The first haircut

At 2 years, 2 months and 2 weeks, Sophie finally had her first haircut! We had tried going last weekend and the girl said "If she's going to cry I can't do it." I thought "What? Don't most kids cry?" But whatever. Saoirse had her hair cut, Sophie didn't. On Friday we dropped Saoirse off at playschool and I said to Sophie "Would you like to go get your hair cut and then Mummy will buy you a bag of chips?"

Whatever works, people, whatever works. I am not above bribery.

As soon as we walked into the hairdresser's she freaked. "I'm not getting my hair cut! No hair cut!" I managed to placate her with some broken crayons and Happy meal toys (this is my salon- definitely not catering to toddlers!) while she gave a quick trim to some man. When he was done it was our turn.

Sophie wouldn't sit on the big cushion so I had to hld her in my lap. There went my plans for first haircut pictures.

She screamed, she cried, she yelled "NO!!!" at the stylist. She moved every which way even though I was holding her as well as I could. The end result is a little uneven, but at least she can see again.

Sophie in September:




Sophie yesterday:



Like I said, it's a bit uneven, but I think it makes her look sort of sweet, even if she was still mad at me in this picture and is giving me dirty looks.

To NaBlPoMo or to not NaBlPoMo

It's almost November. Can you believe it? I know, neither can I. Barely 2 months until Christmas. Yikes. I am the furthest behind in Christmas shopping that I have ever been. It's a bit frightening really. And I haven't even started making my Christmas cards! Good God, there will be some late nights ahead. The good news is that I have 3 new Christmas stamp sets. I know, I know. You are beyond thrilled. As you bloody well should be because if I have your address I am sending you a card. And if I don't have your address send it to me okay?

So have you noticed that my posts have been a tad sporadic? Once upon a time (or two or three times) I said that blogging reminds me of high school (so does plurk, twitter and facebook) and when I start feeling like I am reliving those days I have the need to do a runner. I was not a popular high school student and I am not a popular blogger. This is okay, mostly. But sometimes I feel like I am on the outskirts of the popular group just trying to be let in.

And then I realize that because I don't have the talent to be an A (or B, or even C) list blogger I would have to work to get there. And frankly? I couldn't be fucked. I don't have the time to comment on every blog, or even regularly read blogs. I don;t have the time, the energy, or the skill to blog everyday. I think it's great that people can do it, I assume they are either super organized or on speed or something. But I can not do it. When I was trying to do it I was sacrificing the things that are truly important to me- spending time with my girls, reading a good book, having sex, cleaning the house. Um, not that cleaning the house is important to me. But it certainly keeps the peace around here when it's clean.

I think I also forgot that I was blogging for ME. I began to want comments. I found myself competing with other bloggers to see who got more comments. Not only in regards to my own blog, but with others. Why does Blog A get so many more comments than Blog B when Blog B is so obviously the superior blog? Why have only a handful of people dicovered the sheer comedic genius that is Squishy Tushy? Why does Random Mommy not get 40 or 50 comments on her thought provoking posts? There are so many other bloggers I could name who are absolutely fantastic who do not get the credit they deserve. It took me some to relaize that they are not searching for it.

And I should not be searching for it either. Over the last year or so my writing has changed. It has become less honest, less me. Sometimes I hide things that I never used to hide. It has taken me some time to remember who the most important person reading this blog is- me.

So I am challenging myself to post every day in November. I may post a whole lot of crap. I may not. You can be guaranteed that shortly after midnight on November 1st, I will be posting Halloween photos. Whew. One post down, 29 to go. If I find that I am not posting for myself, if I am worrying about the lack of comments, about the fact that I am feeling guilty for not getting to blogs I enjoy then I am seriously going to have to reassess whether or not I should even be blogging. I many just have to open a document called A Question of Sanity and write it all out there.

See you in November. Or earlier probably. But only when my girls are in bed. And not on nights I would rather have sex. And not when I am reading a good book.

Lessons learned at work this weekend

It was Thanksgiving this weekend, so a three day work week for me. Normally, I am not a fan of stats, even with the extra pay, because it means I am missing out on a day at home with my lovely children (!) as well as a fancy meal prepared by my mother. Well, my mother is currently in England so no fancy meal and some of my children are slightly less than lovely these days so I didn't mind working this weekend. And sometimes? Work makes for okay blog fodder.

I learned a few things at work that I thought I would share with you.
I wrote the first one on plurk but in my ever so intelligent way I thought "Why share it with the 50 or so people who my come across it on plurk, when I could share it with my remaining half dozen readers?" Smart, that's me.

Lesson #1: Old men are pervs. Example number 1: I pick up a fellow who is the tender age of 80. His son is visiting and he is very tall. Not freakishly tall, but easily the tallest person I have seen who doesn't wear an NBA uniform. The patient himself is quite tall, and he tells me that his 3 sons are all taller than his 6'1", being 6'5", 6'6" and 6'10" (that would be the visiting son.) I say to him, "Your wife must have been quite tall also." And he says, "I put it all down to good titties."

Um, ewwwww?

Example number 2: I am walking into the ER and what do I see down the hall but a man sitting in a brod.a chair (a chair with wide padded belts that fasten up between the legs) having a wee wank! At first I thought he was just pulling at the blanket between his legs but when I walked by him about 5 minutes later he was actually playing with himself.

Again...ewwww.

Lesson #2: 20 year old girls can talk on the work phone, text on their cell AND study all at the same time. I worked with one girl for 2 of my 3 shifts who literally spent the entire time either on the phone or on her cell. How many times did I hear the story about her sorority sister buying her some amzing gifts? About 6 times, which was 6 times too many. What else did I learn about her? That she is voting only because her friend told her she should, that she missed a concert because she needed to study but that instead she talked with her friend until 4 am, that "dude, that is so dumb!" and that "dude, it was so great!", that she partied to hard but still would e went to an interview and that she thought the game the Oilers won, their first game of the season, was a Stanley Cup game.

Tonight I worked with another girl, who is also 20. These 2 girls are worlds apart. This one can carry on a conversation that does not take place on a phone and doesn't only involve talking about sororities, drinking and calling everyone dude. This one actually talks with me, and even though I rarely see her, I realized tonight that she knows the names of my kids, I don't think the other one even knows, or cares, that I have children. I always enjoy talking with her, even though our lives are completely different (she's a med student, off to work in Africa next year) we have a lot to say to one another. Shifts are never boring with her around.

Lesson #3: I am aging, and looking it. I think I have generally always looked younger than my age, but working amongst all these young ones has made me realize how very old I am. Today we were talking about schools it turns out that the guy I was working with went to the same junior high that my daughter goes to, that I also went to many years ago. For some reason this made one of the others ask how old I was and when I said my age she said "So you are older than my kids." Now it used to be that when I said my age, or how old my kids were, people would say "You don't look it!" or "You don't seem old enough to have a child of that age." Apparently I am that old. And I am old enough to have a child who is 13. What I am not? Is tall enough to have a daughter who towers over me a grand total of 4 inches. Okay, 5. Whatever. Can I not have that extra inch I have lied about for so long I actually forgot I was not that height until we measured me to see exactly how much taller Taylor was than I?

The point of this tale? People no longer tell me I look younger than my age. And when I look in the mirror even I think I look older. Blah.

Lesson #4: Nurses make a lot of freaking money. Whereas I was paid time and a half today, the nurses made double time. If they worked overtime today? They made double that. Imagine..$120- $160 an hour. Funny to think there is a nursing shortage in the province, where nurses are the highest paid in Canada, and amongst the highest paid in North America.

Lesson #5: Making out with your boyfriend when he is disgustingly dirty, reeking of drink, sick as a dog, lying in a stretcher in an ER hallway with EMTs around him and oxygen tubing coming out of his nose? Is not pretty. It is not pretty at all. I have seen some freaky ass things in that ER, but you, with your unlit cigarette hanging out of your mouth and your disgusting PDAs win the prize for freakiest of all freak asses.


And that in a nutshell was my Thanksgiving weekend.

I'm off to vote later today, as it is Election Day in Canada. Who to vote for? I am very torn. But that's a whole other post.

Around the world in 888 days - Leaving Los Angeles

My brother posted this as a note on facebook, and since he is not yet blogging (even though I harrass him every time we talk) I am copying it here. Hey, saves me having to write a post. Or think of one, for that matter.


It had been ten thousand miles, eleven weeks and one day since I had first had Brunhilda (his bike) on the road. South Carolina seemed worlds away from the Southern California I had just left that evening.
The sun was setting on the Hollywood Hills, as I was riding to the 101 to catch its north flowing traffic. I passed the boulevards Santa Monica, and Sunset. Narrow streets fronted by buildings of a far earlier generation, streets active with the to and fro of pedestrians. I thought with great favour upon my week in LA. The storied and legendary Los Angeles. La La Land. It is, for certain, home to many an angel, truly beautiful people who call it, and its pockets of cool community home.
I followed Cahuenga to its end, as it ingeniously snaked and turned to meet the 101. A week of blue skies I had had and the last of the sun tinged the edges of sky pink. I took in a big breath, again my love for Los Angeles affirmed. Descending to meet the traffic, to the right trees running along the curb and from it rose a plume of dust as a man with dirty matted hair kicked at the earth and released words, unintelligible, screaming first in a sharp falsetto than a deep baritone. I caught his eye as he turned to look at the line of traffic descending on the ramp - his young face yet to be ravaged by the trials of poverty and addiction. Two seconds was my window onto his world. With it he would be unto the end. A moment later I was laying off the throttle to join the long line of bright red lights braking themselves forward, six lanes strong, north on the Hollywood Freeway. The sky grew darker, a few exits more and the pace picked up, a Mercedes to my left, a long white stretch limo passes me to the right and I was leaving Los Angeles.