If you ask me, he propelled her out of his lap, in the direction of the couch, and she had no recourse but to move her feet or fall on her face.
Chris thinks I am stifling our children.
~ ~ ~
Here’s the joke that Bea asked for. I think I'm telling it right.
Sometimes, you can tell a lot about a religion not by what they do acknowledge, but by what they don’t:
Jews don’t acknowledge Jesus.
Hindus don’t acknowledge the Pope.
And Baptists don’t acknowledge each other in the liquour store.
~ ~ ~
I know I make myself out to be some, like super domestic guru or something (no – this is NOT another joke), but sometimes the things I cook end up tasting like undercooked, tasteless, gluey crap.
Go read about my shortcomings. The story definitely came out better than the food.
Bloody hell, ok, here’s one – So, three Baptists see each other in the liquor store, and… crap – that’s not it.
Did you hear the one about the copywriter that totally sucked at telling jokes?
Well, if you’ve ever heard me try to tell a joke than you already know the punchline – it’s me. I mean, it’s nice to know that I’ll get the laughs, but it’s rarely the joke my audience is laughing at.
My husband is kind enough to dismiss my sheer and utter inability to keep a joke straight with a shake of his head and a gentle, ‘Oh, honey…’ Hopefully, he compartmentalizes this quirk of mine as something cute, though I dare say that if he really cared about me, he would step in a little earlier, like before I make an ass of myself.
And, like a true idiot, I don’t limit my embarrassing forays into comedy to gentle crowds that are obligated to love me regardless of my ability to slaughter a punchline. No, me and my attempts at joke telling also make an appearance at work, where my abysmal delivery has turned into a joke itself.
There is one joke that I can manage to tell without screwing it up. It's short, and it's off-colour. Like me.
See? I’m ok off-the-cuff, but ask me to rehearse or recall and I turn into a total loser.
I so admire people that can tell a good joke. They don’t even have to be the author of the joke. Just to be able to pull off that perfect blend of casual storytelling with anticipation and intrigue impresses me to no end, even if the joke itself is lame.
And, unfortunately, I think the inability to tell a joke may be hereditary, and I think I may have passed it on to Bee, who, the other night, requested that I entertain her with a joke while she was in the bath.
‘Um, ok,’ I venture, figuring that if there is any audience I can impress with a gag, it will be a three-year-old who thinks that Toopy and Binou is the pinnacle of humour, and that farts are hilarious.
‘Why did the chicken cross the road?’
Bee furrows her brow.
‘Not THAT joke, mama! Tell me a Knock, Knock, Who It Is?’ joke!
I am resolved now to try harder to tell a proper joke, with good delivery and a punchline that comes at the end of the narrative and everything, because, apparently, I can’t tell a joke to save my life.
Thank goodness a life-or-death situation so very rarely calls for a split-second comedic response.
Before we even leave the house, I want to abandon plans, empty my arms and turn around. But I know, the pile of clothing will impede my way, I will trip over the gear, and the children will inevitably follow me, assaulting me with cries, tears, waving arms.
There are days when motherhood leaves me feeling little more than completely encumbered.
Winter. The weight of winter, of endless grey, of the opressive cold; the weight of child + child + bag + stroller + sippy cups + + + + +
Sometimes it is the noise; sometimes it is the needs. Sometimes I wonder if being a mother means simply, being a Sherpa, adding compartment after compartment to an already overburdened load. Sometimes I wonder how much I can actually hold.
And then I take a deep breath; deafen myself to the whining, blind myself to the mess and gather up my kids and our things. My kids. Our things. We leave the house.
The air is crisp and the wind is cold, but the sky is wide and the streets are quiet. The children make it into the stroller and a shaky sense of purpose, a glimmer of peace, replaces chaos. We walk, and I let the thought swirl around me, replacing the snow: Spring will come. Spring will come. Spring will come.
There are so few times when I feel like people connect in a huge way, and it is of course, always over something either tragic or profound. I'm glad that yesterday, it was something profound.
Let's hope this feeling stays with us for a while.
I loved watching the coverage of the balls last night - they really are a cool couple. Which ball would you have wanted to be at? The Commander-in-Chief ball, full of ceremony and pomp and circumstance? The youth ball, entry to which I would still gain? (That made my day. Will cry when I slip into the next demographic.) I, personally, would have chosen the regional ball, because Jack Johnson was there.
In other, much less profound news, I drank some good hot chocolate while watching all the inauguration coverage last night. Share my joy here.
Guess where the huz is? Yup, home with me; that’s right.
Guess where the kids are? Yup…
For the very first time ever since having children, 3 years and 8 months ago, me and Chris took the day off, sent the children away and are at home together, alone. Like, not just for a couple of hours, or maybe for the morning; for the ENTIRE day – that’s 9 am to 5 pm, folks.
And oh, lord, it feels good. So far, my day has entailed sleeping until 10am while Chris got the kids up, dressed, fed and out the door to the neighbours’ where they will be (with the nanny) all day; pouring a cup of coffee, and sitting in the office for an hour, communing with all you lovely
The most labourious task of my day will be reheating the Thai leftovers for lunch.
Well, ok, I do have a husband sitting downstairs who may suggest we take advantage of having an empty house by
Sorry, I’m blushing. Let’s just say that my afternoon plans are to indulge in some x-stitch activity, and his are to indulge in some x-rated activity, I’m sure.
But, pffffftttt! We can do that when the kids are home. Let’s do something really crazy, like watch an entire movie without interruption, or maybe, listen to music with lyrics that don’t rhyme!
The only rule is that we are not to leave the house, because leaving the house causes serious time-suckage that we cannot afford. As it is, I only have 5 hours and 45 minutes left of Day-Without-Kids Day. Better go – there’s lots of things I have planned to not do today.
p.s. I know, it would help if I had a blogroll and you knew who I was already reading. Just give me your best shout out while I work on it.
p.p.s. I do go beyond the realm of parenting blogs every now and then.
p.p.p.s. But I really can't handle political blogs, regardless of how clever the writers are. Yes, you are all clever, political blog writers, and I can't handle you.
p.p.p.p.s. Here's one for you, although I'm sure you already know it: Cakewrecks. Go. Laugh.
Seriously, I know. I am a wild party.
Anyway, I do think that the best part of the night was the half a bag of sour cream and onion chips that I scarffed, but a few things did occur to me as I watched, and I thought I would share them. Come, join me. Let’s starf*ck.
* Um, was anybody watching the red carpet special? Did you see the part where Colin Farell is being interviewed? Not only did he seem totally coked up (hey tweaker, how’s it going?), but did you see the part when Eva Mendez showed up? I’m pretty sure he greeted her with a great big, juicy, live-on-air, ‘Fuck off!’ Awesome.
* Drew, I love ya babe, but the hair? You looked like you went to your stylist and said, I’m thinkin’ 80s prime time drama. Actually, it looks like you brought your stylist photos from my brother’s bar mitzvah, pointed to my mother and said – that. That is what I want. Make it big. Make it look like I am a Jewish mother at my 13-year old’s birthday party. My mother, I’m sure, loved your look, though she’ll probably thinks that overall, you were a little light on the sequins.
* Kate Winslet looked superridiculously stunning. That is all.
* Miley and her her daddy billy bob looked less-than-impressed when the Jonas Brothers took to the stage to present their award. I thought it was quite clever of the cameraman to make sure he caught her right-pissed off face when her biggest competition got more coverage than she did. Shoot Miley, you probably shouldn’t have taken those naked photos with your daddy. I know how tough the world of jockeying for pre-pubescent
spending dollars fans can be.
* Two words for you: Mickey Rourke.
Ok, a few more, because hot damn! That cat is entertaining. I especially loved
the sequined scarf that he gave a shout out to Axl Rose, possibly to call attention to someone even more washed out than himself, therefore elevating his status from ‘Totally Off His Nut Cracked Out Train Wreck’ to a more respectable, ‘Riding the High Between Relapses But Still Disgusting As The World Waits for News of My Next Overdose or Maybe Just a Simple Dalliance With a Tranny Hooker/Comeback Kid.’
Honestly, I want to see The Wrestler even less now than I did before last night.
* Um, where was the ‘In Memoriam’ section? Call me morbid, but it’s my favourite part of the show, once I’ve seen what everybody is wearing. Did I miss it? Dove did wake up at one point, and it may have been for the exact segment I was waiting all night to see (oh how cruel motherhood can be), but I’m kind of thinking that it just wasn’t there. Damn. It’s a long way to the Oscars to find out who died.
Overall, a boring ass show. What did you think?
Hot cocoa with marshmallows.
A hearty bowl of soup.
The sound of logs popping in the fireplace.
The silence that only falling snow in the moonlight brings.
Shoveling out, surrounded by neighbours.
An orange toboggan sliding down a bright white hill.
Squeals of laughter.
Tiny skis on tiny feet.
Fat, wet snowflakes falling onto fat, wet cheeks.
Two snow angels.