Mavenly Advice, Week 2: Insanely Organized

Rejoice, for I am back from the dead!

Or, rather, the toilet bowl. Stomach flus are incredibly... motivating. Nothing makes me get up and run more than the idea of needing new pants. I probably burned 800 calories in bathroom trips alone. I feel skinnier already!

That was too much info, wasn't it? Probably. Regardless, I have undoubtedly put some worried minds at rest. After not blogging for, like, a day and a half, there were sure to be rumours of my untimely demise. I'm thrilled to report I have not yet died and can once again fill everyone's heart with joy and heads with wonder.

Now that you've dried the sorrow from your eyes, I will go forth with this week's advice column. I was sad that I only received a single question this week. Don't you trust me with your life's problems? Don't you believe I can help you fix your "issues"? I'm the freaking Maven, people! I'm capable for scaling tall buildings while simultaneously talking to you about your crotchety mother-in-law who hired someone to off you because she heard you don't believe in me. That's the type of person I am. I'm hurt that you can't see that.

I'm done making the guilt sandwich, now. I'm sure my inbox will fill with apologies and help requests now. Right? RIGHT?

Right. Damn it.

Don't make me call your mother-in-law.

Onward:

My questions for you Mrs Maven is this: How do you stay sane with 4 males in your house? How exactly does one stay sane, after all? Is there like some magic powder or juice that I could drink to stay as sane and organized as you are Maven?

Sincerely,
Your Biggest Fan Who Thinks You're Really, Really Awesome And Gorgeous, Too.

Dear Bob (sorry, had to shorten your name a little),

If there's one thing this egomaniac enjoys doing it's talking about herself. Three questions instead of one? I feel like I raped a slot machine and am rolling around naked in all the...

...

Nevermind.

How do I stay sane with 4 males in the house? It's easier than it might look. Sure, I don't have My Little Pony parties or spa afternoons with girl children like some of you other moms. Sure, I trip over Rescue Heroes and Duplo monsters every time I head to the playroom to break up a fight (and by "fight" I mean actual fight, and not one of those girly fights where they pull each other's hair once or twice and then pout in separate corners for an hour). I find things with tweezers that should never see the inside of an ear canal, and use duct tape to fix broken dollar store swords. The only pink in the house can be found deep inside my closet and I sometimes open the door just to stare at it so I can remember what the colour looks like.

But you know what? I kind of like it. I'm built for boys. I like to hike and roll in the grass and build forts and use my plastic dinosaur to attack other people's plastic dinosaurs. (Grownups who don't own their own plastic dinosaurs can't be in my Special Club Of People Who Like To Have Pretend Dinosaur Fights). I like to be a pirate and watch scary pirate movies, yar! I'd much rather watch a basketball game than a ballet recital, or make a disgusting zombie costume over a pretty fairy princess one. It's not that I wouldn't do those things if I had a girl - or any child, regardless of gender - who enjoyed them. But since we're talking about me and my sanity, this is what keeps me sane-ish: Rough and tumble, boyish fun.

The other part of the equation is having a lot of girlfriends to do girly things with, and making sure that a good portion of them have female children for me to interact with.

Then, satisfied with my fix, I go home and remind my boys not to eat their own snot.

Is there a magic powder to stay sane and organized? I hear cocaine can really take you places. But I can't say I've tried it and I wouldn't recommend it. I've also heard it's addictive, if you're capable of getting addicted to stuff. I wouldn't know what that's like.

If you let juice sit out on the front porch in the middle of summer for a really, really long time and then drink it you might experience a hallucination in which you would feel put together with an organized life. Hey, it could happen. You could also die, but that's the risk of experimentation.

But if, after reading my blog and knowing a bit about me, you think I'm at all sane or organized, I would have to say there is no hope for you. You poor, poor thing. I think you're too far gone to ever experience sanity.

It's nice to know I have some company in here. We can spend our days babbling nonsensicals to each other.

Sincerely yours,
The Maven

*~*~*~*

Send your questions to mavenmayhem@gmail.com and I'll attempt to fix all life's problems. I'm good at that, and chocolate eating, too.

Stomach Flu and Letters, too!

Hey, it's me, just back from my family's favourite vacation spot in the French city of Vomitte. I only stuck my head through the gate and turned around, but Spawnling stayed for almost three days and Gutsy has just rented a room in Hotel De La Barfe.

I will write more on this topic soon, but one way I know for sure that we're done having kids - other than that vasectomy thing my husband got over the summer - is that I can't fathom six of us going through an illness before it leaves our house. Making mad dashes through Casa Maven with The Puke Bowl(tm) in hand for three gremlins takes up the better part of a week. By the time the bowl is sanitized and put back up in that place where dishes are used for non-cooking puposes only, my mind has one foot through the disassociative door of insanity and it takes a fair bit of coaxing to get it to come back.

(As I was finishing that paragraph I had to break so I could wash out The Puke Bowl(tm) as Gutsy had just finished using it. Stomach flu: 2657. Maven: 0.)

This particular bug hasn't been the worst we've experienced, but it's knocked the life out of our weekend. I had to cancel four plans on Friday. Four fun plans involving things like coffee and sugar and kids to keep my kids busy so I can enjoy the first two things.

Tragic.

Last night I stayed home and sorted movies while I watched Dog The Bounty Hunter and Supernanny. Reality television on a Friday night instead of the usual meeting and lattes with my sponsee? So not cool.

I haven't felt much like blogging. In between feeling gross, caring for other people who feel gross, washing things and people that are in some state of grossness, and watching telelvision that makes me feel even more gross and more than a little white trash, my creative alter-ego has left the building at a run and wearing a biohazard mask.

Today, as Spawnling started to recover, we found a fun Super Why! game on PBSkids.org. When I realized he rocked the letter recognition more than I thought he would, I whipped out my camera and shot some footage.

If I can't feel creative, I might as well show off. I don't have much to brag about personaly, so I'll have my children realize my dreams for me.

That sounds healthy enough, and, now that I think about it, a great reason to have kids in the first place.

The Spawn is 28 months old in this video - that's nearly 2 1/2, for those who suck at math or who are not mothers and therefore can't automatically do the months-to-years toddler conversion. He's a smartypants. When he solves the world's hunger problems in his teen years you can thank my amazing genetics and extended breastfeeding.

And Geekster, a little.

And maybe brothers who like to teach him the alphabet. But I birthed them, too, so mostly thank me.

I Want To Be American Now, Sort Of.

So Barack Freaking Obama was here today, being really cool and telling everyone how much likes us Canadians; a huge compliment, considering he had to spend the day with Prime Minister Stephen "I look like I eat babies for breakfast" Harper.

Now, don't get me wrong: The fact that I don't really care for our Prime Minister has nothing to do with how much or how little he resembles a baby eater. Whether or not he eats babies isn't up for debate in my mind, either, as I'm quite sure we tend to screen for cannibalism in our elected officials.

At least, I hope so.

Is there even an admissions test for Prime Ministers, or is it based entirely on ballot counting?

Regardless, I'm not saying that he eats babies. It's just that he looks that way. That's all. You may have your own opinions. Mine is right, of course, but you can have your own anyway.

Incidentally, I happened to mention to one of my friends - I can't remember who because I have a lot of them, being so popular - that he was a bit scary in the face and really creeped me out, and she brought up the baby munching. I'm just stealing it and putting it on my blog. I, The Maven, am quite proficient at not taking credit for other people's potentially offensive statements.

I save my own ass from hatred and avoid alienating friends. Two birds, one stone.

Anyway, I don't know where I was going with this, other than Barack Obama is cool and I'm glad he's not a baby so he didn't get eaten during his presidential visit.

Now I must go, as Spawnling is whining in his bed. He threw up a few hours ago after a huge burp. Nothing since. Stomach flu? I guess we'll see when I get upstairs.

Stinky bed = stomach flu.

Whiny but no stink = maybe not.

Wish me luck!

Also, I hope that nobody who knows the Prime Minister reads my blog, or I may get stolen and drowned in the repulsive tar sands, thus ending up as fuel in some idiot's Hummer. So not cool.

A Thank You From The Maven

Here I was, on my merrily feeling sorry for myself today, with my Spawnling's missing tooth so very apparent and the weight of yesterday's traumatic experience resting heavily on my already overburdened shoulders (*cue violinists*), when a flurry of comments on my last post started pouring in.

And then I realized something: There are six billion people in the world, and at least fifteen of them are telling me I don't completely suck as a mother.

Fifteen! Fifteen whole, real, live people!

Well, I think. Some of them may have been bots, but there's way of knowing that for sure. They were sincere sounding bots, at least.

Let's do some simple math:

I am 1 person with one opinion.

The commenters are 15 persons with 1 unanimous opinion that differs from my own.

Since we live in a democratic society and vote on important topics like parent suckage, it looks like my pity party of one did not get elected.

It's hard not to let those kinds of numbers turn a frown upside down. Suddenly, I realized that perhaps I'm not quite as sucktastic at this parenting thing as I had thought. That what I've been thinking is not only wrong, but irrelevant: In the end, it's what other people think of me that really matters.

I'm so glad you could sort my problems out for me. Truly, I am a better person because of you. I will hold my head up a little higher now that I know I'm not the only one in the enamel-less offspring club, and that you'll still read my blog even though I can make up crazy shit like elephants hiding in toof jungles.

And for those of you who live nearby, I shall bake you cookies as a thank you. The rest of you will have to look at pictures of the cookies and imagine you're eating them. I'm sorry, but they don't tend to ship well to Asia.

An update on Spawnling: He's really feeling better. I think he only hit three or four times today! ... Well, less than ten, anyway. And sure, he yelled at me to cut up his apple, but who can blame the kid? I should have known to do that anyway for the next few days. How insensitive. That must be why he pulled my hair and wouldn't let go. Serves me right.

*Sigh*.

Same ol' Spawn, one less tooth.

The fewer to bite you with, my dear.

Also, did I mention Barack Freaking Obama will be in my town tomorrow? Too bad I have zero inclination to bring Spawnling downtown to stand in the cold so we can watch his motorcade go by and possibly get trampled on by secret service snipers. I'll just watch it go down on t.v. and pretend like I somehow shared in this historic moment, or something.

Good News and Bad News

I don't know what to report first. The good news or the bad news. I think I'll do the good news first.

I am officially rich and famous, as my name is in print above an article on page 31 of our local paper. I announced it on Facebook, which makes it official, quite like favourite bands and divorces.

I was pretty much jumping up and down until I noticed how much my bum wobbles when I do that and promptly stopped. I shall have to celebrate with a brisk walk on the treadmill.

Fun.

Coffee fairy did bring me a coffee this evening and two copies of the paper so I can have one to brag with and one to keep hidden away in a secret vault until my very wealthy family finds it after my death and uses the proceeds of the auction to build school houses in Africa.

That Coffee Fairy doesn't fully realize the impact her actions will have on generations to come, I'm sure.

Now. the bad news is worse, to state the obvious.

About three weeks ago Spawnling chipped a front tooth. Being the responsible, caring parent with excellent dental coverage that I am, I took him to the dentist to get him looked at. "The enamel on that tooth is weird," Dr. Dentist said. "It's a weak tooth brought on by genetics or possibly due to insufficient dental care. Either way, watch for abscessing, because it that happens it has to come out right away."

Insufficient dental care? Oh, do you mean the lack of tooth brushing brought on by screams of "I CAN DO IT!" and "NO, DON' TOUCH MY TOOFBRUSS 'CUZ IT'S MINE!" ?

If I get his teeth brushed once a day I'm doing very well. Normally it's about once every two days, with the in-between day done by him. Sometimes I have to pretend I'm checking for elephants in his mouth with a pretend flashlight on the end of the toofbruss. For some reason this works.

The last few days The Spawn has been in good form. I have several scratches on my forearms to prove it, and the rest of the family members have at least one goose egg on their noggins from random Tonka launchings. The mood he's been in has been epic and will be written about in the history book of All Things Toddler.

Today was no exception: Spawn woke up on the wrong side of the pod with a slightly swollen face. I checked under his lip: no abscess. I asked him if anything hurt: no. We went about our day, which involved having four other children over. Two of them were singled out as enemy targets and subjected to random terror attacks. I'm surprised their mothers are still speaking to me. (They congratulated me on Facebook for my first article, which I assume means we're cool).

Spawnling's weapon of choice during our playdate was the Guitar of Death, meaning his little accoustic guitar that now only has five keys and four strings. I suppose it's technically an accoustic bass now, but those are semantics. The important thing is that two little boys went crying to their mommies clutching limbs and looking over their shoulders for the tempermental toddler.

I was near my breaking point by the time everyone went home early this afternoon. I had sat Spawnling on the stairs more times than I care to admit and had him apologize half-heartedly to his frienemies at least a dozen times. In the end, I decided the best way to clear up his mood was to serve him two bowls of Kraft Dinner and throw him a bath for some playtime.

And that's when I noticed the lip.

His upper lip had been swollen for two days, but just slightly. Just enough to have me checking for that pesky abscess I had begun to think would never show up. In my mind I knew we would be in the clear of the risk of tooth loss and he could go through the next four years with a chipped greying front tooth, but nothing more. Besides, he couldn't get that one pulled anyway, as his brother Gutsy had the very same one pulled at the very same age for the very same reason - a tooth abscess, but brought on by a creepy half-tooth that combined with the front one, decayed and took the good one with it. Watching little Gutsy go through the frightening and traumatic experience of having his tooth pulled while frozen but fully conscious still goes down as one of my top ten worst days as a mother. And, since I have three gremlins that's saying a lot. So, for no other reason, fate would not deal my boys and I the same hand twice. Too predictable.

That's why, when I found the large bump on the gum above his tooth today, I immediately turned from his sweet but puffy little face and started to weep silently. That's so not fair, I told myself and whoever was listening. So, so not fair.

It all made sense, suddenly: The grouchiness, the swollen lip and cheek, the sleeplessness. He had likely been fighting this off for several days before anything became visible. All the while I had expected him to behave well and go about his day like he wasn't dealing with something terribly painful and potentially dangerous.

Guilt made my tears flow a little heavier. Guilt tends to do that. Stupid guilt.

I wiped my eyes, got him out of the bath, set down my Mother Of The Year trophy on the mantle with all the others, and called the dentist. Half an hour later we were in the office, Spawnling asleep on me. I tried to read an article on Russia in Time magazine, but the stupid thing fell between the chairs in the waiting room and nobody offered to pick it up for me. Thanks, everyone. I'm fine. I'm just holding a sleeping toddler who needs to have his tooth pulled today. I hope he screams loud enough that you can't enjoy your cleanings, jerks.

But I wasn't bitter. Not at all.

I thought about how much I'd miss his full smile. Just recently I had pulled out pictures of Gutsy when he had his full set of teeth and remembered how perfect that grin was. I mean, it still is, but having a tooth missing as a preschooler seemed to have taken something away that wasn't supposed to gone just yet. It also took a little something away from the excitement we all should have experienced when he lost what should have been his first tooth at the age of five. I acted thrilled, but inside it just wasn't the same.

And now we were going to do that again, and that made me sad. I'm a drama queen, so that's not entirely suprising.

I tried not to cry in the dentist's office because that's a declaration of guilt right there. It would obviously show that I felt bad for not brushing his teeth all the time, which would lead to dirty looks and quite possibly an anonymous phone call to the authorities to have all my children removed and placed in a home where they get regular oral care.

"It's going to have to come out," said Dr. Dentist.

"I know" I replied, fighting back tears. He was going to be so scared when he saw the freezing needle. It was going to prick and then he'd feel numb and freaked out.

Dr. Dentist continued. "The problem is that... well... It's best if we don't use any freezing."

"... What?" Did Dr. Dentist start doing meth recently? I couldn't get a good look at his mouth for confirmation, but I knew it must be the drugs talking.

"The puss inside the abscess will prevent the freezing from working, and we'll just hurt him for no reason. Either we take it out now, with no freezing, or we send him to get sedated. But I'd rather do it now, since I don't think the infection has spread yet. Once the tooth is out the abscess will drain and he'll be okay."

Damn it, damn it, damn it... Quick and painful now, or wait for sedation in a day or two with some antibiotics or something.... If that would even work... and he's sore... And, oh man... Why did I tell him he didn't have to wear a condom? When we said we were done, we should have actually started using something. Then I wouldn't have to be making these on-the-spot decisions again and... fuck!

Yes, I thought fuck! I do swear quite a bit in my head, and sometimes out loud, just so you know. I don't even know why I thought about The Spawn in terms of sperm-meets-egg what-if scenarios, but I did. It's not like we don't want him around or I've ever wished he wasn't. It's just that I hated being stuck in that spot, making what seems like big decisions without having a chance to think. Why is it that mothers have to make on-the-spot choices when we can't even think straight enough to put the milk back in the fridge instead of the pantry?

"Can you be quick? Like, really quick? And we won't wake him up until you're ready?" I asked/demanded. Stroking Spawnling's hair, trying not to cry, trying to not feel like I can't make a good decision to save my life, or his tooth, and that I'm a really lousy excuse for a mother or we wouldn't be here at all.

"Absolutely."

He woke up as his tooth was being pulled. It took about ten seconds. He bled a lot for the next few minutes and everyone in the office lost a few decibels of hearing.

Next time you'll get me my damn Time magazine, won't you? Bitches.

We went home and he ate popcicles. I cuddled him on the couch and wouldn't let him go for a long time.

On his second popcicle, Spawnling said "Mommy? I feel a lot better now 'cuz my toof is gone."

I feel a lot worse, Spawnling, my love. I'm sorry for screwing up and not always brushing your teeth, for missing the warning signs, for making you try to socialize when you were in agony, for holding you down while you felt every single thing. But I am glad you feel better, baby.

I just wish I did, too.

Motherhood. We sign up without knowing what's coming, without knowing how hard some of these situations are going to be on them or on us. If we did, would we still do it? I thought about that when we were halfway to the appointment today, him asleep with his head drooped to one side, the sun illuminating his puffy-yet-still-beautiful face.

Motherhood. It sucks sometimes.

I think I should get that on a t-shirt. I'll only wear it in the house though, so the authorities don't remove my children and place them with people who don't have offensive statements written on their clothing.

Mavenly Advice, Week 1: The Energetic Prostitute

I said I was going to do it, and gosh darn it, I did.

Today and every Monday from now until I lose interest I will be answering questions and giving my excellent advice on the internets for all to see. I've chosen two questions this week: one of them is about me and the other is not about me. Naturally, we'll start with me first.


Dear Maven, You seem very busy all the time. I just want to know where you get all your energy from?

- Always Seriously Sleepy

Dear ASS,

Thank you for your question. It's definitely a good one. The answer is that I go to the local oxygen bar three times a week. I suck back some pure O₂
like it's nobody's business and that keeps me going for the most part. I also drink two pots of coffee every morning, do steroids and mainline speed.

Rock on, and on, and on, and on and on andonandonandonand *thump*
The Maven


*~*~*~*~*~*


Dear Maven,

As part of our weekly budget I get an allowance for my stay-at-home-mom stuff. After taking two children out a few times money gets tight. I've come to realize my husband will give me more money for sexual favors. Since I'm normally too tired to put out much I can perform these favors in a matter of minutes. I could argue over needing more money but this is a lot easier. Three minutes in the shower netted me $60 the other day. That's a lot of coffee money!

My question is: is what I'm doing considered prostitution, and is that wrong?

- The Lady in the Shower


Dear LITS,

According to the deities at Merriam-Webster's, prostitution is "the act or practice of engaging in promiscuous sexual relations especially for money". So, my friend, you are, by definition, a hooker. Congratulations!

That being said, we must consider where you're using your *ahem* talents. This is your husband, not some stranger. And you're at home raising his kids. You don't have an income. You're doing something you would probably be doing anyway, except that it's also earning you extra cash. Is that really prostitution? Tough call.

The important thing is that cash can buy you things like coffee, and coffee is good. So I really don't see a problem with this scenario. And, if you were my friend and buying me coffee with your hard-earned money (pun very much intended), I would see even less of a problem, but that's because I'm very selfish.

If, for some reason, you begin to feel degraded by this situation, I have a couple of suggestions: You could either lower your moral standards (it's always been my personal choice), or you could give a course on how to earn that much money in three minutes of sexual favours. I bet you would have a line-up out the door! If there's a niche market for pole dancing and cybersex classes, why not for shower whoring?

In short, keep up the hard work (the pun is probably getting old now, isn't it?). If you're worth paying for after what I'm assuming is years of togetherness, you are a freaking goddess. Drink an extra latte for me, why don't you?

Contemplating not putting out as much,
The Maven

Anyone Want To Be My Publicist?

Firstly, I'd like to apologize to the person who did a search today for 'crowded German train' and stumbled upon my blog. Unfortumately I am not German nor am I a train, although I have been mistake for both on several occasions. You must have felt so mislead. If it helps any, my stomach is crowded with fat cells, but I would compare it more to a Manhattan subway car than anything.

So, anyway, I sold my soul today.

See, I joined the community association a couple of months ago and whored myself out not only as their secretary, but also as their writer and reporter. As it turns out our president has sweet connections on the city level, including the editor of our local weekly newspaper. And today I was able to submit an article on the winter carnival we had this afternoon, via el presidente.

Game. Set. Match. Maven.

If all goes well and I did my soul selling properly, I will have a published article by Tuesday morning. It will hit about 35,000 doorsteps by Wednesday afternoon, and I will be rich and famous.

By "rich" I mean I will have earned zero dollars and by "famous" I mean about ten people might actually read my name along with the teeny little article, and some of my friends may Facebook me and say "Hey! I saw your name in the paper today!"

Yep, rich and famous.

The point is, I will have the very first thing I can put in my portfolio. I can say "look at me! I'm a published author!" and not be lying. Isn't that great?

You must be terribly excited for me. A parade may be in order. Feel free to send me pictures if it's not a local event that I will be reporting on.

I wonder how being rich and famous is going to change me. I hope not a whole lot. I'll still be the sarcastic bitch I've always been, be fashionably late to playdates, forget to brush my children's teeth in the morning and expect a certain amount of free coffee from my friends. The only difference is that I'll also have to fight off the swarms of Paparazzi.

I wonder when I should interview for bodyguards? Maybe I should look at getting the organic chocolatier first. Priorities.

Happy Vinyltiles Day!

So, what did you get for Valentine's Day? Something unoriginal and dull like chocolate or flowers or diamonds?

Yawn.

I got something much more thoughtful than that. Something that tops all that romantic hoopla: Today, I got a new kitchen floor.

That better not be laughter I'm sensing. Or eye rolling. You just don't know my old floor, that's all. It was made of outdoor pine siding that ran opposite the original wood flooring in the rest of the house, and met in a garish clash right in the middle of the kitchen. Design disaster!

The Maven did not approve. It was scheduled to be one of the first things we changed when we moved in a year and a half ago.

But then all these other things needed to be fixed that were apparently more urgent, like leaky roofs and bathrooms. Whatever. Ugly floorboards are more embarrassing than black mould any day. What a little asthma attack every now and then when your entire kitchen looks like ass?

Like that wasn't enough incentive. I mean, just me wanting it changed should have caused a big enough stir to have the task completed on the second day of home ownership. But noooo. We had to incorporate injury into it. I've had a total of at least fifteen splinters in my feet as a result of the nasty old wood attacking me through my socks. The boys have had their fair share as well. Nothing says good morning like pain between your toes.

Siding is not meant to be used as flooring, just so you know. That's my expert advice for anyone contemplating it. I'm sure it's fairly common for someone to look around a home improvement store and say to themselves "You know, flooring is really expensive. I think I might just stain some outdoor pine siding and stick it awkwardly in the kitchen so it can wear down significantly over time and injure people."

If that's one of the things that also goes through your mind, I feel it important to let you know that you are a giant dumbass who is too dumb to own a house. I speak from the standpoint of someone who takes tweezers to her feet every couple of weeks thanks to a reno faux pas made thirty years ago.

Then, to add a cherry to the injuries and eyesores sundae, the fact that the floor was highly unsanitary needs to be discussed. There were huge gaps between some of the boards, resulting in entirely new species growing out of the crumbs and dust that were unavoidably swept in there on a daily basis. Seriously: some of the cracks were so deep that they required their own postal code. I could have charged admission to Canada's version of the Grand Canyon found two feet from my fridge.

So, you can keep your chocolate and flowers and useless diamonds that were probably mined by some enslaved person in a third world country. You can even brag to me about it. I don't mind.

My husband loves me to the point where he gets me on a whole new level. Instead of buying me stuff I would enjoy temporarily, he took me and some coffee to the hardware store. Then he spent his entire day covering up the filthy, scary floor in my kitchen with some lovely vinyl tiles so my poor feet will be spared further abuse and so we will not create the next strain of ebola.

That's love, people. That's the love of two souls who have been together for 15 years and know what the other person really desires.

Besides, my mommy gave me chocolate. Neener neener.

Happy Valentine's Day.

And, also, can you please watch this movie and do something about it? Sign the petition like I did. Let's help some people who undoubtedly love each other enough to put in new flooring, too.

Updated Love Quotes

Since Valentine's Day is tomorrow, I thought it appropriate to update some of our well-known thoughts on love. They just seem outdated and a little idealistic for this day and age. So, without further ado (because I'm speaking at a meeting tonight and have a million things to do first), I present to you my own personal spin on some old favourites:

There is no remedy for love but to love more date a few jerks.
- Henry David Thoreau

True love begins when nothing is looked for in return he tells you the vasectomy worked.
- Antoine de Saint-Exupery

One word frees us of all the weight and pain in life. That word is Love Cardio.
- Sophocles

Love is the irresistible desire to be irresistibly desired a few pounds heavier because you're not in the dating scene anymore.
- Mark Twain

Come, let us make love deathless out of something chocolaty.
- Herbert Trench

The most powerful symptom of love is a tenderness which becomes at times almost insupportable this weird wart thing that your doctor can give you cream for.
-Victor Hugo

The most precious possession that ever comes to a man in this world is a woman's heart a universal remote, or maybe a game console.
- Josiah G. Holland

Harmony is pure love, for love is a concerto playing Rockband together.
- Lope De Vega

To be your friend was all I ever wanted; to be your lover was all I ever dreamed means I had to sign a pre-nup.
--Unknown

In love there are two things: bodies and words vowels: o and e.
- Joyce Carol Oates

Love Co-dependence is that condition in which the happiness of another person is essential to your own.
- Robert Heinlein

Your words are my food, your breath my wine. You are everything to me Get the hell out of my fridge.
- Sarah Bernhardt