Category Archives: humour

Frustrating Friday



Today was a legendary day in the world of retail.

L E G E N D A R Y.

Every single terrible customer in the history of the universe decided to come shopping at my store.

Here are the top three offenders…

1. Irate granny who didn’t get her senior’s discount. When I refunded her the difference, she complained that it took me too long and put everyone in a bad mood. When I told her I was in great spirits she rolled her eyes at me.

2. Strange french speaking woman who went on and on about how she bought the same product that we sell for $3.49 for $0.99 in the United States. This baffled her to no end. Her mind was totally blown. She might never be the same.

3. Creepy twins with even creepier parents who are regulars at our store and stay there for HOURS. Today they spent a good two hours in the morning and probably a solid hour after lunch. Creepy twin dad even asked us for a chair to sit on and if we could fill up his water bottle. We said no to both because I work at a toy store and not a spa. At one point, creepy dad even asked me to watch his twins while he went to another store. They are five. FIVE. Obviously he thinks we are both a spa and a daycare. 

Now that I am sitting in my cozy house, double fisting beer, I can laugh at the irksome behaviors that I had to endure. 

Deep down in my cold black heart, I feel sorry for these people. Their lives must be so miserable. The only way they can feel better about themselves is to be complete ass-hats.

This terrible day was not a total wash. I came home to a delicious bbq dinner, my son scored a goal at soccer AND there are cookies in my cupboard. 


I wonder what all the ass-hats are doing right now???

Actually, I don’t want to know. I just want to sit here in the beautiful silence of my home and forget that they even exist.


*Serious italic time…I feel bad for writing such a bitchy and unkind post. These people might be swell individuals. Who am I to judge them? I’m just some mom who works in a toy store. I really should try to be a nicer person…I really should. But it’s so easy to hate people who treat you like used toilet paper. I’m sure there’s some good inside of them…deep, deep, deep down. Like maybe they are good at recycling or baking or origami or underwater basket weaving or shoveling snow or breathing.



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It’s almost ten o’clock at night, which is like three a.m. in mom time.


I’m on my second beer, which is like six beers in mom drinking.


I just watched an entire kids movie and did not fall asleep, which is legendary in mom endurance.


I have two school fun fairs to attend tomorrow, which are like the freak’n Oscars of mom outings.


I’m about to scarf down some cookies and watch the Food Network, which is like eating a chocolate souffle while having an hour long massage in mom indulgence.


*Time for the serious italics. This is a terrible post. TERRIBLE. But I am committed to writing something EVERY FRIDAY, even if it’s just a jumble of words that lack any sort of creativity or continuity or coherence. I apologize with all my heart. I shall now crack open beer number three. That’s right, THREE. Shit’s about to get real…and by that i mean, I’ll be fast asleep in my bed within half an hour.

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Fast Forwarded Friday



*I’m totally cheating and writing this post on Thursday because tomorrow is a super crazy day and I don’t want to upset my die hard followers…who happen to be my mom and dad. I apologize for being all sneaky like and breaking with the Friday Nfred beer and blog tradition. I hope you’re not so disappointed that you never read this blog again because that would make me sad and when I feel sad, I eat chocolate. And when I eat too much chocolate, Captain Red Face shows up. And when Captain Red Face shows up, I get all self conscious and full of angst and I basically regress to my awkward fourteen year old self. To wrap up this italic rant, please read my post even though it’s not Friday. If you do, you’ll be able to rest easy knowing that you have saved me from both over eating and Captain Red Face. High fives all around!*


The summer before grade nine was a tumultuous time in my life for many reasons…


1. I was petrified to start high school in the fall. Everything that I knew about grade nine came from my older brother and Degrassi. According to my brother, high school was lame and the teachers were lame and the kids were lame and it would suck and I would hate everything and everyone would think I was a loser and no, I was not allowed to talk to him at school. According to Degrassi, I would get pregnant at a house party, start dressing like a trollop, get an older abusive boyfriend and drop acid at a concert which would result in a horrible accident. Also, older kids would chase me around calling me “miner niner”. It all sounded so horrifying. Couldn’t I just stay in grade eight for a couple more years???


2. I was growing out my hair from a disastrous pixie cut. I believed the hairdresser when she said that I had great bone structure and would look like a sophisticated young woman. Instead I looked like a ten year old boy. The summer before grade nine, my hair was at that awkward length where it was too short to wear up, but too long that it wouldn’t just sit nicely on my head and behave. It had a mind of it’s own. It curled in random directions and was frizzy and puffy and a total nightmare. I spent hours staring at my hair from all angles in the three way mirror of my upstairs bathroom. I brushed and gelled and hairsprayed and willed my hair to grow faster. I felt like all my worries would vanish if I could just start high school with long, luxurious locks.


3. As if I didn’t feel bad enough about my physical appearance, I had to start wearing glasses right before grade nine started. In the early nineties, there was so such thing as “cool” eye wear. There were no hip square frames or chic wire rimmed glasses or really any appealing choices available for fourteen year old girls, except for contacts which I was not allowed. I was stuck with giant royal blue frames that I unsuccessfully tried my best to break, lose or forget at home for pretty much all of grade nine.


I bet you’re wondering why I’m choosing to dredge up all these dorktastic memories of my early teen years.

Well here goes…

I’ve always loved to write and whenever I get the yen to write any sort of fiction, it always falls into the Young Adult category. There’s something terribly wonderful about being a teenager. It’s confusing and exciting and scary and marvelous all at the same time.

Everyone has awkward stories from their teen years. EVERYONE!

Everyone’s gone through an ugly duckling phase. EVERYONE!

My favourite book of all time is, “Are You There God? It’s me Margaret” by Judy Blume. That book was my bible. I was never a reader as a kid, but that story captivated me. People who know me now would be shocked to learn that I was super shy as a kid when it came to talking about sex or boys or puberty with my parents. I would have rather gone to summer school or the dentist or summer dentistry school, ANYTHING but have a grown up chat with the parental units. That book gave me the answers I was so desperately seeking in the least awkward of ways. It reassured me that I was just a normal kid that was simply growing up.

Also, “we must, we must, we must increase our busts” was a catchy and extremely useful chant.

My biggest dream in life is to write a book someday. I have no desire to write the next Canadian literary juggernaut. I would love to be able to write a smart and sassy book for teen girls. In fact  I’ve already started and would you believe that the working title is…dun dun dunnn…

The Summer Before Grade Nine!

In the next couple of weeks, I’m going to start sharing my story on this very blog. The idea of this scares the poop out of me! But look how horrified I was to start this blog, and now it’s easy peasy.

What’s the point of life if you don’t at least try some things that scare you? Things that force you outside of your comfort zone? Things that make you so anxious that you feel like you’re going to ralph all over your keyboard?

Wait, why am I committing to this again?

Oh right, dreams and goals and shit.

The first chapter will be coming along next week.

I hope all you NFred readers, hi Mom and Dad, will enjoy reading my story.

Stay tuned…

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Flushed Friday


Last night, I did not sleep well.

I was up most of the night with my very fevered and extremely clingy two year old daughter.

As I faded in and out of sleep, my mind went a wandering. I had this one train of thought that went like this…

My daughter feels warm…

I wonder if she’s flushed?

Flushed starts with the letter “F”…

Tomorrow is Friday...

I need an “F” word to write about…


What does “flushed” mean?

Flush the toilet? Fat flush? Flushed face?

Why does your face flush?

Because you have a fever…

Or you’re hot and sweaty…

Or sun burned…

Or you have Captain Red Face..(Here’s the link if you don’t know what that is;   .

Or you drank too much…

Or because you’re embarrassed…

I could write about being embarrassed…

What time is it?

Why won’t my daughter sleep?

I need to pee…

I’ll make sure to flush after I pee…

I wonder if I’ll be flushed while I flush?

When I got in the shower this morning, my mental ramblings came back to me. The word “flushed” popped back into my mind and stayed there for most of the day.

On my lunch break at work, I started to think about things that I’ve done that have been embarrassing.

Let me tell you, it’s a very lengthily list.

Out of nowhere, a beer soaked memory from the late nineties came rushing back to me…

It was a Monday night in the summer of 1997. I was enjoying some pints with friends at our local watering hole. I had just turned nineteen and was leaving for University in a few short weeks. It was a tumultuous time in my life. I was both anxious and excited about moving away. Drinking beer in bulk seemed to be the only solution for quelling my university anxieties.

It was my turn to buy the next round. I floated from my seat to the bar. I was just starting to feel the affects of the alcohol. I felt light and cheery and completely zen as I ordered a pitcher of beer.

Pitcher in hand, I made my way back out to the patio where my friends were waiting. As soon as I set foot outside, I noticed that a group of guys had taken up residence directly behind where my friend and I were sitting.

These just weren’t any guys…these were the supremely popular and attractive boys that had graduated from high school a few years before me.

Because I was enjoying the early effects of my beer buzz, I confidently smiled at them as I walked over to my table. I felt like a million bucks!

I set the pitcher on our table and reached into my bag to get some lip balm before sitting down.

I had just tucked into my pint when all of a sudden someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and was completely floored to see that it was one of the cool, older boys. I flashed him a huge, “I’m so awesome” smile. I couldn’t believe that this total babe wanted to talk to me! ME! I didn’t even think those boys knew I was alive! Now one of them was touching me! ME!

Before I had the chance to say something witty and charming that would make this boy fall madly in love with me, I noticed that he was holding something peculiar in his hand.

“I think you dropped this,” he said as he handed me an individually wrapped maxi pad. I recognized it immediately. It was my standby Always pad that I kept in my bag for emergencies.

“It fell out of your purse”, he said as his handsome boy friends erupted in laughter.

I sat there, totally frozen, with a maxi pad wrapped in pastel pink paper sitting in the palm of my hand. I was so embarrassed that my face turned fire engine red. I wanted to crawl under my table and die.

As I watched Sanitary Napkin Delivery Boy walk back to his table and high five his bros, I made the swift decision that I would not let him ruin my night. I stoically tucked my feminine protection back into my bag and promptly did a shot of tequila…followed by another.

The rest of the night is pretty much a blur.

I wish this story had a different ending. One where I walk up to Sanitary Napkin Delivery Boy and his table of hot boys and eloquently call them out for their immature behaviour. The bar patrons would erupt in applause and people would chant my name. The boys would be forced to leave and once they were gone, the barkeep would enthusiastically shout, “drinks on the house” and strangers would come up to me and pat me on the back and give me high fives.

In reality, the night ended with me drinking way too much and regressing to my socially awkward grade nine self…the same girl that got so nervous walking past the lockers where those older boys hung out that I would literally sweat through my winter jacket.

So there you have it.

Whenever I think of the word “flushed” in the future, I will be taken back to that fateful night when a hot guy personally delivered my dropped feminine hygiene product.

Silver lining…

At least it wasn’t a used pad…

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Foodstuff Friday


Last weekend at the grocery store, my five year old son fell in love.

We were waiting in line at the deli counter when his eyes locked on the mac ‘n cheese loaf.

“Mom, what is that?”, he said with wonderment.

“That’s some sort of meat with noodles and cheese in it”, I answered.

“Can we get it?” he asked.

“No”, I replied.


I folded. I bought three slices of “loaf” and my son was beside himself with joy.

At lunch, I gave each one of my children a slice of “loaf” to try.

They all hated it.

I was not surprised.

I wonder if anyone actually likes mac ‘n cheese loaf?

Also, what melange of mystery meats makes up “loaf”? I’m sure it’s the same pink sludge they use to make hot dogs.

I imagine that the mac ‘n cheese “loaf” people have an industrial sized vat of mechanically separated animal by-products that they eventually toss some old, abandoned mac ‘n cheese into. When it’s all mixed to perfection, I bet they jam it all into a giant machine that poops out the sludge into attractive little “loaves”. I picture it kind of looking like a Play-dough fun factory…except substitute the Play-dough with meat sludge.

Mmmmmmm…meat sludge.

Is anyone else hungry all of a sudden?

Before you get up to fix yourself a snack, why not read another one of my favourite losing writing contest stories? This one is really short, more of a blurb than an actual story. It’s about lunch foods and features my mom’s divine canned ham and pickle salad sandwiches.

If you’re tummy wasn’t rumbling before, it sure will be after reading this…

I’ll Take The Usual

  Growing up, my school lunches went a little something like this; peanut butter and jam sandwich on brown bread, apple, granola bar, some sort of cut up veggies and a juice box. My mom begrudgingly made this lunch for me from grade one until high school. Her attempts to try and change things up in the lunch department always failed.

  I groaned on the days where a hard boiled egg was found instead of my usual. Once she sent leftover stew in a thermos. I’ll never forget that day. On my way to school, my thermos had exploded in my backpack drenching all of it’s contents in mushy carrots, potatoes and beef. My classroom was in a portable that year and the whole day it reeked of hospital cafeteria. You know that smell, it’s a mix of onions, soup and body odour. Never again did I take anything to school in a thermos.

  Another dreaded lunch was the ham salad melange. Usually reserved for funerals and baby showers, it consisted of processed canned ham, mayonnaise and diced pickles. I dreaded hearing the sound of my mom’s food processor whirling in the wee hours of a week day morning. That was how she made the vile salmon hued spread. Needless to say, nobody ever wanted to trade sandwiches with me on rank ham day.

  Since my oldest son started grade one in September, I have become his official lunch maker. I would delight in sending him peanut butter and jam sandwiches, but nuts are banned from his school. His daily lunches go a little something like this; tortilla with hummus, cut up veggies, some sort of fruit, yogurt, granola bar and some water.

  He rarely complains about his midday meal, but then again, I’ve never sent him a ham salad sandwich or a thermos full of stew. And I never will.

  I know he prefers his usual.

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Funky Friday


*Please don’t read this if you have a weak stomach or a sensitive gag reflex. This post may make you barf.*


I’m a gross person.

I enjoy gross things.

I’m a fan of farts.

I see the beauty in burps.

My olfactory perception is keen, which is a fancy way of saying that I’m a sniffer. A lost sippy cup discovered with chunky contents, a dirty diaper or my armpits after a hard day’s work…I’ll smell them all. Why? Because I’m gross.

I’m also a notorious picker.

Scabs, dry skin, blemishes, cradle cap…I have picked them all and never looked back…until yesterday.

My youngest son is a bit of a medical enigma. He has asthma and wonky sinuses and bad hearing and he tends to get the most random maladies.

For the past couple of months, he’s had this triangle of little white bumps on the shin of his left leg. I didn’t think much about it, until I noticed that they were getting bigger.

A few days ago after his bath, he reluctantly let me poke at the curious little bumps. I picked and squeezed and some goop came out and I felt a huge amount of satisfaction that the curious little bumps were nothing more than some peculiar leg pimples.

Several days later, as he was sitting watching TV, I glanced over at the area where the curious little bumps had been and noticed that his leg looked rather swollen. I gasped at the realization that the curious little bumps had merged into one giant, flaming red, pus filled mountain of ick.

Being a picker, my first instinct was to pop that sucker, but I resisted. I called my husband over to check out the nasty leg action and he was like, he needs to see a doctor.

Off to the doctor they went. I waited at home with my other children. I was totally distracted by my complete obsession of what could be sprouting out of my son’s leg. Was it a giant pimple? A mutated blackhead? A  goiter? A boil? Gout? Ringworm? Flesh Eating Disease?

WHAT WAS IT?!?!?!?

About an hour later my husband and son returned home. Turns out it was just three little blackheads on his leg that morphed into a giant infection because I picked at them.

I know you’re thinking that I’m a terrible mother with a picking addiction that has spiraled out of control. Call the Intervention people stat. My addiction really is affecting the people I love in negative ways. I hope Candy Finnigan is free. I think her sassy approach and tough love is just what I need to kick the habit.

So now my poor son has to take antibiotics four times a day for ten days. I’m under strict orders not to pick at him. Apparently, the drugs will help ease the infectious ooze out of his giant leg crater.

How gross will that be? I picture an epic explosion of goop blasting out of his leg. All smelly and scabby and full of pus…





*I’m sorry if you ignored my disclaimer and still read this and then yacked all over yourself. I think barfing is pretty funny, but then again, I’m a gross person. I should be ashamed of myself, but I’m not. Three cheers for being gross!*

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I have bad luck with bikes.

It started at an early age.

My Dad used to bike me to preschool when I was a kid. I remember sitting on the back of his bike in my sweet little brown seat. Every time we would get ready to go my Dad would remind me to keep my feet tucked in safely. “Don’t let your feet touch the wheel”, he would say.

One day, I couldn’t resist any longer. I deliberately dangled  my feet out of their secure position. One foot went right into the spokes and BLAM-O, we totally bailed.

My Dad made a Herculean effort to make sure that I hit the ground unharmed. I landed safely on a someone’s cushy front lawn. My Dad however, landed hard on the road. As he lay there covered in cuts and bleeding, I got myself out of my seat and proceeded to yell at him because we were going to be late for school. Pretty inconsiderate of him to inconvenience me like that.

When I got older, I loved to bike. There was nothing like the  freedom of being a helmetless eighties kid, cruising up and down the street like you owned the place. I also had some pretty epic wipe-outs, but nothing too serious…until I got older…

I don’t drive…yet. I’m learning and I really need to get my licence, like yesterday. For my entire adult life, the bus and my bike have been my two main modes of transportation. I used to bike to work when the weather was nice. I would often pretend to be Lance Armstrong, pre-doping scandal, and time myself to see how fast I could pedal to the mall. I felt invigorated when I would get there faster than the day before. I was pretty sure that at any moment, the Canadian Cycling Team would call me up and beg me to ride with them at the Olympics.

One night, I was leaving work around nine-fifteen. It was a beautiful summer evening. It had rained earlier in the day, so the pavement was a little wet. I was speeding along, just like Lance, when all of sudden, I hit something on the path and BLAM-O, I totally bailed. I somehow managed to hurl myself over my handlebars and landed directly on my head. My right shoulder and leg also joined the party. I laid on the path, with my bike on top of me, trying to digest what had just happened. Some dude came running out of nowhere and picked me up and asked if I was okay. All I could ask him was if my head was bleeding. He was like no, but your helmet’s all dented and your shoulder’s bleeding. I was like, but my head, are my brains showing? The guy was like no, you’re okay. I thanked him and walked my bike the rest of the way home in a total daze.

When I entered my house, I walked into the family room and my husband was all like, what the hell happened to you and I was like I fell off my bike. I asked him if my head was bleeding and he reassured me that it wasn’t. So, I had a beer or three to calm down and went to bed.

The next morning I had the worst headache ever. My body was all cut up and I felt like I had fallen off a cliff instead of a  bike.

My Dad came over to visit and he was concerned because I kept repeating myself. He insisted he take me to the doctor and she confirmed that I had a concussion. For the next couple of days, I felt pretty weird, like I had a massive hangover. My head was all foggy and it hurt to move my eyes.

The one thing that I learned from my giant wipe-out is that you should always wear a helmet, ALWAYS. If I hadn’t been wearing one, my brains totally would have fallen out. I have taken it upon myself to yell at random strangers that I see biking sans helmet to put one on. Yes, you look like a dork in a bike helmet. Every one does,  pre-doped up Lance Armstrong included. Yes, wearing a helmet also messes up your hair and they are not the most comfortable head accessory. But you know what’s even more uncomfortable? Having your brains smeared all over the sidewalk.

I haven’t done much biking in the almost three years since I concussed myself. Having just moved to the middle of nowhere, I decided this morning that I would hook up the old bike trailer and take my two year old daughter out for a spin to explore our new neighbourhood.

It started off as a lovely ride. The sun was shining as we pedaled along a picturesque  path beside the river. My daughter was overjoyed to see a plethora of  dogs ans squirrels.

Life was good.

The more we biked, the more I noticed that the water from the river was getting closer and closer to the path. Odd, because we haven’t had much rain. Then all of a sudden, the path became completely submerged in nasty river water. I stopped and pondered how deep it was. I figured I could make it across.

I carefully pedaled through the water and all was well, until out of nowhere, the water got dramatically deeper. I looked back at my daughter and the bottom of the bike trailer was filling up with water. She started to scream, which made me panic, so I leaped off my bike and splashed into smelly, thigh high river water.  I managed to get us turned around and was able to push us back to dry land.

Obviously, I have horrible depth perception. Any intelligent person would have looked at the flooded path and turned around. Not me! I was certain that I could make it across. I hear you need good depth perception in order to be a conscientious driver. Maybe I’ll hold off on the whole license thing a little longer…

Once I calmed down my daughter, I got back on my bike and pedaled as fast as I could to get home. The water in my shoes was sloshing around as I biked, but I didn’t care. All I could think about was getting my daughter out of her nasty, river soaked clothes. Thoughts of her getting a parasite or yellow fever or the Ebola virus from her dip in the river raced through my mind. I just wanted to get her into a hot, soapy, disinfecting  bath.

It’s been a few hours now since we got home. No signs of any water borne illnesses yet. I think we’re in the clear.

Sadly, my cell phone did not survive it’s river submersion. I don’t think I’ll give it a burial at sea. Too traumatic.

Even though bad bike luck seems to haunt me, I’m not going to let it get the better of me.

I love to bike.

I want to bike with my family.

I want to pedal fast and proud like Lance Armstrong did before he got hooked on performance enhancing drugs.

I just won’t bike near any rivers for a little while…

P.S. Don’t be a ding dong, wear your HELMET!!!!!!

The ride started out great. We went along a scenic path. We saw some dogs and squirells.

Bad Luck Biker

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Failed Friday


In almost a month of blog writing, I haven’t missed a Friday. This beloved day of the week is quickly becoming one of my favourite days to write.

Sadly, today will be the first Friday in NFred history where I don’t write. Well technically I’m writing at this very moment, but I digress…

This week has been so insanely busy, I’ve barely had time to blow my nose. Dealing with the packing and the organizing and the purging and the highs and lows of my children’s moving anxieties has left me totally drained.

Tonight is the last official night in my old home. My wonderful husband and mother-in-law are were like two insane work horses on steroids today and got a massive amount of moving done while I was a work. Everything is finally starting to fall into place and I couldn’t be more relieved.

My children are sleeping at my parent’s house and I could be working on the final packing or cleaning or writing the next great Canadian novel, but I’m forgetting all of that and choosing to sit on my arse and do absolutely nothing instead. That’s right. I’m going to sit on my ugly red chair and drink beer and drool over Gordon Ramsey on TV. You read that correctly. I have a thing for the arrogant British chef and I’m not ashamed.

It feels so amazing to just sit here and not have to do anything. It’s bliss and decadence and joy all rolled into one. It’s blisadenceoy.

I apologize for this muddled post. It’s probably my worst one yet, hence today is officially dubbed Failed Friday.

At least I wrote something, right?

And I made up a word…


I should contact the Webster people ASAP because that is one amazing word. It just rolls off the tongue.


Try using it in a sentence…

This chocolate cake is divine. It’s pure blisadenceoy.

Hanging out with you brings blisadenceoy to my day.

Gordon Ramsey makes me feel blisadenceoyously in my heart.

I’m going to get myself another beer because I desire to bring more blisadenceoy to this evening.

I wish you all a blisadenceoyously wonderful evening.

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Packing and Haikus

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You know what sucks?


I would rather go for a gynecological exam than pack one more box.



It’s staggering! We’re a family of five and it’s the children who have the most junk. With their stuffed animals and Legos and stacks of Pokemon cards and books and markers and art work. They could fill three houses with all their swag.

I feel like I’ve been purging this house for weeks. We’ve donated and found new homes for countless amounts of crapola and yet we still have so much. It’s total insanity.

And you know what’s funny? All this work and we’re only moving ten minutes away! The thought of having to move my family out of the country makes me nauseous. How does a person do that without having a complete psychotic break?

To say that I’m feeling a tad stressed about getting everything done on time would be a huge understatement. Whenever I’m feeling overwhelmed about something, my body screams at me to curl up in the fetal position and sleep.

Beautiful sleep, where I can forget all about my troubles and dream of wondrous things like crime fighting cats or dancing sharks.

My bed’s been peer pressuring me to get all cozy in it today, but I’ve managed to stay strong and ignore its promises of sweet, snugly slumber. I have things to do bed! Stop tempting me!

I keep reminding myself that this will all be over in a few days.

Before I know it, I’ll be in my new home. All this packing stress will be but a distant memory…

Although, this time next week I’ll be smack dab in the middle of…



This will be my fifth move in ten years. You would think I would be a total pro by now.

I really should go and do more packing…more organization…more purging of crapola…

But instead I’ll write a haiku.

Why a haiku?

Because writing a haiku is more productive than just sitting here and staring at my computer screen, thinking about all that needs to get done.

AND because I’m awesome at procrastinating.


Here is my haiku…


Do not want to pack.

Caught in a lazy attack.

Motivation lacks.


I think I’ll write another…


My cat wears a tie.

My cat makes a mean stir fry.

My cat is so fly.


I just realized that I would rather count syllables than pack.

I’m doomed.

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Another List!


Three Things That I Find Funny This Morning Now That I’ve Had A Full Night’s Sleep.

1. My husband just peer pressured me into buying a second hand dining room set online. The funny part? It’s baby blue. Picture your grandparent’s out dated furniture from the 1980’s…this set embodies that style of decor. It’s so ugly, yet marvelous at the same time. If I were to dress up in a powder blue tuxedo and sit down at my new table, I would disappear.

2. Last night, as my eight year old was getting ready for bed, he lovingly looked at my gut and told me that I should work out. I fought back the urge to call him a jerk and asked him why he thought that and he replied, “look how chubby you are”! I glanced over at my husband who had gone a little pale as he abides by the cardinal rule of NEVER commenting on my weight. I plastered on a smile and asked my son, “don’t you love my chubb?” and he said yeah and gave me a hug and I had almost forgiven him until he said, “but you should really switch to work out mode”. If only there was a switch on my back that I could switch off of “chubster, sloth mode” to “super fit and motivated mode”. In my deliriously fatigued state last night, I almost cried. This morning, I find the whole thing hilarious. Out of the mouths of babes…

3. I was checking out my stats this morning and got so excited when I saw that someone from Korea read my blog. It didn’t say which Korea, it only showed the flag. Because I am geographically challenged, I was sure it was North Korea. I ran to the google to investigate and obviously I was wrong and it was South Korea. The funny part? The thought of Kim Jong Un reading about farts.

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