramp and decided to run back down juuuust like my kids. Bad idea, Self. I forgot about that suspended moment in time that occurs when running down a steep hill. It's that mental purgatory made up of sheer panic when you realize that your legs are running faster under your body than time allows and they begin to take on a mind of their own, picking up speed faster and faster until you are a teeth chattering, jiggling, wailing mass just praying for God to make your feet heavier and screaming at small children to hit the deck because Heaven knows- there is NOTHING you can do about it.

"Wowee Mom. You can run REALLY fast! Was what you said a swear??"

"No, I said 'Rolling Ducks', didn't you see them? They were all kinds of tricky. Geez. You should pay more attention to nature, ungrateful kids." (there is a lesson in everything)

Well I was afraid that if I actually tried to stop, I might have launched myself into the picnic of the large, non-english speaking family who were happily chattering away over lunch at the bottom of the hill, or into an unsuspecting cyclist. Try explaining THAT while attempting to look like you meant it so that you might keep some small semblance of your dignity.

Yeah, who am I kidding? My dignity left the moment I made the critical decision to hurl myself off of a large, public hill.

Glah.

My household is now entering week 2983740934899238742 of the Godless Plague flu. I'll be back soonly. For now, the neo citran-benelyn cocktails will be running my life.

I would blog about something else, but the only place I've been outside of my house are the glorious, replenishing aisles of Shopper's Drug Mart where I slithered along like the flu-slug I've turned into, filling my little easter basket with pills and potions.

I'm only here because my kids are hogging the couch. BooOoooOoooooo.

Neo Citran is good for your thinking.

So I've been neglecting my mega nerd blogging duties this week. I've had company, my parents actually. Company + Parents= Comparentsny or Pomparnents for short. I like the sound of that second one. Pomparnents were here. Sounds pretty impressive like they were celebrities. Now I have the flu so I'm kinda hopped up on Neo Citran hot toddies (breakfast of champions). Hence this stupid post. I quite honestly don't know why you're still reading this. Get a book for God's sake.

Anyhow, It's April Fools day. Thousands of kajillions of bloggers will post some kind of tricky lie about themselves. So. Me too. Here it is: I'm quitting. Hahahah. As if. Had you goin' for a second there, 31 Subscribers. What? That's what everyone posts on April fools? Then all their subscribers beg them to stay? Then a jovial post about "Gee you guys are swell, I'm not really deleting the blog" and then allllll the subscribers give a collective sigh and hearty laugh? Damn. Well, I'm no sheep blogger (sheep +blogger = bleepgor.). So here's a better one: . HAHAHAHA No I don't! Fooled you, Fool! Man I'm hilarious. Oh wait, I forgot to post a second lie. Damn't.

I have my own haircutting tools now. Thought I'd throw that out there.

That is all. I'm off to try and make a disgusting tuna loaf look like cake. OH how my kids will be fooled. Maybe I'll make little tiny fool hats for them to wear, too. We'll all prance around the street like court jesters displaying our tunaloaf that looks like cake. Then I'll tell them they're grounded if they don't comply cheerfully. THAT would be so tricky. It's pretty easy/fun to trick your own kids on April Fool's (or any time you feel like it) since you can tell them they're not getting their allowance if they don't believe you/do what you say.

Here is something to look at while you try to sort that all out in your minds:

A BEaUtIfUL crystal thing.

Wow. Dumbest blog ever. I can't believe I'm about to hit 'publish'.

Please don't unsubscribe... it just kinda came out. I can do better. I promise I can. I can photoshop something.... honest. You have to realize that I have the flu and Neo Citran is like super mind altering cold medicine.... I know you Canadians will understand... STAY? STAY.

Lemons. Gams. Lying to people. Stuff like that.

It's almost time for boot camp again, y'all. I never say y'all. Why did I type that? Oh well. No going back now. So I get to go back to the gym 3 times a week for 6:00am sharp starting on Monday to be brutalized with a pilates ball & kettle bells by Dale. Well his name's Andrew, but I prefer to degrade him by calling him Dale. Think of how tough I am, y'all. Not really, although I do have some power in my gams. You just can't tell unless I'm kicking you in the throat.

So ya. I'm pretty stoked about that.

Anyhow, here is the deal. I didn't start running, okay? Instead, I wrote lots of blogs and learned how to use twitter. I was supposed to really get down to business with becoming a runner last week but I crapped out bigtime. TV was pretty mediocre, so I watched a lot of that. Even though survivor wasn't on... or was it? Who can tell anymore? I spent my month off of boot camp reading running magazines & websites, internet shoe shopping, deciding if I should buy some lululemon pants so that I can at least FOOL everyone into thinking that I've been running. Y'know... throw on some blush and strategically spray water at the back of my shirt & arm pits, then pant and buy vitamin water while pretending not to hear anyone because my ipod is turned up pretty loud. "WHAT? THAT'S AN AWFUL LOT OF MONEY FOR STUPID VITAMIN WATER THAT ISN'T EVEN GOOD FOR YOU ACCORDING TO SEVERAL REPUTABLE STUDIES. SCREW THAT, I'LL QUENCH MYSELF WITH SWEAT BECAUSE I'M PRETTY HARDCORE AS YOU MAY BE ABLE TO SEE.."is what I'd say over my motivational running music, then throw the bottle at Bill who works around the corner at the Quikee Mart. But the joke is on them because I'd only have Neil's ipod headphones and no ipod at ALL. (Because I don't even have an ipod.. poor me, eh?) Then I'd say something like, "Gotta JET" and then bound around the corner to my car and go to Chapters for a pumpkin latte and some cookies. So I didn't get the pants.

The other option is to get some pants at Costco and tell everyone they're lululemon. As if they'd even know. I'm a pretty crafty person.

Did I even tell you guys how I KNOW about lululemon? WELL. I was on this airplane once, and strangers tend to feel like they should drop their entire sordid pasts on me during flights. I have that trustworthy face or something... or I always get stuck with the senile, talkative folks... or it could be all the torturing supplies that I bring with me on flights. Anyhow, I was sitting next to this 80something year old woman who told me her entire life history, including how she took a bus to Tijuana with some of her girlfriends when she was younger. Anyhow, they stayed drunk pretty much the whole time and she ran away with the bus driver who was her best friend's boyfriend. SO I told her how I kinda like Abba and that I was wearing men's underpants. Then she told me that I would LOVE Lululemon and I was all... "Hmmm..... she sounds like she knows what she's talking about". But I never did check it out or go in the store. I just noticed that other people are all about this stuff and kinda feel a little inadequate sometimes for not having any lululemon of my very own. But then my anarchist side kicks in and says, "FIGHT THE POWER" and I wouldn't be seen dead in it.

I'm going to write luluLIME on my Costco pants with a bleach pen now. I'm so punk, man.

Vive le pain!

Lookie look at my little excursion into French Canadian cooking, peeps. Grand-père au sirop. That's 'grandpa in syrup' for you non-franco nerds. MMmMMMMmm..... Old man in sugar.

It's a dumpling basically cooked in brown sugar syrup... I think I'll change mine to 'Grandpa's bubbling cerebral coagulation in syrup'. Good with milk poured on it.

Soon after serving it, it rose out of the bowl and grew and grew, feeding on our terror- then attacked a GIANT hairless muskrat-mountie (Who just broke in out of nowhere. Stop asking questions.), yelling base french insults while it escaped down the street in it's canoe. I'm pretty sure it's headed for Parliament. I'm thinking it wants to lead the coalition.

All I know is that it's absolutely not getting it's voyageur hat back.

Vive la, vive la,
Vive l'amour!
Vive la, vive la,
Vive l'amour!
Vive l'amour, vive l'amour,
Vive la compagnie!

Well. Boot camp ended.

2 weeks ago.

And despite my best intentions and personal motivational skills, I have yet to drag my arse off the couch and continue exercising until the next one starts up.

So I am going to start running. A little bit at a time. Short bursts, that's what I'm thinking. I'll do that thing where I drag myself along, panting while I think nobody is watching, then as soon as a car drives by, I'll leap into action. Maybe even do some fire hydrant hurdles. They will be so impressed as long as they don't look at me in their rear view mirror or heaven forbid, stop their vehicles and get out to admire my grace with their tiny opera binoculars.

Now if the heavens would stop sending down ice pellets. I promise, heavens, it will be funny enough without the ice.

But first, I'm pretty sure that I probably can't live without these:

That's barefoot style running shoes or shoe-gloves for those of you not up to date with your cool running lingo (like I obviously am since I'm in with that crowd). But I think they should be called sneakers because holy smokes, they are some high tech, sneaky looking shoes, Subscribers. I think I could probably walk up the sides of buildings like a tree frog in these. Yep. Those tree frogs, just walking up the sides of buildings all the time. It's getting to be a menace.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, avoiding actually doing the running.

I think I'm sick.

I can tell because this just dribbled out of my sinuses.

Note to Self:

Don't microwave your slippers again.
Love Self.


Dear Self,
You don't have to tell me twice.
From: Self.

Self, What gets the smell of melted rubber out of your microwave? -Self.

Self,
Try microwaving a lemon
Love Self

Self, Have you done that before? -Self.

Self,
No. Dummy.
Love Self.

Dear Self,
Look. they are supposed to be magic-bag microwavable slippers, OKAY?
Love Self.

Self- Yeah.. watch for those zippers next time. You nuke the INSERTS. Love from: Self.

Self- good tip. Love Self.

I pledge my allegiance to Dale

I just want you all to know that I have not crapped out on boot camp. I am still going. Sure, I'm delirious by the end of the workout, and I seem to be the only one who thinks that I'm intensely funny... but I'm there, dammit. And what do they expect me to say if they're going to play dance-country music at 6 am while asking me to do 'the dirty dog'? Am I not supposed to heckle that?? How can that even be ignored? It's scientifically impossible for me. How can I not spell dyslexic swear words in the air with my weights instead of the alphabet? How?

I dunno, maybe I should stop putting rum in my breakfast smoothies.


I've noticed that the class size has diminished by appx half, too. Wieners.