Plague of the social worker

There are a few times that being a social worker is just a pain in the butt.

There is the "Please tell me your life story" sign that I wear on my forehead.  This has encouraged all manners of people to come up and talk to me while I was minding my own business.  I have been approached in Wal-Mart by complete strangers and made to listen to 30 minutes of issues as I nod understandingly and wish I had gone to Costco instead.  I have had more than one delivery people arrive on my doorstep only to stay long over the acceptable time period in order to provide me with detailed descriptions of where their lives went wrong.

Don't get me wrong, I don't begrudge their need to share with someone.  I just wish I could charge for it at the end of the day.

But the worst part about being a social worker -- especially one in child protection -- is being at public events.  Public events -- especially FREE public events -- bring out the worst in people.  The worst in parenting.  Normal people are freaked out by the things they see at public events.  When you are a social worker, it is even worse.

I have a hard time going to things like: Canada Day in the Park, the Exhibition, picnic areas, shopping malls, etc.  I can spot a child protection issue as it happens.  It makes enjoying any event next to impossible.

I spend my entire time scoping the crowd.  I look for lost children, found children, abandoned children, children who are not being supervised, children who are doing something stupid, parents who are intoxicated, parents who are not paying attention, parents who just plain suck.  I see kids that should be apprehended and I see kids that I have apprehended before.

It's exhausting.

This weekend, we went to the park for the Canada Day festivities.  As we walked to the main event, I saw: a woman high as a kite pushing a stroller, a gaggle of children under 10 without any supervision, a baby left in a stroller while his/her parent went to get a beer, over 30 children in the beer gardens with all the drunks, and one little girl get lost from her mother for over 10 minutes.  I'm not sure who was more freaked out about that one -- me or the girl.  I scanned the crowd for her mother as I kept an eye on her.  The Guy thought I had lost something.

I did: my mind.

I try to separate the social worker mindset from my "I'm just a normal person" mindset before I go in public.  I do a good job (or at least I think so) of pretending that I'm not constantly on guard when we're out at events.  But I am always happy to get home and sit down with a book, a drink, and a dog knowing that I can hide from bad parenting for awhile.

You know, until I become one.

I'd like to punch Eve in the face

*Disclaimer: this is a post about girl parts and girl processes.  All men related to me can stop reading.  If you are a man in my life and read this and try to talk to me about it, I'm gonna punch you in the face.  I know that saying this will make my more irritating relatives feel they should discuss it (I'm looking at you Dad) but trust me... DON'T.  My sisters (PRUDES) will likely need a barf bag starting....  NOW!*
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Being a woman can suck it.

Every damn month from the beginning of our preteen years, we women are "blessed" with the physical ability to make babies.  As if being a preteen isn't hard enough: what with the gossip, backstabbing, growth spurts, and bad clothing choices.  Alas, we have to start bleeding to prove our gender.

All guys have to do is fart, punch each other, and hold a binder in front of themselves for a few years.  Babies.

Since the start of my monthly visit, I have had (but have not been limited to): bloating, cramping, pain so bad I had to stay home that day, ZITS, depression, crying jags, being confused about why I am crying, being bitchy, not understanding why you all are being SUCH JERKS, back pain, leg aches, food cravings, food binges, etc.

Let me say, when the doctor suggested birth control in my early 20s, I jumped on that like a chubby girl on a loose potato chip.

It's been a long and lovely 10 years.

I've been able to be (for the most part) a little more emotionally stable, a little more physically stable.  I've been able to skip periods if they should happen to fall on weekends I'm going horseback riding or feel the need to wear white pants.  The acne became more manageable.  The pain less often and never required me to miss a day of something I had planned.

It was glorious.

Until now.  Don't get all excited, but I am no longer on the pill.  This is not "Ooooh they're having a baby" so don't get your panties in a knot.  This is in preparation for "Oooh they're going to have a baby eventually".  My doctor and I discussed going off the pill to see how badly my hormones have been affected in the last 10 years.

They weren't.  They were just in hibernation.  It's like I woke up the day after stopping the pill and my body said WOOOOOOOOOOOOO! We're 15 again.  But without the bendiness or the ability to eat what I want at all times.

It hasn't skipped a beat in reverting back to it's old out of control ways.  I'm bloating, I'm bitchier, I'm depressed, I'm zittier than the zittiest zitter ever to zit, and I have to have regular periods.  DO YOU KNOW HOW FRUSTRATING THAT IS????

I miss the good old days when I wasn't ruled by the hormones of my body.  So, you know... 2nd grade.

And all he did was look up my nose

If you've been around me any length of time, you've heard about my sinuses.  I know, most people have more to talk about than where boogers come from, but I'm not most people.  Four years ago, I started getting sinus infections (and throat infections and tongue infections and chest infections, but I digress) and the fun just hasn't stopped since.

Four years and 22 sinus infections later, I went to the specialist.

I made the appointment after a particularly harrowing sinus infection that had me swallowing pills the size of a quarter and resulted in making me feel worse than when I was sick.  If the side effect of a pill is to have pressure on your chest like a 300 lb man sitting on a can of soup, I say die of whatever illness you have because it is just not worth it.

A few months later, my appointment arrived.  Along with the start of a new infection.  Now that's TIMING!

I made my way to the hospital downtown and parked 6 blocks away when I finally found a spot that wasn't already taken.  It started raining as I made my way to the doors (of course) and I had left my umbrella in the trunk of my Jeep.  What?  You carry your umbrella?  I do not understand the fancy ways of your people.

A good twenty minutes before my scheduled appointment, I wandered into the doctor's office.  To be told I had the wrong one.  With the last name Pillay, how would you think there would be two of them on the same office floor?  Alright then.

Down the hall, I entered the ENT (Ears, Nose, Throat) office and started waiting.  And waiting.  And waiting.  Over an hour and a half went by before I was seen.  The doctor entered.  He was the sweetest thing on Earth and I adored him.  He was patient, had a sense of humour, listened to me, asked questions, seemed interested in the answers, etc.

Then, he took a slim, silver hook, shoved it in my nose and lifted.  He did it again in the other nostril.  Hmmm. I do see some mucus build up.  And then he scheduled a CAT scan.

It took two hours for me to see a doctor, have him look up my nose, and tell me I have boogers.

I love our health system.

Pillow talk

I have a problem with pillows.  It never fails, but I cannot find one that works for me.  I buy one -- it's too thick. The next is too thin.  Goldilocks Theory states the next would be just right, but alas that only works for porridge.

Or small blondes, I'm not sure.

The pillow people say that if you are waking up with stiffness or soreness in your neck, it is likely your pillow that is the problem.  A pillow should be a certain height in order to fill in the space between your shoulder and your head.  So that your head is parallel.

I would be interested to know who goes to the trouble of bringing a level to bed.  Though it may be disturbing to young audiences.

I have tried all the pillows -- the posture correcting pillow, the memory foam, the down feather, the little clumpy bits of Styrofoam, the fake down pillow, the water pillow, the body pillow.  I've used three or two or none or a balled up sweatshirt because I forgot my pillow pillow.

I might as well have slept on a rock.

Wait, I did that once too.

None of them work.  Finally, I bought a pillow that was a little too high.  I squooshed it for a few weeks and finally it was close to right.  BLISS.

For a week.

Now, it's too skinny and I have to tuck my arm under my head, but that causes all sorts of problems because my arms fall asleep really easily and then I panic because I can't feel them.  Once, I got in trouble for trying to wake up my arms by holding them above my head because my parents thought I was just stalling going to sleep, but actually, I thought my arms would fall off because they had no circulation.  My parents direct quote was "You don't need to put your arms in the air unless you're worshiping the Lord.  Go to sleep."

Um, obviously they never listened to the New Kids on The Block Hanging Tough.  I believe they also told us to put our hands in the air and wave them like we just don't care.  So HA!

I got distracted there for a second.

My point was this: Pillows are only the right height for 30 minutes in the course of a 1 year life pan.  And you can bet the farm that those 30 minutes were enjoyed by the dog while I was at work.

Maybe empty

My brain is an endless loop of useless.  It seems to be bogged down with the mundane.  To illustrate that fact, I would like to tell you that the only song going through my head for 3 days is this.

Why, yes, that is Avril Lavigne.  You're welcome.  What?  I shouldn't be the only one suffering.

The last few weeks have been an endless string of me having lots to do but being so overwhelmed by it that I do nothing.  That and one knitting project that is taking FOREVER because I've had to rip out sections of it about 30 times.

Between Avril, avoidance of all things important, and bad repeat knitting, I have little left to spit out.  Also, it is raining again and that pretty much makes me want to give Mother Nature a titty twister.  We had sun for a few days and I was spoiled into thinking things might be cheerier for a few weeks.

Oh, how wrong I was.

My mind is an endless loop of regretting all the things I haven't done yet.  Things I might do, things I should do, things I want to do and things I cannot afford to do.  I want to do everything and nothing at the same time.

I have yet to figure out how but I've almost got that nothing part down pat.

Clean your room! That means...

That is how every cleaning day with my mother started.  We would get a list of the rooms we were responsible for cleaning and then a detailed explanation of what the entailed.  Clean the bathroom.  That means scrub around the toilet, not just in it.  That means sweep and wash the floor, don't just put the mat over top of it.  That means clean the mirror with glass cleaner and a cloth -- not your brother's dirty towel.

All of us got to the point where we dreaded the words "That means..."

It's like she didn't trust us not to hide our dirty laundry under our bed.

Saturday was cleaning day in our house.  From the time we were old enough to help make our own beds, we had Saturday morning chores.  When we were little, we could get a few hours of cartoons in before we had to stop everything and start our 2 hour regiment of dusting, washing, vacuuming, etc.

When we were older, it meant being dragged out of bed before 10 am and forced to move our limbs even though they were still asleep.  Mom's rationale was: if we didn't want to be so tired when we were cleaning, we should have gone to sleep before 3 am.  Mom was foolish that way.

It's funny, but looking back in my memory, I don't remember Dad being there for cleaning day.  I have a feeling he did the same as LynnieC when it came time to clear the supper table -- she always magically had to go to the bathroom.

Today, as I set to cleaning the house I made a list.  I started out listing bedroom, living room, bathroom, front entry, basement.  And then, to myself I said,

That means...

Dog vomit 4 o'clock

Don't you hate to wake up to that sound?  The one signalling that vomit is sure to follow?

That's how I woke up at 4:15 this morning.

Monty lay on The Guy's side of the bed and started making the noises.  Those terrible noises that get my stomach turning.  The Guy was already up and getting ready for work, so he wasn't there to deal with it.

I panicked.  I ran around the side of the bed (though, it dawns on me now I could have just leaned over) and stuck my hand under Monty's mouth.

Yeah, that was a bad idea.

The breakfast he had hastily chowed down during his early morning pee break landed squarely in my palm.  The rest hit the comforter and dribbled down his chin hairs.  I started gagging.

Pretending to be nonchalant, I walked to the bathroom with wet, half-chewed dog food dripping between my fingers.  I was going to wash my hand, but realized I couldn't put it in the sink.  I had to use the toilet to get rid of my prize.

I don't know how many of you know this about me, but I am a sympathy puker.  The sound of it, the smell of it, the sounds associated with it.  My father and his wife pour their left over tea and loose leaves into the toilet when they are done with them and that sound makes me throw up.

I lifted the toilet seat with my foot and stuck my hand inside.  I thought if I could keep the lid down low, it would muffle the sound and I would be all right.

Not so much.

I ran back to the sink all the while gagging at the sounds that had filled my ears since I woke up.  I rinsed off and soaped up and scrubbed and scrubbed.  I must have looked a lot like Lady MacBeth, except that my hair this morning was more a cross between Flock of Seagulls and Bride of Frankenstein.  (Note to self: do not wash your hair before bed anymore.  Wow.)

Finally, I made it.  I went back to the side of the bed where Monty sat in disbelief.  He always looks so surprised when these things happen.  I want to be like, "Look, if you would CHEW every once in awhile this would not happen.  Correlated events, doorknob."  However, if you've ever talked to Monty, you would know how futile this is.

I gathered up the comforter and headed for the laundry room.  I put Monty outside to make sure all the stuff in him was out for sure and then let him in when I realized he was just standing there in shock with his head pressed against the window.

Finally, we went back to bed.  When the alarm rang a short, few hours later, it was like nothing had happened.  Monty burst forth from the bed with all the joy a brainless dog can muster and promptly walked into the closed bedroom door.

No harm done then.

.

What was I thinking? The "I'm Old" Edition

After almost 40 hours, my new computer only finished transferring half the files I requested.  I am now transferring them manually via my iPod.  I love pieces of this new computer but am wishing I had decided to buy a friend supper to do all this setup stuff like the dorky little computer guy suggested.

But, if we've learned anything, I'm stubborn.

I'm working on it.  Something I love about this computer -- size, speed, performance, etc.  But the learning curve is kicking my ass.  Trying to figure out how to work the Toshiba special features almost made me throw both computers to the ground and pick up an abacus and rock tablet.

What is making me crazy right now is the dim feature of the screen.  Every few minutes it turns OFF! and then ON! and then OFF!  I feel like I'm at my own private rave.  With music by John Mayer.  Wow... worst rave ever.

Something else I'm getting used to is the mouse.  It seems to randomly change the zoom of the screen.  One moment I'm typing along normally and then HELLO I BELIEVE YOU HAVE BECOME POOR OF SIGHT and I'm zoomed to 168%.

It's going to take awhile before I'm good at Bejeweled again.

The dog is now pouting because instead of ignoring him for one computer, I'm balancing two on the edge of the coffee table and pushing him out of the way as I curse at alternate screens.  I'm sure I will come home someday and bits and bytes (see what I did there?) will be scattered all over the floor in a burst of dog rage.

I wonder if maybe the fact that I'm days from being 35 is causing me such problems.  I'm normally not the one in the family to throw a fit because an icon is in a different spot than it was with the last program I used.  Not that I'm naming names, but a couple of my sisters have been known to scream about Windows Vista and the new Word program.

Why, yes, I only have two sisters.

Okay, now I almost turned the power button off because it's in the same place as my "END" button on my last computer.  I swear this is going to make me lose my mind.  It's possible I will never get it back.

I'm pretty sure it's stored on my other computer.
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Maybe random: definitely irritating, choosing, and dog stories

Do you ever just stop and realize how intensely annoying you are?  Sometimes I am minding my own business and BAM my own irritating personality defects punch me in the face.

I start all conversations with "So, ..."  It is like I cannot just start a conversation.  I cannot just give you a piece of information, I have to prefice it with something like we were already talking about it or like it's a bit of bad news I really didn't want to have to tell you.

So, I think you're a knob. 

So, I heard the other day that you smell terrible.

So, there was this time I pretended to be listening, but was totally trying to remember all 50 states.

Seriously, HOW ANNOYING AM I????

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I couldn't fall asleep last night because I was trying to remember all 50 states.  Alphabetically.  But then, I lost count so didn't know if I got them all and had to start over. 

It was exhausting.
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Today, I couldn't decide if I wanted ice cream for a snack or chips. 

 I had both, but in small bowls so I wouldn't feel bad about myself.

They were both good, so I don't even know who should have won.
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The dog and I play a lot of fetch in the house.  I'm a terrible thrower so this causes no end of stress for The Guy because I will often send the ball veering off in some odd direction as hard as I can throw.  Most of the times it is at the wall just left of the doorway.

Tonight, I threw the ball into the spare room.  Monty chased after it and didn't come back.  I went into the spare room to find him staring at the ball which had rolled behind the rocking chair.  With another ball that had been there earlier.

I moved the chair and let him go in after the balls.  He picked up one, dropped it, and moved to pick up the other.  Then he stopped, looked at me in confusion and left the room.

It was like Sophie's Choice, but he played it smart.
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The stupid computers still have 17 hours and 15 minutes left in their syncing.

The Guy told me this is because I am doing the transfer wirelessly.

That is also why neither of our Blackberry's can pick up the WiFi either.  He blames me for this, but really if I shouldn't have done it why did they give me the option?

I'm going to punch elderly Bill Gates twice for that.



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Remember that to the right of this post is the subscription options.  To the underneath of this post (yes, that's a term.... shut up, you're stupid) is some like buttons and some tweet buttons and a share button.  USE THEM. 

I mean, if you want to.  It would be okay with me.

Maybe this was a bad idea

I bought a new computer this weekend.  IT's been over four years since I got my last one and a new hard drive and power cord later, it's seen better days.  It also doesn't help that I drop it on the floor at least once a week.  Don't worry though, it's usually on the carpet.

So, after some basic research and some scoping the net for suggestions, I finally settled on a type of computer I wanted.  Then, I went to the store and found a completely different one I ended up buying.

At least I bought it for the right reasons and not because it was pretty.  That was an option.  They come in colours now!  Shiny!

As I was getting things together to make my purchase, the cumputer geek at the store suggested I use their team to transfer my files from my old computer to my new one.  I scoffed at the thought.  I have numerous friends who are computer freaks so I didn't need to pay $100 for someone else to do it.  I figured a cheap supper or something and I would rolling.

Then I opened it up.  It's so pretty!!  And new!!!  It still has that new computer smell -- meaning that I haven't eaten anything near it yet and it doesn't smell like fermented cheese. 

What? I get hungry when I'm working. 

Okay, when I'm playing Tetris on Facebook.  Shut up.

But what I realized when I opened it up was that I did not intend to let it out of my sight.  Not even for the evening it would take for it to be set up.  I could do it myself.  I know I can!  At my office, I'm a computer genius!

The fact that most people in my office were in their late 30s when computers became mainstream is not lost on me.  Big fish in a little pond. 

I got through the initial set up alright.  I followed the directions and went to town.  Finally, I got to the last stage of the process -- transfering files.  With Window EASY Transfer.

Easy, my butt.

Setting it up was easy enough.  I picked all the things I wanted on my new computer.  Things I couldn't live without.  And I started the transfer.  I knew that with the vast amount of things on my computer (ie: every picture ever taken of my family since the begining of time) the transfer would take awhile.  It told me 4 hours. 

Okay, I can handle that.

However, as each moment goes by, the stupid program tacks on another hour.  I'm now at 1 day and 18 hours. 

I want to punch Bill Gates in the throat.  Mind you, I will need to wait until I can access my computer so I can google where he lives.

He's going to be a really surprised 80 year old.

Royal Wedding. Royal Pain?

The Royal Wedding is coming up soon and I have mixed feelings.  (Did you notice it always has to be capitalized?  The Royal Wedding.  Not the royal wedding. Huh.)  

I am torn.  On one hand, I want to be a Royal junkie, get up for high tea at 3am, and watch the ceremony in my best hat.  On the other, OMG SHUT UP ALREADY ABOUT IT.  Also, I really like sleeping.

I wasn't really all that interested (or even informed) about Wills and Kate before.  It is odd.  We Canadians are intrinsically connected to the Brits, so you would think we'd hear more about their tabloids.  But, really, apart from a few tidbits here and there, I was completely in the dark.

Then I watched the made for TV movie William and Kate.  I fell in love!  Kate's sense of sarcasm, and humour, and style made me want to be her best friend.  Also, William was much hotter in the movie than he is in real life, so that didn't hurt either.  Now I want to see the wedding to see how it all turned out!

My mom was an avid Royal watcher.  She loved everything about them and made sure we knew all about them too.  Her books about the Royals went to my sister and somewhere in our piles of childhood things is a paper-doll set of Diana and Charles.  I have an old photo from when my mom was within 10 feet of Princess Di on a trip to Canada.  Mom never did get to meet her, but that picture meant a lot to her.

I remember watching Royal Weddings with my mom.  We got up in the middle of the night when Princess Di and Prince Charles were married.  We stayed up when Andrew and Fergie (no, not of the Black Eyed Peas) got married.  We watched Diana's funeral and sobbed into tissues together too.

Mom would have loved Kate.  She would have been so proud of how "the boys" turned out.  If Mom was still here, we would be up at 3am, having high tea in our fanciest hats, tearing up at the sight of the carriage.

Right now, my sister, LynnieC, is currently in England.  She and her friends are lining up on the streets to get a view of the spectacle.  I can't help but think that our Mom would have loved that one of her kids gets to be there.

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PS, I always wanted to be a princess.  Well, okay, no I didn't, I always wanted to be a sniper in the army.  But that is neither here nor there.  I want to be a princess now, so (thanks to Janny for the link!) I am.

Babies, babies, babies: the baby boom of my generation

Everyone and their dogs are having babies right now.  I'm sure it's just the age that I'm at, (gruesomely close to 35) but it seems like everyone I know and love are spitting out mini replicas of their combined DNA.  In a 2 year span, we counted about 15 babies and there are more to come.

Then there the chosen handful of those of us not spurting forth from our wombs.  The BARREN.

Okay, okay.  We're not barren.  Necessarily.  I mean, nothing's confirmed.  But the possibilities are endless.

When you're watching all your peers with their precious little bundles of drool and boogers or you're seeing your friends about ready to burst, it's a little disconcerting knowing it's not you.

I am thrilled to spend time with my friends and their babies.  I love to steal the little imps from the warmth of their parent's arms so I can kiss and snuggle and zerburt their cheeks.  I love to talk about babies, plan about babies, hear stories about babies.  However, it all just makes one thing abundantly clear:

I NEED A BABY.

Now, the world will not end if I don't have one.  I will still have the love of The Guy and the dog.  That's pretty cool.  Also, I'm pretty sure if I don't get babies, I will get more dogs!  How can this be a bad thing?

Our chances of procreation are along the lines of the "It's Complicated" option on  Facebook.  It will be an interesting and bizarre journey (a word I hate unless it's talking about the awesome 80s band, but I am lacking for an alternative) which may or may not end up with a rug rat or two.

In the meantime, I will play with other people's babies and secretly judge their parenting skills.

Okay, maybe not so secretly.

Faults, I have a few

I blame most of my bad traits on my father.  This may or may not be true, but I feel someone should be to blame for things like: adoring bad puns, farting like a machine gun, and making anything sound like the truth if you lie convincingly enough.

I figure someone should be held responsible.  I know I'm not to blame, so it must be genetically inclined.

I chew my nails.  I know I got this from my father as I can count the number of times I have seen him with fingernails on my terribly chewed fingernails.

My mother had gorgeous nails without even trying.  My sisters have gorgeous nails.  My brother... well, he has my father's hands but with slightly less ravaged nails.  And then there is me and my dad.

This is not the bonding I wanted.

I have chewed my nails from the time I figured out I could put them in my mouth.  I would get in trouble from people for doing it, but then I would try and hide it behind a blanket, a book, etc.  This also goes for picking my nose, but I don't want to talk about that.

I chew on my nails out of being bored, being lonely, being nervous, being hungry, not being hungry, not being bored, being happy, being awake.  Heck, I chew them in my sleep.

It starts out with good intentions.  I plan to stop chewing my nails.  I get a manicure and put on polish.  I keep them meticulously filed.

Then I tear one on the top or the corner.  It goes downhill from there.

The worst is when I am watching movies in the dark theatre.  Or, when I'm reading a particularly intense book.  Or, when I'm driving.

You get the picture.

I'm not sure what happened this week.  I'd been quite good -- longish nails that were starting to drive me crazy being too long.  Nails are frustrating when you don't usually have them.  They get things under them.  They get in the way of typing.  They stab your finger as you write with a pen.  Suddenly, I have no nails, they are bleeding and it hurts to touch anything.

It's a vicious cycle.

Last night, I painted my nails and most of my fingertips in nail polish.  I'm back on the wagon to being able to peel a sticker off a book.  I have high hopes for these nails.  I'm sure they will be lovely.

Thank God I cannot put my toes in my mouth.

In a word: Decompress #CleverRefresh

Thanks to Crystal Light for sponsoring this post. To learn more about how Crystal Light can flavor your day with 30 refreshing flavors, visit http://www.facebook.com/crystallight.


There is so much going on in the world that can overwhelm us.  I am bombarded by noise and pictures and screen images all day.  At night, it is all I can do to fall asleep as the day's noise goes through my mind like a bad "flash before my eyes" moment.

I swear, before I die, all I will see is LOL Catz and Tetris.

It's increasingly hard to decompress from a day like that.

I have a system I use some nights when I am desperate to de-stress and just need to be alone.  In a house with the dog who insists on being beside me at all times, this is not easy.

The Guy goes to bed early as he works early in the mornings.  He also goes to be early because he is old.  (Hi Honey!)  He tries to convince the dog to go with him, but if I'm not going too, Monty is not falling for that.  Monty is always torn between his love of sleeping and his love of me.

When I'm feeling particularly devious, I pretend I'm going to bed too.  I go into the room, wait for Monty to climb on the bed and then I shut the door.  I do this to him when I leave to work nights, so he can't tell the difference.  (Or, that is what I tell myself.)  Then, I sneak downstairs, keep all the lights turned out but one and I sit.

I don't turn the TV on.  I don't open my computer.  I just sit.  I sit and breathe deeply and be.

When my shoulders finally sink back down and my neck loosens, I know I'm okay for another day.


Remember, visit http://www.facebook.com/crystallight to learn more about how Crystal Light can flavor your day with 30 refreshing flavours. I was selected and paid for this sponsorship by the Clever Girls Collective, which endorses Blog With Integrity, as I do.

Paucity - a small rant on a small word

Provided by my pal Shelley who loves this word. Sorry, dude.

There are words that people often acknowledge as being creepy.  Slacks.  Panties.  Moist.  Especially when combined to be "slack moist panties."  I have one friend who refuses to call hot dogs "wieners" as the sound of that word makes him cringe.  Of course, we all happily refer to them as such and repeat it over and over until his head explodes.

I have a few personal made-up words that make me lose my mind.  Of course, my husband, my brother, my brother's wife, and everyone I've ever met uses them constantly.  Will I tell you what the most hated word is?  No.  I'm not stupid.  You would all email me daily using it over and over and I would be forced to kill you all.

Since I like having people to read my musings, I will keep this word in the dark.

Until I posted the request for words to use as post inspirations, I was in the dark about paucity.  I immediately had to look it up in the dictionary.  For a girl who reads as much as I do, it is embarrassing how often I have no ability to tell you what a word means.  Although, I know it when I see it.

Paucity is: a small amount.  It's a rather innocuous word, really.

And yet, I hate it.

I hate everything about this word.  I hate the way it sounds rolling out of my mouth.  Paw-city.  Paaaaaw-sit-eeeeee.  I hate it.  It makes bile rise in my mouth.  The texture of this word is so revolting that just repeating it in my mind for this post is making my stomach turn.

Second, I hate the meaning.  It's this uppity kind of word that means little.  Literally.

JUST SAY "LITTLE".

Ubiquitous -- Everything to everyone

This word was suggested to me by my father, Blog Fodder.

I was going through the words you all suggested for me and looking for something that struck my fancy.  Of course, for most of them, I had to look the word up in the dictionary just to be sure I didn't write an entire post showing you how I use words when I have no actually idea what they mean.  I assume you will figure that out eventually anyway, but no point leading you there more quickly than necessary.

Now, ubiquitous means to be everywhere seemingly all at the same time.  And that is exactly how I've been feeling.  Not that I've been able to be ubiquitous, but rather that I feel I should be.

The last month has been exhausting and overwhelming.  I knew coming home from Cuba that I had painted myself into a corner with plans for every day off from now until the end of April.  I knew it would be busy and that I would be stretched thin.  Of course, fate would have an additional crisis land square in the middle of that time.  I needed to be more places than I could be at one time.

I wasn't sleeping.  I wasn't really even eating.  I tried to multi-task, but ended up exhausted and getting little done.  Instead of being good at everything, I was sucking at it all.

I started having moments of being unable to breathe.  It was as though a vice had been put around my ribs making it impossible to draw a full breath.  I thought it was due to an anti-biotic I was taking, but when the drug was done, and the symptom continued, I explained the symptoms to co-workers -- they were pretty sure it was a panic attack.

I did my best to focus my energy and exercise.  I took baths and walks and tried to work through the stress.

It didn't work.  The pain in my chest and the lack of breathing was still there.

Imagine my surprise when I went to the massage therapist and chiropractor today.  The RMT took one feel around my back and told me all my ribs on the right side were out of place.  A few pushes in the right direction later and -- while not all are back in place -- I can breathe again.

Good to know I'm just regularly stressed and not medically uber stressed.

If I could only work on being everywhere at once, it would all be good.

Callipygian or I like big butts

Word provided by a friend who doesn't want to admit she knows this word because it will ruin her reputation as a scholar.

I have a bum.  It's called the Ross Rump.  It's genetic.

My bum isn't wide, but it sticks out from my body like a projectile.  It's less pronounced now than it was when I was younger, but it's still there.  I used to joke I could set a cup of coffee on it and walk around.

Now I can only do that with my boobs.

Last spring, I got a pair of those Sketcher Shapers shoes.  They promised to tone my butt and thighs, so I coughed up the money and wore them every where.

They worked.  My butt is now hard as a rock.  I could crack walnuts between my cheeks and will often offer to let people poke my butt muscles to see for themselves.  This does not go over well if they don't know me.

As I approach the middle of my 30s, I recognize this is as good as it gets.  And even though it's not as perky or smooth as I would like, I'm pretty okay with it.

You would be too!  Wanna touch it?

TMI

Pin-el-ow Park?

Pine-low Park.

Where is that?

Oregon.

Why would you wear a T-shirt with that on it?

I went to church camp there.  If I'm feeling nostalgic or I haven't shaved my armpits, I wear it.

...

I likely shouldn't have said that.

In a word: Noses

Word suggested by my cousin Jen

Monty's nose -- it's cute

I've never been a fan of my nose.  It's big and wide and has a rounded tip.  Combine that with early onset of cystic acne that lasted well into my late 20s, my nose has always been my most hated feature.

When you hate your nose as much as I did, it creates a problem for your self-esteem.  In high school, I wore my hair very long and mostly covering my face.  This did two things: hide my acne and hide my nose.  It also made it increasingly difficult to see as I only left one eye showing and this made it increasingly often that I walked into things.  But at least I hid my horrific nose!!

In my Grade 10 art class, we needed to do a self-portrait.  I put it off for days and days, but finally had to do it.  I sat in front of my mirror and drew.  Curly triangle hair, half-up half-down poofy bangs, dark eye makeup and A HUGE NOSE.  I handed it in to be marked and it came back a few weeks later with this comment, "8.5/10 Why is your nose so big?"

Question of my life, teacher whose name I do not remember.  Question of my life.

When my acne cleared up (after a year long medication ritual that sucked very much) I realized that my nose was just part of my face.  It wasn't ginormous, it wasn't horrible, it wasn't gross.  It was just me.  My nose was bigger than some people's and smaller than others.  It was just mine.

Since then, I try not to think about it much and (expect for the times I view it in the dreaded 10x mirror) I've come to terms with it.  I didn't pick it (well, I do now) but it's mine for the long haul.

And it's only going to get bigger.

In a word: Suckage

Wow.  You people are mean and cruel and your momma looks fat in those pants.  Seriously.

The other day I asked for words that I could create posts out of every day for the next month.  For you.  I did it for you!!!!  So you would have something nice to read each and every day.

Some people were kind and lovely and gave me nice ideas.  And then... you people started messing with me.

Here is a list of words that cause me to rethink who my friends, family and followers are:

asinine
paucity (I had to look this one up!)
uxorious (Thanks Dad)
ubiquitous
collywobbles (coward wouldn't even admit who you were)
callipygian (you guys are going to love this one)
andgobbledygook

I guess, knowing the kind of people who I do, I should not be surprised.

We're in for a pile of crap treat this month!  Get ready!