Twenty five minutes until the Amazing Race starts. How much can I write in twenty five minutes?

Oh, who am I kidding? This won’t make it onto mybloggers before the Amazing Race starts. But it’s worth a shot, ain’t it?

I have tried, unsuccessfully, to blog several times over the last two days. There are a few half posts saved to Microsoft Word that I keep meaning to go back to but somehow never do. They just hang in limbo in the guts of my hard drive. One post was about the squirting phenomenon and how ridiculous it is. The second was a real negative Nellie that was about several people who are working my last nerve as of late and a self-absorbed, melodramatic, tortured sort of vein in general. That one might still make it. I know that secretly, deep down inside, you love when I whine. Ha. And yet another was called “Conversations With Julian”. It was supposed to be funny. I still might go back to that one, too or start including random snippets of conversations with my little guy at the end of each post in an attempt to end each piece on a lighter note.

However, over the last few days, each post seemed to be “too far gone” and none of them made it.

Seems my mind is a little like a ping pong ball, with thoughts dancing through my head, never resting in one place long enough for me to catch a hold of them and make them into something that makes relative sense.

I think that might be me in a nutshell. Shit. That’s kinda scary, isn’t it?

Anyway, the point is that this post might just have to be point form since I can’t seem to hold a decent thread of conversation with anyone, including myself. If you don’t believe me, ask my wife who was subjected to my incoherent babbling earlier this evening. Poor gal.

I’ll cut right to the chase. Actually, I guess I didn’t. But who gives a fuck?

Celibacy does not look good on me.

I need a penis.

This is not to be confused with needing a relationship. I don’t need one of those. Not at all. They look nice on TV and in movies and such but I tend to break them after I bought em and am still in debt from the last two. I might consider checking into another one if the price was right but for right now, no, no relationship.

Just a penis.

A penis and a mouth and two hands and that’s all I’m going to say on the matter because I’m pretty sure I just upped my blog rating from G to R and if I keep going, I’ll belong on a porn site.

I realized that my need for a penis was starting to cloud my thoughts when I watched Ramona and Beezus last night with my kids during our Saturday night movie night, which we have whenever they are with me for the weekend. The girls take turns picking out a movie to rent and this week, they chose Ramona and Beezus. I was stoked since I so loved the books when I was a kid and Olivia was stoked because she also loves the books and Erica just likes Selena Gomez. After about half an hour into the movie, Olivia turned to me and said, quietly, “Is it just me or is Ramona * exactly * like Erica?”

It wasn’t just her.

But I digress.

My penis need completely took over as soon as they showed who was playing the Dad.

Aidan.

Okay, well, John Corbett, but for me he will always be Aidan, forever and ever more, Aidan…

Once he entered the kitchen, my brain flew out the window and I could concentrate on so very little else. Forget the plot. All I saw was Aidan. In a suit. Being a Dad. A GOOD dad, at that. So good that at one point Olivia said, “I wish he was my Dad.”

Sad, yes. Very. But even sadder yet was my response, which seemed to shoot out of my mouth before my brain had time to censor it (I might or might not have been drooling at this point).

I said, “I wish he was your Dad, too.”

Both of my girls stopped to stare at me (Julian was watching the wheels of his toy truck spin around and around and wasn’t paying any attention to any of us). Believe it or not, I never, ever say anything negative about their Dad in front of them. I don’t defend him when he fucks up and hurts them because I truly believe that children are little people and they are going to feel what they’re going to feel and the last thing they need is their mother telling them NOT to feel something…but…I don’t talk down about him EVER.

“What?” I asked, wiping the drool from my chin.

“Why does your voice sound weird, Mom?”

Um, yeah.

When you start drooling about the Dad in a kid’s movie, you know things are bad.


Desperate times call for desperate measures, but I’m fairly certain all or most of those measures do require leaving the house so I’m kinda fucked there. Or not, as the case may be.

(There goes that family rating again)

Because going out of the house isn’t working too well lately.

Erica had a birthday party to attend on Saturday afternoon. For the record, I * hate * birthday parties. A lot. I think that the only parents who actually like birthday parties are those of only children. The folks who liked their child so much they decided to stop while they were ahead. Because no matter WHAT, when you drop off one kid at a birthday party, there is going to be a fight when you pick them up.

It’s usually over the elusive treat bag.

There’s always something in those little fuckers that the kids have to fight over. In Saturday’s case, it was a cheap, plastic harmonica.

Yes, a harmonica.

In addition to the fight that always results over the goddamned treat bag, there is also a case of the jealousies because no matter what you did with the kids not at the birthday party, it will not measure up what happened at the party itself. Hell, it doesn’t matter if you took the other kids to something even greater and more fun than a fucking party, it won’t measure up once you pick the kid at the party up for the mere fact that the kids who were left out don’t know what went down at the birthday shindig and that alone will fill their little minds with endless possibilities of fun that they weren’t having while their mother took them out for lunch and a roam through the toy department in Walmart so that they could fine tune their Christmas list.

Sigh.

It was the toy department that proved to be our demise.

Suffice it to say that I will not be taking Julian out anywhere unless I absolutely, positively have to until the Christmas decorations have been taken down and calm has resumed in every lowly little retail outlet from here to Quebec.

It’s just not worth it.

Walmart is always a source of aggravation for him what with the bright lights and huge displays and music being pumped through the speakers and voices booming over the intercom and people as far as the eye can see, many of them rude and loud themselves. But with some chewing gum and a tight fitting hat and a clear, concise list and direct route in and out, along with allowing him to execute every one of his rituals before during and after the trip, I can * sometimes * get him through it.

Throw in some construction and the explosion of Christmas retail and we’re screwed.

So, yes, Saturday was a long, long day. The kind of day that makes you look at the clock around five and wonder how in the hell it can be so fucking early and wonder silently to yourself how you can possibly have to make dinner, serve dinner, clean up from dinner, take out the garbage and compost and recycling and then bathe all three children and get the movie set up and the snacks that always go with a good movie night before getting them all to brush their teeth and get into bed.

A long, long day.

And a long, long night.

That’s the thing, see?

If I have a hard day (and I do consider this my job at the moment, despite the lack of pay but oh! I forgot to mention the good news! Must be my recent penis distraction that stopped me from remembering….Julian was approved for ACSD funding! Yay!), that tends to mean that my night will be even harder.

That was going to make it’s way into my whiny post.

Maybe tomorrow.

For now, I will end this post with a conversation with Julian. To keep the mood light, see?

Me: “I might have to pull you out of school on Tuesday afternoon.”

Olivia: “Why?!”

Me: “Because I’m taking Julian to the doctor and it’s two hours away. I’m not sure how the day will go, yet.”

Olivia: “Are you going to CHEO? Do we have to come with you? I don’t want to miss school!”

Me: “You’re weird.”

Olivia: “So are you.”

Me: “I know. That’s where you got it.”

Julian: “I NOT GOING TO SEE DOCTOR HAMEED!”

Me: “No, Julian. We’re not going to see Dr. Hameed. We’re going to see Dr. Abu Dieh.”

Julian: “I HATE DOCTOR HAMEED!”

Me: “I know you hate him, Julian. We aren’t going to see him. We’re going to see Dr. Abu Dieh.”

Julian: “WELL I HATE DOCTOR HAMEED!”

Me: “ I know you do, Julian. We aren’t going there. We’re going to see Dr. Abu Dieh.”

Julian: “WELL, HE’S NOT TOUCHING MY BOOBIE NIPPLES! THEY ARE MY BOOBIE NIPPLES! ONLY I CAN TOUCH MY BOOBIE NIPPLES!”

Me: “I need to get out more.”