Tag Archives: comedy

Here I go again on my own

Quick re-cap, I blogged with a fab group of women for about a year over at imperfectlybalanced.com, and while we figure out what direction we wish to move, I’m back here, dribbling nonsense out the ends of my fingers, hoping to still find an audience.

A re-introduction to myself.  I’m a single mom to a teen-aged daughter.  I’m a do-gooder with a potty mouth.  A self-proclaimed domestic Goddess.  Often described as abrasive but likable and I think I’m hilarious.  My mind goes a mile a minute, and I often speak, tweet, Facebook, blog and text before I think at all.  Not Instagram though.  That requires a ton of thought, retakes and filters.

I’ve recently become a Team Beachbody Coach which excites me to NO END.  Needed to kick my generous, but well-shaped ass into gear for my 35th (oh god) birthday, so I’m striving to lose 35 by my 35th.

In these pages you’ll find random ramblings, rantings, recipes, trials and tribulations of an estrogen only household (a boat load of alliteration), how to deal with different dietary needs (she doesn’t eat meat, I devour it still mooing) and what it’s like to date while your child dates, because let me tell you IT’S REALLY, REALLY WEIRD.

If you have any questions about BeachBody, fire away!  If you’d like to collaborate on a blog post, suggest content, share the content, make people read me because I’m hilarious, please, please do.
Thanks!

 

Lisa


A labour of love

I don’t know why they call it labour, you’re laying down through the whole thing, is an incredibly stupid thing to say to the woman who is in the throes of expelling your demon semen child, FYI.

Yesterday marked the 13th anniversary of the day I kicked my child out my womb, and I thought it would be fun to recall the hours leading up to her birth.  As voted by the people of twitter (FOLLOW ME!), a reenactment of her birth was a BAD idea. Funny, but bad.

Picture it: June 2nd, 1999.  It’s hot, I’m fat, swollen, due at any moment and still wearing platform heels.  Girlfriend looks good

So my mom and head to the OB for my final check up where I learn that effacement has begun (thinning of the cervix – hurrah for vag talk!), and I can expect the baby at any time now.  How do we celebrate?  We got to Brannigans.

To make a long story short, I had a pregnant cow on our waitress and demanded we be moved to another section because of a dispute over butter, and I still stand by it.  I didn’t ask her opinion, I just wanted butter for my fucking bread sticks.  THERE IS A LIVE HUMAN TRYING TO FIGHT IT’S WAY OUT OF MY VAGINA.  WHY CAN’T I JUST HAVE BUTTER?  The manager agreed.  Butter for everyone.

Needing groceries for the family bbq that night, we swung into Family Foods.  I’m quickly fading on the vine, walking while pregnant is exhausting. I convince my mom to grab a tub of Heavenly Hash ice cream which I started craving immediately (notable: at this point, I had never even TRIED it before), and then I toddle off to the benches in the mall area.  My back is getting sore, and I need to get off my feet.

10 minutes later, the dull ache in my back becomes more pronounced and I take the keys, get in the car and lay flat, desperate to get comfortable but to no avail.  Heels I’ve decided, were a poor life choice that day.

20 minutes later, I’m curled up in a lazy boy recliner about to shovel in my first delectable bite of heavenly hash when a wave of nausea washes over me.  Immediately soured by the thought of ice cream and distracted by my still aching back I announce I am taking a hot bath and that I think I’m getting the stomach flu.  The flu.

As I sit soaking I notice a copy of Reader’s Digest on the counter and reach over for it.  Oh look!  An article: What to expect when you’re expecting!  This will be great and informative, I think and I devour the story with intensity.  5 minutes later, I’m freaking out that I will be giving birth to a hairy, jaundiced cone head alien child and I don’t want to be pregnant any more.  BAD ARTICLE.  BAD.

Realizing that this bath is doing fucking nothing for my pain, but is making me wrinkly, and the porcelain surround is NOT COMFORTABLE AT ALL, I call a crane company to tow my fat ass out of the tub, get dressed and sprawl out on my parents bed.  I’ve now missed dinner, and the pain is getting worse.  I no longer have the stomach flu I cry.  It’s my appendix.  It’s going to burst.

At about 8:30, after watching me writhe in pain and physically lift off the bed, my mom gently whispers that maybe it’s time to go.  “Oh God,” I say.  “Do you really think it’s that bad?  Can they take out your appendix when you’re pregnant?”

“You’re in labor, Lisa” my mom says.  Right.  I knew that.  Sure.  Labor.

We load me, and nothing else into the car because I didn’t even know you should pack a bag because I’m 19 years old and that kind of shit is not something that comes up in conversation EVER. We just have to drop my aunt off Aunt off at my Nana’s and we are ER bound.  One hiccup.  My aunt stands around, yammering about I don’t know what, all I can hear is the “wohn wohn wohn” of the Peanuts teacher, and I tear my teeth off the arm rest long enough to yell “GET OUT OF THE MOTHER FUCKING CAR SHE WILL TALK TO YOU LATER!!

Sensing immediate danger, aunt oblivious slams the car door, and with me foaming at the mouth, we’re off.

The next few hours is a bit of a blur, I’m clearly in labor, 5 cm dilated and on display for every Tom, Dick and Harry to poke prod and inspect.  At one point, I even offered the dinner guy a look because hey! everyone else got to see!

Clearly, as the pain intensifies, I’m brought laughing gas and as I suck it back with enough intensity to such the chrome off a trailer hitch, I murmur to my mother that if I wasn’t in so much pain, it would be awesome.

Gas stops working, demerol is not enough it’s time to whip out the big guns.  EPIDURAL BABIES!  So I’m perched on the edge of the bed with a horse tranq sized needle posed at the base of my spine, and they give me the prerequisite warning of potential for paralysis and I say “I DON’T GIVE A LEFT NUT ABOUT PARALYSIS.  STAB ME” and they do.  And life is good.

Thanks to the God juice flowing through my bod, I sleep all night, and am gently woken at 6:30 to prep for delivery.

At 7:00AM I’m wheeled to the delivery room where I’m greeted by not my Dr.  A man I’ve never met is strapping on gloves and preparing to go elbow deep**.

I assume the position.  Mommys, you know which one.  In stirrups in your glory, getting ready to bare down.  Lawd.  At this point, the unknown Dr who is sitting on a stool between.my.knees. peeks out at me around my leg after seeing my surname and says, “Hey!  Are you related to Peter?  Our kids play hockey together!”

Instant mortification.  Peter is my uncle, and his friend now has an eagle eye view of my kidneys.

7:15 AM my baby is born and I will never go through any of that again. Ever.  She was then, as she is now: Perfect.

**TMI


Holy MOTH’er’ Trucker

The other working blog title is “Why I need a man”

Two days ago, the kid tells me there’s ‘THE BIGGEST MOTH I HAVE EVER SEEN IN THEKITCHEN‘.

Like any good parent, I go and investigate.  12 seconds in, I can’t find it and I quit.  Moths are like ninjas, silent assassins.  Or, as one lovely man told me yesterday ‘just think of it as a grey butterfly’.  Sure, I said.  An undead Zombie butterfly.  Pft.

So last night, it’s 10:30, the kiddo is just letting the dogs out and I reach for the vertical blinds in the kitchen when OUT FLIES THE BIGGEST MOTH I HAVE EVER SEEN, except it was no longer one moth.  THERE WERE TWO.

So like any responsible adult I shriek and start laughing hysterically.  The kid is outside and she hears me and yells OH MY GOD KILL IT.

Here is how it went down:

I run to the closet, grab a broom and an oven mitt.  I don’t know what good the oven mitt will do, but it seemed like a damned good idea at the time.

K (from outside): KILL IT

Me: I’M TRYING.  IT’S DODGING ME.  IT’S GOT THE FLIGHT PATTERN OF A DEMENTED BAT.

K: *scream* THEY’RE OUT HERE TOO.  THEY’RE DIVING AT MY HEAD

Me: Get inside!

K: NO!  IT CAN CORNER ME INSIDE.  I CAN RUN HERE.

Now, keep in mind it’s 10:30 at night and all the windows are open.  Why didn’t a single neighbor come and investigate?  I’m actually anticipating a visit from the police.  And I am truly sorry for my actions.

K: CALL SEAN OR DARRYL!  CALL SOMEONE.  OH MY GOD KILL IT.

Me: SEAN IS IN TORONTO AND DARRYL…well, I was 3 minutes away from calling Darryl.  Sorry, Debbie.

At this point, one of them has found its way into the dining room and I chase hot on his tails.  He hides behind the mirror, swings rapidly around the chandelier, bobbing and weaving, taunting me with his moonlight ballet.  Finally, I clip his wing with the broom and I BEAT HIM LIKE A RENTED MULE.  He dies.

Lisa 1 Moth 0

Back to the kitchen, that stupid bastard moth flew into my light fixture.  A globe fixture, and like a boss I trap him.   And he will stay there until he dies, or someone kind-hearted like you comes and frees him.

Seriously. He’s trapped. In my light. GET HIM OUT.

 

Fun Treat!  I decided to depict the event in MS PAINT!  (note the laser eyes the moth had.  It is to scale)  Enjoy!

This is how it went down. I am a warrior.


If you want to be friends with benefits, it better include dental insurance.

In order to maintain a professional edge, you should be updating your resume on the regular.  Any new skill set, course, or attribute should be added as it occurs to keep it current and fresh.  You never know when an opportunity will knock.

Have you ever considered your romantical resume? Regardless of your relationship status, I encourage you (for FUN) to write out your dating profile as though you were currently on the market. Would you date you? Would your spouse date you again?  Hell, would you date your partner after reading theirs?

I got to thinking about what mine would look like, and good GOD.  Heaven help you, if you bite the worm that’s wiggling on this hook.  Here goes nothing:

Now apparently, every successful dating profile has a catchy Tagline.  This is most important, as it will grab your potential mates’ attention.  You are looking for the right type of person, not every person.

If this wasn’t so damn funny I would fucking cry. Oh someecards, you so get me.

Like Bacon?  How about HAM? (Hot Ass Mess) Look no further!

Hi, my name is Lisa and I’m an emotionally unavailable 32-year-old mother of a nearly teenage daughter.  I have 2 lab crosses, one with a neurological eating disorder and the other has entitlement issues.  I’m also a fur mama to a nameless cat who is the reason why I CAN’T HAVE NICE THINGS.  Apparently, my world is her scratching post.  She also enjoys long naps on your clothes, shedding like it’s her job and barfing near heating vents at inopportune times.  (There are also 2 rats, but we’re not getting into that right now).

I am a loud, passionate person by nature.  Big mouth, bigger heart, biggest backside sums me up nicely.  I frequently would rather be right than kind, I will argue my point until vultures are circling, and I need to see every possible side to a topic before I am willing to let it drop, I hope you can keep up.  I’m spontaneous, child like and fiercely loyal; to a fault.  I make impressions.  People like me, or despise me immediately and there is usually no changing their mind.  I will go for the jugular and I’d rather show anger than hurt.

I enjoy all the little things, and will look for unique ways to show my appreciation.  I do have baggage, but even my emotional baggage is designer, and it goes with everything.  I don’t need anything fancy, nor do I expect to be lavished with gifts (but don’t let that stop you, I am EVER SO APPRECIATIVE OF PRESENTS).  All I expect is to be treated with kindness and respect, and you to be a person of your word.  Without it, you have nothing.

I don’t know what I’m looking for aside from keys and my favourite red shoes which are never where I left them.  I’m a woman, it’s my job to change my mind.  I’ve re-written this blog 3 x’s and I’m still not satisfied with it.  Life changes, you need to learn how to roll with it.

I like to cook, and fitness is an ever-increasing important part of my life, but I’m still a work in progress.  And sometimes nachos ARE dinner and tough titties to you if you can’t hack it.  I like Froot Loops, and drink Earl Grey tea because it tastes like Froot Loops.  Regardless of the fact that KD is the leading cause of cellulite I eat it willingly.  I will scoop mashed potatoes up with pickles, eat my steak still mooing and think vegans make great appetizers.

Against all logic, I will on occasion mug a nun for a McDonald’s cheeseburger.  I don’t care that it’s 95% preservatives 5% crushed up babies.  It.is.delicious.

I blog, I overreact, and I’m vulgar.  I’m also one of the most caring, generous and loving people you’re ever going to meet.  Your mother will almost certainly dislike me, but feel guilty about doing so, and I will be just as comfortable having beer with your buddies as I will be having dinner with your boss.

I read, a lot, and mental stimulation is an absolute must.  Above all else however, my daughter is my number one priority.  She always has been, and she always will be.  And between teenage angst, needy pets, an overtly appealingly challenging personality plus my inability to ever be wrong you best have a big mouth, because that’s a lot to bite off.

Looking forward to hearing from you soon!

Lisa

See how FUN that was people?  Go write your own!  Share it with me!  Critique mine!   Let’s have some serious late morning-mid afternoon fun with this small slice of absolute insanity.

And GO!

 

OH ALSO.  I don’t mind getting caught in the rain if only to prove to my haters that I will not in fact melt.  Bitches.

 

 


How I discovered a Zombie Apocalypse

This entirely true story of the Zombie Apocalypse came to be all because of a little lady named Samantha.  Her friends call her Sammy.

Let me introduce you to her!

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Oh I’m sorry.  Were you not expecting a rodent?  Not many do.  So here’s how Samantha unintentionally led me to the town formerly known as Grunthal Manitoba.

Sammy is not my rat, she belongs to my daughter’s best friend Cindy, and she has a growth (Sammy has a growth, not Cindy – let’s be clear.  As the story unfolds it will be clear that nothing is clear.).  One that I learned on Thursday was apparently treatable and removable by Cindy’s aunt in Grunthal.  The problem of course is Cindy is only 13, can’t drive and no one in her family has much interest in the goings on of her life or the life of the animals under her care.  But I digress.

Well, what the hell I tell my kid.  I’m not doing anything Saturday.  We will take Sammy to Grunthal.  And that set the ball rolling for what was to become the most bizarre afternoon of my life.

I was pretty stoked for the drive, looking forward to the big prairie sky, wide open highway and fresh country air.

About 20 minutes south of Winnipeg, I open the sun roof, roll down the windows and inhale the glorious smell of…poo.  It was so overpoweringly wretched, as though someone placed a huge steaming pile of excrement on my engine and it was blowing full force into my mouth.  I nearly barfed.  Quickly rolling up the windows and sunroof, I learned that I can hold my breath for 47 MISSISSIPPI’s while driving without losing consciousness.

As we roll into the town of Grunthal, I start making small talk with Cindy who is showing increased anxiety over the uncertain future of her rat.

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I'm not gonna lie. What little make up is left on my face is trace evidence of CoachShella the night before. I splashed, but did not scrub. HATE ON.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I asked her questions like, “Is your aunt the Vet out in Grunthal?” and she responded with answers like, “No, she’s a painter, but knows a lot about animals”.

We drove on in silence as I tried to wrap my head around what in the hell I just got myself, and my new bff Sammy into.

Pulling into the parking area of the aunt’s house, my initial gut reaction is holy shit, we need to get out of here.  Serial killers lurk in shadows like these. The house looked as though it was pulled out of a horror movie and dropped next to Granny’s Poultry.  It looked a lot like this, but with dirtier doors, and more falling down fences.

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Little shop of horrors

The next thing I notice is the horses in the distance.  And as I reluctantly step out of the car, my thoughts of the place being haunted are reaffirmed by the appearance of a big filthy white dog on the porch.  A dog named ghost.  Great.

We walk in and I am immediately assaulted with the overtly pungent smell of a house with too many cats, not enough litter boxes, a kid drinking a beer and a few other soldiers littering the table.  Next thing I see are count ’em 1,2,3,4,5,6 more dogs! 4 poms running loose, and 2 poodles who I’ve been informed are registered purebreds valued at $1200 a piece.  The 2 curly dogs are in their kennels because there is an 8th dog who is staring at me with what can only be described as a please, please, please get me the fuckouttahere, look in her eyes.  Her name is Amber.  She’s a bitch in heat, just dropped off and there are 2 Poms fighting to knock her up.  Great.

I tread gingerly (shoes on, she didn’t say to keep ’em on, but I ain’t walking on that floor) and sit on a chair that is more duct tape than chair and I stare in fascination at the woman I have already decided is NOT touching the damn rat and ask her what she thinks.

She examines the rat as I watch 2 dogs making coitus and the male dog continues to miss it’s mark.  Frustrated, he hops around to the front of his lady and starts humping her face while the other even smaller Pom is growling and jumping trying desperately to plant his seed.

Enthralled that people actually live like this I start peppering her with questions.  She has 7 dogs, 8 cats, 3 horses, 1 cow, 20 chickens, geese and a turkey.

I don’t think any of the animals are fixed and she often breeds her dogs which makes me so angry I want to feed her to the pigs I’m assuming she has in the back to eat the bodies of her unsuspecting neighbors.

An hour has ticked by. She has given no diagnosis, and I am literally itching to get out.  She is convinced it’s an infection but of course has no antibiotics.  Cindy can’t afford the vet which is why we were out in Looney Toon country to begin with.  So, after driving 75 KM ONE WAY and sitting in animal filth for 60 minutes the verdict is in.  This is WHAT SHE ACTUALLY SAYS

Penicillin comes from mold.  Feed the rat moldy bread”.

And just like that, we’re fucking out.

Wait!  You’re saying (if you’re still with me.  I know you’re still with me, we haven’t touched the Zombies yet)

Cruising back into the entirely vacant town of Grunthal, I squeal into the deserted parking lot of Grunthal Grocery, burst through the doors and holler at the cashier “Lead me to your hand sanitizer and lint rollers please!”

One looks at me slack jawed, unmoving, unblinking and the other wordlessly points to my desired items.  Before I even hit the till I’m scrubbing the everlovinghell out of my hands, elbows, eyes and mouth relishing in the burn of the alcohol.

Eying the produce, I figure I’ll grab a few apples for the girls for the ride home.  Upon closer inspection the bushel of Macintosh apples are so old and wrinkled the skin is literally puckering away from the flesh of the fruit. I hazard a glance up at the limes.  Dried and puckered.  The kiwis have more wrinkles than an octogenarian convention and it dawns on me that I have yet to see another living soul.

I nervously pay for my goods, keeping a safe distance from the what can only be an undead cashier (I’m telling you, a piece of flesh fell FROM HER FACE) and run out to the car.

I throw the hand sanitizer in the car, lint roll the equivalent of 6 pygmy horses off my shirt and tell the girls I think the town of Grunthal has been taken over by zombies.

Looking up and down the street we see no one.  No traffic, no people, no life.

Laughingly, I remember I saw the fire department on the way in. Surely, they could save us.  As we creep up, the parking lot is littered with empty pick up trucks, all garage doors are up, turn out coats are flashing in the sunlight and we see no one.

HOLD ON GIRLS! I yell as we tear down the highway and on to safety as Eye of the Tiger plays on the radio.

That is how we discovered and survived the Apocalypse.

Oh! Later, I found a blow up doll in a tree.

Truth.

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Strange.

 


Stop licking the carpet

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Being a parent is glamorous, and if you have pets and no kids you can totally relate.  If you have pets and kids, you’re my kind of crazy because that shit just gets wild.

Sticking with the life is unpredictable theme, I thought it would be fun to reminisce about all the glorious, soul enriching experiences that are to be had as (fur) parents.

I didn’t know what I wanted to be when I grew up; I still don’t, but I know those fantasies looked nothing like the reality I now face.

It isn’t until a little furry or squirmy being relies on you for sustenance and existence that you fully grasp how incredible life is.

For example, it wasn’t until I had a dog that I ever even imagined that I would yell things like “STOP LICKING THE CARPET” or maybe “WE HAVE COMPANY!  LICK YOUR BALLS SOMEWHERE ELSE”.

There is the all-time crowd pleasing question of “Honey, are you farting or did the dog shit in the hall again?”

Then there’s the wild array of questions thrown at you when the kids finally learn to speak (silence IS golden.  Appreciate.)  You get to say things like, “No, snot is NOT a vegetable.  Yes, I know it’s green, it’s still NOT a vegetable” and “It only looks like chocolate.  Don’t taste it”.  If you’ve got boys, Jeebus help you, they’ll thunder out loud at the most inopportune time.  Like during silent reading time at the library.  Things like “MOMMY!  MY PENIS GETS BIGGER WHEN I PULL IT LIKE THIS!” and he WILL proceed to pull it, just like that.

You’ll sometimes feel as though you’ve dodged a bullet.  Your child, against all odds has never embarrassed you.  Never let your guard down, that’s when they strike.

Picture it, Christmas.  Holiday best attire, the finest china and all your uptight relatives gathered around the table.  You’re part way through asking Aunt Sara to pass the potatoes when you hear your little angel telling Grandma “MOMMY AND DADDY MAKE A LOT OF NOISE WHEN THEY GO TO BED AT NIGHT. WHAT DO YOU THINK THEY’RE DOING?” or if you’re really blessed “I SAW MOMMY AND DADDY WRESTLING NAKED!  IT LOOKED LIKE MOMMY WAS WINNING.  SHE WAS ON TOP”.  Please, Sarah.  PASS THE FUCKING POTATOES.

You learn to dress in black; or white depending upon what colour fur the dogs have, and what colour puke the kids have, you artistically arrange furniture and buy plants to place over the stains in the carpet, because try as you might purple-koolaid-puke-does-NOT-wash-out, you convince yourself that greasy-chic hair IS cutting edge, sleep is overrated, fashion is underrated and the various stains are just an organic new pattern.

When you have dogs and kids, it gets a little trickier.  You have to make sure that neither the child nor the dog eats the presents in the cat box, that the kid doesn’t eat the dog food, that the cat doesn’t eat the kid.  You will be sweeping, mopping, vacuuming, and sobbing on a daily basis.  There are boundaries.  The cat can go here, but not here, the dog isn’t allowed over there, and the kid must be secured in a bubble.

One day you’ll be half way to the vet and realize the kid is on the leash, the dog is in the baby carrier and the cat is driving the fucking car?

Welcome to adulthood.  Your future looks furry.