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.

Couch Potato

Several things about my week:

1. Over 90% of my meals have been handed to me through a window.
2. I left my house for a potato or some version thereof at least three times. Not sure if its winter hanging around or what, but I have had some serious hankerings for potatoes lately.

That’s about it. I’m a real party, folks.

I also decided I hate cleaning my house and I’ve pretty much made my peace with it, which would be very freeing except that I can only function properly when my house is hospital corners NO WIRE HANGERS clean.

So to make things as easy as possible, I bought some disposable dusting cloths and now dust when there’s either a crack in my apathy or a really bad commercial comes on the television.

I even broke down and paid for paper towels which I never do. But I am 40 years old and I deserve paper towels, goddammit. I hid them somewhere so my kids don’t abuse the privilege, and I also don’t want them becoming accustomed to the trappings of a fancy lifestyle and suddenly thinking they’re above their station. It’s protectionary, really. I should be commended.

(WordPress and iPhone spellcheck are telling me that “protectionary” is not a word, but screw that. It sounds good, and I’m using it. In fact, it’s now this: Protectionary™.)

I’m not sure if I posted about this before, but at Christmas time my son won a trophy in a Jiu Jitsu grappling contest. I was proud, but not surprised because my son is an eight year-old 60lb bag of muscle with beautiful brown eyes to trick you into passivity before he kicks you in the nuts.

He was so happy with his win and wouldn’t put the trophy down. My daughter has many trophies that she won in soccer, and she keeps them all on a shelf, where they are cared for meticulously. I dusted them today, in fact, when a commercial for Cholesterol medication was on and I didn’t need the reminder that the window clerk at Wendy’s and I are on first name basis.

Then I went in to my son’s room to clean his “treasures.”

It seems the bloom is off the rose.

You can find me at MamaPop.com on Wednesdays and Fridays, as well. Here’s some words I arranged there last week:

Michelle Obama Criticized For Her “Dance Across Your Television” Tour

Why You Gotta Be So Mean: Can We Please Stop Slut-Shaming Taylor Swift?

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 

 

 

Choking on her dust

My daughter starts high school next September. Her grade eight teacher tells me she should be placed in the Advanced Program at high school – that my daughter is a hard worker, a fast learner, and that she retains information.

I hope they offer “Emptying the Dishwasher 101,” and “General Laundry Folding Techniques” next semester.

She does indeed have excellent study habits, and refuses to miss school  for almost any reason. I say this not to brag, but in the same way that I would tell you my son once buried our compost bin in 3 feet of mud and that I am 39 years old and need compression stockings and blood pressure medication– because it’s true.

Last night her future high school hosted an orientation for grade eight students and their parents. Bubbly high school seniors in black polo shirts with popped collars gave the kids warm cookies and a tour of the school while telling them what to expect in terms of uniforms, dances and clubs, and delicious hot cafeteria lunches. They told them all about study abroad possibilities and travel opportunities and how they could earn credits by building schools in the Dominion Republic!

At the same time, parents were corralled into the freezing audigymnateria where school officials in suits and ties told us how much we had to pay for uniforms, how much we had to pay for dances and clubs and lunches, and also how to begin the organ donation process so that we could afford to have our kids build schools in the Dominion Republic.

When the parent presentation was over, the parents of these intelligent, quick-learning studious children in the Advancement Placement program were invited to another room for further discussion.

I was almost late getting there, to that Advanced Placement meeting.

My finger was stuck in my purse zipper.

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?

Tip Thursday: Enjoying a stress-free Christmas

There is so much to get done during the holidays that it’s easy to get overwhelmed. Once you factor in baking, decorating, and wrapping gifts, there’s hardly any time left for sobbing into your eggnog because the only Christmas card you received was from your divorce lawyer.

Just me?

In any event, here are some Christmas tips for today’s Tip Thursday that  I hope help you manage holiday stress a bit better. I’ve used them all to varying degrees of success.

1. Elf on the Shelf – Get rid of it. If you’ve got more than one kid, the truth is you don’t need it. You’ve got a built-in Elf on the Shelf every day of the year. I’ve got two kids, and I’ve even given them both incentives to reporting behaviour. For example, one tattle earns a square of toilet paper. Two tattles? You get a sheet on your bed tonight! Three? That’s big time, helper child, and you’ve just gotten yourself a full glass of milk with dinner. Now nothing happens in this house without me knowing about it, and if something is so well thought out that it involves both children, I don’t want to know about it.

2. Caroling – Just say no. Seriously, does anyone even do this anymore? If you must participate in this tradition, make it easy for yourself: drive around the neighbourhood with your car windows open, cranking Alvin and the Chipmunks Christmas CD.

3. Baking – Today’s home chef can make treats rivalling those found in European bakeries. Thanks to speciality shops and pushy friends selling Pampered Chef products, you too can churn out delectable, gorgeous treats just like those in a bakery. Have I said “bakery’ enough to indicate you should just GO TO A BAKERY? No one will know. Jab a few of the cookies with your finger, and maybe throw a couple into the toaster oven to burn the bottoms if you’re worried about appearing too perfect. I wish I had your problems.

4. Gift wrapping – Fancy papers, ribbons and bows, personalized name tags…Where does the madness end? You’re already getting a present. You expect me to spend 30 minutes carefully wrapping it in foil paper with co-ordinating hand-punched calligraphy name tag? Take a cue from my Ex-husband: wrap everything in the bag it came in and seal it up with whatever roll of tape is in the junk drawer. Some of the nicest things I ever got came in duct taped Wal-Mart bag. (And by nice I mean okay. And by okay I mean not good at all.)

5. Decorating - Right now my lawnmower is sitting out, mid-lawn, right where it ran out of gas in August. I just threw some lights on it and called it a day, so maybe go elsewhere for decorating tips.

6. Meals  - Planning nutritious meals for your family while you’re busy with things like shopping and crying, or wrapping and crying, or trimming the tree and crying can be hard. Well, wipe those tears away, friends! For I bring to you one of the greatest gifts God bestowed on the Universe: the grocery store rotisserie chicken.  This golden BBQ bird has saved my hide (and potential calls to Children’s Services for suspected neglect) many, many times. In fact, in the song “The Twelve Days of Christmas” the verse “partridge in a pear tree” was originally “A chicken in my buggy.”

7. Parties - Make them “BYOBAFAYNLUEICU” : Bring Your Own Booze and Food and You’re Not Leaving Until Everything is Cleaned Up. Enforce this. Hide people’s coats, their keys, whatever you have to under piles of crusty dishes and empty wine bottles. They clean the mess, they find their stuff! This is also a great way to keep guests entertained. You’ll secure a reputation for being the “hostess with the mostest” employing this technique.

I’ll check back after the holidays to see how it all worked out for you. Please, add your tips in the comments if you’ve got some to share.

Merry Christmas!

Slow Sunday

Things are the same here as always for Sunday morning. It’s raining outside, and I can hear the washing machine running. The dual sound of water is comforting and familiar. There is a pork loin marinating in the fridge upstairs for me to ruin later, my daughter is still sleeping and I am letting her, and my son is on the couch watching commercials which will no doubt rot portions of his tender, still developing brain.  

I have a list of things to accomplish today and can tell you right now that many of them will go undone. I have articles to write – deadlines loom and I’ve made commitments, so I will work a bit today. But otherwise I am going forward with no expectations. I think we all need a bit of a break this weekend. Whether you find that peace by spending the day window shopping, or wrapping gifts and watching movies, or sobbing silently while a stranger licks caramel sauce off your toes, whatever; I don’t judge.

For instance, later on I will eat an entire box of Toffifee while I make my kids perform a shadow puppet version of Led Zeppelin’s “The Song Remains the Same,” DVD solely for my amusement.

Just do something that makes you feel good, okay? If you can make someone else feel good while you’re at it, even better. Gold stars for you.

Because YES, the world sometimes is a shit-filled, painful asscrack suckhole of a place.

But sometimes it’s not. And as long as the “not’s” outweigh the “is’s,” we’ll be okay.

Here is something I hope will ease you into a kinder, gentler week. One of my favourite ladies –  Smacksy – shared it, and I want to share it as well. Please visit her, as she has lots of gentle posted this week (and always.)

26 Moments That Restored Our Faith In Humanity This Year

Four thousand seven hundred and seventy nine days

My daughter is talking about her grade eight graduation dress and shoes and how she “needs” an iPhone. She also needs more hair conditioner, and a new deodorant stick, and her moisturizer tube is empty. Her shoes feel tight and her gym clothes need washed and do we have any razors? Also, where’s the iTunes card she got for her birthday in 2010 and have I seen her “One Direction” CD cover and can I puh-leeze buy the good almond milk next time? Because this one tastes like someone already drank it.

The suffering she endures here is incalculable.

She thinks 5 to 10 fruit and vegetable servings per day is “complete bullshit” and will comply only if I send the proper apples with her lunch – you know, “the pink and yellow ones that look scratchy and taste sweeter than those other ones and I think they have little speckles on them?“

She is funny. This child says things that make me laugh like no one else. In part because she is so very, very smart, and also because sometimes she is so very… not. She is naive, but probably not as much as I think. She is sarcastic and she is impatient and she is a good singer. She taught herself to play piano because she was bored for an hour and can now play by ear. This girl can straighten hair like nobody’s business. She doesn’t trust you until you prove yourself, and then she doesn’t trust you again until you prove yourself again and then she doesn’t trust you until…

The suffering she causes is incalculable.

She loves to draw and she is sometimes even nice to her brother when she thinks I am not looking. She will divide her Halloween candy in half to give to a friend who had the flu and couldn’t go out, because that is fair, and the flu is “complete bullshit.” She is stubborn, and she can write a better speech than most Canadian politicians have paid someone to.

She hates hypocrisy and sexism and the colour yellow.  

She reads Jodi Picoult.  I love her anyway.