Planting the Seeds of Motivation

There are a lot of things I don’t like. The list is exhaustive and constantly in flux, so I will spare you the gritty details. Some of the things on my “no-fly list” are there for reasons which any reasonable person would find ridiculous. I am not a reasonable person most of the time. I use that time to be ridiculous.

In the past I’ve told people that their efforts to placate my irrational fears or hatred of things with rational arguments is time wasted on their behalf. You cannot refute an irrational argument with rationality, I say. (I am told this is exactly how you conquer irrationality.)

One of the things I hate the most is motivational “artwork.” You know what I’m talking about: someone takes a picture of a mountain or an eagle soaring over a lush forest landscape and adds an inspirational quote at the bottom in a bold font. Things like “Your Attitude Determines Your Altitude,” or “Success: Some Dream About It; Others Work At It.“

Screw that. I once used the words “ass wipe,” and “communist bloc Russia” in a 20-second conversation with a stranger in a grocery store check-out line, so it’s not a stretch to say these type of inspirational posters have no place in my life. I don’t need a plaque showing a baby turtle crawling to the ocean above the phrase “Determination: It’s What Gets You Where You’re Going.” I need something succinct, something more to-the-point, something me. I need a short, concise phrase that will motivate me to do well under even the most dire and difficult of circumstances. I need my primary motivation captured on paper, preferably in one word.

Thanks to a friend with a good heart and a Cricut machine, I finally have it:

 

You can now find me at MamaPop.com three times weekly – on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. Here’s why I hate “Reasons My Son Is Crying,” why I love Rebel Wilson, and how the return of Whose Line Is It Anyway? will save America.

Sports bras and Insanity. They are related.

It was exercise day today and I’m laying on my bed right now. It’s after 6, and I should be making dinner, but the fact of the matter is that I can’t move any of my legs. (I think I have two. But I’m not sure, because I can’t feel anything below my chest.)

My chest was spared from injury because my 14 year-old daughter helped me tape my boobs together. I believe that if you are going to do something, do it right and enlist help from those legally obligated to love you regardless.

I’ve watched all the stupid Insanity DVDs in this set and no where is there a woman with a chest bigger than the one I had in grade five. I know muscle takes place of some fatty tissue, but what about the “before” part? Million dollar sports bras are an option but my children have grown accustomed to the taste of red meat and I hate to take that away from them just so I can do something called a “Suicide Jump” without giving myself a concussion.

I am a sexy beast, no?

And so day three of Insanity is over, although to be fair it ended sooner than anticipated when my son found me curled up sobbing on the basement floor with my breasts bound with blue duct tape, so you know, any given Monday.

I wrote some other stuff this week, over at The Huffington Post and at MamaPop.com, all of which is substantially more inspiring.*

* It will not inspire you at all.

Maybe you’ll like this picture of my son trapped under an anvil instead:

He knows my pain.

Insanity Workout Update, Day Two: There will be no Insanity Workout Day Two

Someone bought me the Insanity (Beach Body) DVD workout set. I’m not sure why I need a “Beach Body.” I live in Canada and beaches aren’t places I’m likely to stumble over on my way to buy winter tires and kindling. You need to make a concerted effort to get to a beach from where I live, and they’re only warm enough to swim in from 2:30 – 4:00 pm on July 26th of any given year. That’s a lot of bother to spend an hour drinking strangers urine and dodging floating band-aids. A “Sit on the Couch and Watch TV Body Workout” I could get behind, but “Beach Body?” No. If Someone really knew me, Someone would understand I don’t have time for “Elite Nutrition” guides which do not contain brownie recipes.

This particular gift from Someone surprised me because Someone is usually perceptive about general gift-giving rules, which clearly state:

• No creams or lotions which claim to “fade age spots,” “lighten facial hair,” “improve the appearance of wrinkles,” or “lessen the signs of aging.”
• No appliances – small or large – without express written consent from recipient. (Exceptions may be applicable in cases of ice cream makers or deep fryers.)
• No diet or workout propaganda, apparatus, or equipment.

Someone said he was going to participate in the torture contained within Insanity’s slender volume of DVDs, but Someone had to go to the beer store after work and then Someone was too tired to do anything but open said beer. Then Someone thought it would be funny to drop things and watch me try to pick them up as the Insanity Fit Test DVD had left me in a state of near paralysis.

Exactly how safe is it to take a paralyzed individual to a beach?

Someone hasn’t been putting a whole lot of thought into his gifts lately.

I’m a new box in the “demographic” column

It’s tax time which means math time which means headache time, which means grouchy time which means liquor store time which means needs money time which means work time which means income time which means tax time.

It really does all come back to death and taxes.

In “moving ever closer to death news,” I turned 40 on Valentine’s Day. Valentine’s Day is the absolute worst day to have a birthday because people can now forget both days at once which is time-saving and convenient if you’re a positive thinker and reason for a rampage if you’re not. I heard from all the people I cared to, and the ones I didn’t don’t matter. So, so far, 40= apathy.

Being 40 is about as good as I expected it to be which is not-at-all good, although that feeling of “no longer giving a shit”  all you 40 years old+ people told me about is kicking in, and so far it’s very refreshing.

And, well, 40 is not dead (yet) so there’s that.

This is depressing me, and likely you, so go read the funny I wrote at MamaPop.com recently. I’ll be back soon with more of my trademark inspirational jibber-jabber.

CBS Bans Excessive Skin On Grammy Night, Securing Status As “Get Off My Lawn Network”

“America Is A Nation Of Excuses:” Fox News Guest Says Being Fat Negates ALl Adele’s Accomplishments

Search For Best Mom Ever Ends As Sweetest Adopted Baby Announcement Of All Time Surfaces 

 

 

This post contains words but says little and is written primarily out of guilt, much like a birthday card from a distant relative

Happy New Year, everyone. When can we stop saying that? What’s the protocol on seasonal greetings? I’m not much on protocol. Or etiquette, or hygiene.

But I do like tradition. A few days ago it was my most favourite day of the entire Holiday Season. It was the day when I fling my Christmas tree onto the front lawn and yell, “Toodle-loo, MOTHAFUCKA!“

I love Christmas, but no longer wish to impale my feet on pine needles trying to turn on the television, and having my house smell like a cinnamon stick factory next to a pine forest was getting old.

A few days ago, my friend Katja asked me if I was writing a New Year’s post on my blog. At first I was like, “I have a blog? Oh, crap! My blog!” and then I ran here to make sure it was still alive. Really, this thing needs more attention than a naked toddler near a basket of clean laundry. I haven’t posted since before Christmas and the break was lovely. Not that I don’t enjoy writing – I do, almost more than anything else I do.*

*I don’t do much.

So Katja and some other Internet friends (not the kind who size you up for making blazers from your skin..I think) have been busy coming up with their words for the year. They range from serious to funny and everything in between. These are the words they will focus on and remember in their endeavors in the coming 12 months. While I’m not quite sure what word I will use for 2013, I do happen to have a list of words for the departing 2012.

They include:

• Hey, 2012! Go &%$# yourself!
• Excuse me? 2012? Eat $%(* and die.
• (Holds 2012 in a choke hold.)
• Hahaha SPITE

I let you know when I’m ready with my 2013, so I guess for now it’s just “WAIT.”

What’s your word?

And our bacon ain’t half bad, either…

“Hey, Frank? Look, I know we’ve already put our chin-strap frying pan hats on, and we’re ready to battle, but… well, it seems I’ve got my entire hand stuck in this here rifle. Since my other hand was blown off in the “incident” last week, I think I may just forgo this one, okay Frank?

Besides, you seem really, really happy to be firing solo at an invisible enemy with your double pistol line shooters.

So we’re good then?

And maybe after we get my remaining hand outta this rifle we could play some hockey, or smoke some of what is pictured on our flag? So, whadda ya say?

Thanks, Frank. We’re saving the world, ya know.”

Tip Thursday: Effective Internet Communication

The internet is a real paradox. It brings out both the best and worst of people, and while I love that so many of us get passionate online about political ideology, current events, and worthy causes, sometimes internet commenting can get to be just a bit much. (Have you read anything on “YouTube” lately?)

Online discussion can provide a wonderful forum for people who want to get involved in their communities, and sharing opinions and opening dialogue often acts as springboard for debate.

But.

I have a few requests. Today’s Tip Thursday is devoted to ensuring the best in high calibre discussion, so pay close attention. This list is culled after reading hundreds – if not thousands of internet comments, and from that number, I’ve taken notice of the most common problems.

1. Physicality.  In any argument, make sure you make reference to physical traits, sexual preference, age, hair colour, or religious affiliation. We all know that someone is what they look like, so don’t let anyone forget it. For instance, I have a questionable hair cut, so naturally one can conclude that I am an idiot and a bitch. Oh wait; I think I’m a bitch because I don’t wear dresses? I can’t remember. I must be blonde.
2. Language. Please, swear as much as possible. The internet isn’t censored, so why are you not taking advantage? If you can’t think of a synonym for “ignorant,” try “asshole.” Can’t remember how to spell “misogynistic?” Use “dickhead.”  (Bonus points for using curse words as adjectives, nouns, and verbs. Super bonus points if you do all three in one sentence.)
3. Facts. Simply put, who needs ‘em? In their absence, suggest research is “lefty propaganda,” or perhaps voice your opinion with the caveat “but whatever; that’s just me.”  
4. Spelling and grammar. These are the cornerstones of effective written debate, and therefore, have no place in internet discussion.  Got it, shithedd? That was to see if you’re still with me. Add three points if you caught it. (PS. “Points” actually mean nothing here, but studies show people love points.)
5. Punctuation. If youre mad and in a hurry when you type don’t be concerned This will actually serve to also further confuse the reader proving how stupid they are anyways right.
6. Conjecture. Throw in some random conspiracy theories. People who don’t believe in conspiracy theories are probably just breathing in too many jet chemtrails… (See also: reference to pinko commie/lefty propaganda.)
7. Rationality. Should someone try to enter into the conversation using such things as clarity, facts, or intelligence, you must immediately shut that shit down. Gather the troops, link up, and share away. This type of intelligence discourse must be avoided at all costs. Knowledge is power and that’s not good for anyone.

Now, go forth and argue effectively!

If you’re having trouble finding something to get fired up about, I’ve got quite the dossier on Ann Coulter, and  there’s always Fox News.

You’re driving me to drink, Charlie Brown

“And so, Charlie Brown, that’s why life is hopeless and there’s nothing to be happy about, ever. Happy Holidays!”

Get your comfy “line standing shoes” polished up and dust off that one man pup-tent!

Yes; pack a lunch and a soup can to pee in, because “Charlie Brown” the movie is coming to the big screen and there is gonna be a line-up for tickets the likes of which you won’t believe! This thing is gonna put “The Hunger Games” pre-sale to shame and I…I can’t do this.

I discovered this exciting cinematic revelation on Google a few weeks ago. I was feeling pretty good – too good, in fact – and realized I needed to be taken down a peg or two on the happiness ladder. Nothing takes me down faster than the “Charlie Brown Christmas Special,” so I Googled it up and it did not disappoint.  It was just as depressing as I remembered.

My cousins and I watched it every year, locked in my Grandmother’s small front room with a kitchen towel wedged in the door frame. I have no idea what possessed adults to inflict this torture on their offspring, other than maybe payback for horrific labours and stolen youth.

Even as a child I thought that Charlie Brown television specials were probably the most depressing children’s programming that ever there was. To be fair, “Charlie Brown Christmas” first aired in 1965, and while this was long before the concept of self-esteem for children was part of the parenting “toolbox,” I still think someone at the originating network was a kid-hater. Five minutes into my YouTube revival and the Peanuts kids had already called each other “stupid,” “hopeless,” and “dumb.” I’m pretty confident “asshole” and “douche-bag” sit reluctantly on the cutting room floor, due only to FCC interference.

So, hey, MERRY FREAKIN’ CHRISTMAS, ya stupid dipshit blockhead!

I read several of the articles outlining the upcoming movie and it appears  that Charles Schultz’s son and grandson will write the movie screenplay, which sounds like a lot of work when you first think about it. But really, how much work is needed for something consisting mostly of depressing tuba music and a lot of WahWahWAH?

Children’s television programming completely devoid of parental presence freaks me out. It’s best not to give my kids get any ideas. I’ve seen the way my son eyes me up after an episode of “Max and Ruby.” Like Max, my son also has a big sister, and the rooms in our house are an odd jumble of coloured, mismatched wallpapers. This boy could be living “la vida orphan” if given the opportunity. No; best not provide a match for that fire.

There’s no word yet on the upcoming movie’s plot, but I’m hoping it somehow explains why so many children in the Peanuts gang have only four greasy hairs on their head. Was having the hair of a retired plumbing parts salesman from Indiana normal for the children of this era? And I’m no professional, but why isn’t Charlie Brown seeing a self-esteem therapist? And could someone please just lock Lucy in a cold cellar?

Charlie Brown television and movie plots really are just the most depressing media events ever. I can’t wait to see what they come up with for the new original movie.Stay tuned until 2015 for my review on “Save our Playground/Abandoned Nuclear Reactor Plant, Charlie Brown!”

I hope they all get “Hair Club” memberships for Christmas

The day the music died

Full drum set: $300

Professional drum lessons for one month: $125

Special edition AC/DC drum sticks available only at out-of-town location: $15

Ear protection, music stand, binder for sheet music, and drum set stickers for cover: $45

“I’m with the drummer” T-shirt for accompanying child to lessons in effort to appear as “cool mom”: $27

Alcohol required before making visits to neighbours -including ones who won’t make eye contact- warning/preparing them of the oncoming musical assault: $12

Total:  $524

Resisting the urge to leave your own child in a coyote-infested forest at midnight with his pockets stuffed full of prime rib steaks when he says “Well, that was fun, but  think I’ll quit the drums now and please do not be so bold as to expect a valid reason or explanation” after 2 lessons:

PRICELESS.

Just peachy

I can’t relate to people who have problems getting their children to eat fruit or vegetables. My son eats like a 56 year-old European construction worker and enjoys nothing more than a prosciutto and havarti panini followed by fresh sliced tomatoes and a nice Chianti.

But while my kids will eat a large variety of produce, the actual bulk of their appetites is  small. Half a banana here, a bite of an apple there, and they’re full. There’s nothing they won’t at least try. They love peaches, apples, pears; anything that hangs from a tree. They’d eat a monkey if it stayed still long enough and showed promise of a pit inside.

Chris and I were in Niagara recently – the fruit capital of Ontario - and we stopped at a roadside fruit stand. I didn’t get out of the car when he stopped because, well, I was sitting down. Remember sitting? Man, I miss that.

Chris looked at the fruit and came back to the car. He said the peaches looked really good this year – big and firm and smelling like fertility. (Like my breasts when I was 25.)

When I told him my kids love peaches, he said he would get some.

And by “some” he meant several thousand.

I should have noticed when he told me to “pop the trunk” and then felt the car go down several inches.

When we got back to my house I peeked inside the trunk, and asked him what the hell was I supposed to do with two over-flowing bushel baskets of peaches when my kids won’t eat that many in a year.

“Can them,” he said, always quick with a solution he has to take no part in.

“’Can’ them? You mean just throw them in the garbage? That seems wasteful.” (I was considering it.)

“No.” He shook his head. ”CAN them – put them in jars so they keep in the pantry.”

“Put them in jars? Like empty wine bottles? And what’s a “pantry?”

“It’s an area where dried and preserved foods are stored, rotated and replenished on an ongoing basis. Most homes have one.”

I knew not of what he spoke. “Oh. I don’t think I’m ready for that kind of responsibility.”

Then I heard him mumbling something about “it’s good you’re not a Mormom because you’d make the worst catastrophe canner ever” and “how these children have not starved to death Idonotknow...”

These are things I ask myself everyday. And believe me, if it weren’t for the requisite hair style, I could probably get on board with having a sister-wife.