First of all, I want all fourty-three (thanks CBG!) sheeples to send some love out to Geekster's grandma, who took a fall on Monday morning and is now in the hospital with a fractured pelvis. The doctors are optimistic that she'll be walking again in no time, but we worry. She's 89, has Parkinson's and uses a walker. She needs a broken hip like she needs... well, like she needs a broken hip. I mean, come on.
She's about the loveliest person on the planet, so we do want her up and running - or walking, at least - very soon. Please send all the love and adoration normally sent in my direction over to her, alright? Thanks.
Geekster was in Peterborough today while I held down the fort. He's on his way back now and, if not too exhausted from six or so hours of driving, will be very impressed with the state of Casa Maven. But more on that later. If we're going to talk about my various accomplishments and results, let's start at the beginning:
This morning, after showering and getting myself attractive-like with the help of the trusty makeup box (I need an entire box, which unfortunately says a lot about my looks underneath the caked on colouring, but I digress...), I welcomed five parents and nine children my house, for a total of sixteen bodies, Spawnling and myself included. It was rainy this morning so I invited the playgroup posse over to wreck my house. Not only is playgroup officially over, but the space we rent has been rather germy over the last few weeks, so it's been the park or bust. No park, no playgroup.
I wanted playgroup, dammit. I thrive on chaos and gossip; frankly, I'm but a shell of a human being without my weekly dose. With all the rain I knew sacrifices would have to be made so I could acquire my Thursday fix. Scrubbing down the house last night seemed but a small price to pay to feed my inner demon.
The morning went off without a hitch. I suckered everyone into bringing food while I supplied - get this - juice and coffee. Juice and coffee! Not, like, cheese or anything expensive. Oh, no. The Shoe brought a pricey brick of the orange stuff with her, while Pixie walked in with organic crackers. Handcuffs sported a cute bag of bulk raisins and a few kiwis and Thrashmeister (our resident at-home-dad/rock god) rounded out the feast with bananas and grapes.
See what I mean? Juice and coffee are nothing. I totally rule the snack kingdom right now.
My clean house was obviously trashed with the horde of goblins running amuck. Plastic food mixed with foam swords and a few leftover raisins made for an interesting corner of the playroom closet. Thomas the Tank Engine and friends made their way under my grandmother's antique chairs and in between the couch cushions. I also discovered that banana mashed into a beige carpet is nearly invisible until you step on it.
You learn something new every day. Not always something that gross, but I'm a glass is half full kind of girl. That's what carpet cleaners are for, my friends. They keep a smile on my face even when faced with the digusting.
Pixie had a look around before everyone went home and asked if she could stay to deep clean with me.
...Was that a trick question? Was I supposed to say 'no' or something?
Hell yes, she could stay and clean. I'd even give her a diet cola because I'm that generous.
So clean we did. We got rid of three bags of stuff from the once repulsive playroom. I even - get this - got rid of baby toys without feeling sad. Some heavy magic was weaved this afternoon, I tell you. before long most of the house was about as clean as it gets, which is all I can really ask for with two dogs, two cats and three gremlins making their nests in it. And I, with a face full of satisfaction, welcomed my children home like June Cleaver did the Beave. Smiling and asking about school instead of frantically throwing dishes in the sink in hopes of discovering a clean enough surface on which to cook dinner.
Could the day get any better, you ask? I mean, other than a family member in the hospital, which is bad. But I'm looking at the full portion of the glass here. The day did get even better, but not right away. First, I had to send a text message.
Pixie has a boyfriend we'll call Transit Tom. I met him a few weeks ago and I really like the guy. He's funny and witty and stuff. I wanted to not like him because that's what friends are supposed to do, or so I've heard. But he won me over, much to my dismay. Apparently I need to find someone else not to like.
Anyway, Transit Tom and Pixie send each other text messages that are apparently quite raunchy. Every time he sends her one some porn-like music starts playing on her vibrating pink cellphone. She then giggles, writes back and goes back to talking about potty training or time-outs or whatever else the conversation is about.
I was intrigued. To be quite honest, I rarely text anyone. Since I have a regular ol' phone and not one with a fancy keyboard, I find the entire texting process annoying and pointless. I could just call the person, or fire off an email. I could write on their Facebook wall. I could send them a tweet. Why would I want to very slowly type out a shortened message on a phone? Worse still, I dread becoming one of those people. The ones who, while you're sitting having a coffee with them and pouring your heart out, whip out their phone, chuckle at the incoming message, write one back, put it in their pocket, look up, listen to you for another thirty seconds and start the process all over again the next time a beep is heard.
You know: Those people. The Maven doesn't want rumours to circulate like "Oh, she's beautiful and smart and funny and all, but don't try and talk to her for any length of time. She's one of those people."
I'm annoying enough already without pulling my attention away from a face-to-face conversation. Some people can really pull off doing two things at once and hardly seem like they're zoning out to make dinner plans, but I'm not one of them. I can only focus on one thing at a time and I like to keep my friends. So, no, I do not text very much.
Still, today I thought I would try to explore the other side of texting: the dirty messages. Sexting, as they call it. It seems like a good platform to get skanky. It's private but removed, like email but without the formality. Also, if your dirty message is not well received, you can always claim you sent it to the wrong person or something.
Now, with my husband being at a hospital in another city with his injured grandmother, I thought best not to send him 'what are you wearing, you sexy beast?' messages; probably not a good time. I needed another person I knew well enough to flirt with, albeit innocently. And who other to send my first dirty phone text to than the queen of perverted messages herself? She was complimenting my new shirt today - a lot. She's obviously into me, so why not give her a little thank you in thrill form for all her help today?
In between changing a poopy diaper and folding laundry, I grabbed my phone and hastily began punching keys. After only ten minutes I had written the following:
Extremely proud of myself for entering the nasty world of sexting, I put down the phone and got back to my regular duties; homemaker by day, phone slut by night. That would be my new motto. As soon as I received my first naughty message back I would officially be ready to send randy thoughts to my husband in the middle of his next business meeting. All I needed was my cherry popped, and it was bound to happen at any...
... The phone buzzed. So soon? Wow, she was quick. What dirty little diddy was awaiting my eager eyes?
... Xo? That's the sexting equivalent of what? First base? I believe she just blew me a kiss. Or blew me off. One of the two.
I am still, quite officially, a sexting virgin. Apparently Pixie didn't like my shirt that much. I bet her meager response was her way of getting me back for that picture I posted of her a few months ago that she doesn't like. Girls hang on to that stuff for a long, long time, you know.
So, if anyone wants to whip off something raunchy, my cell phone number is on my Facebook page. It's not too late to give me something to tell my husband when he gets home, you know. After sixteen years a little spice is nice, if you know what I mean.
(Mom, if you're reading this post I would like you to disregard everything you read from "Transit Tom" to "Spice is nice". Thank you and I love you. You may read on.)
Just when I was feeling defeated, I went to Tim Hortons to buy the gremlins some donut holes.
Okay, okay: I went to buy myself a coffee and bribed the whining out of them with donut holes. Is that better? Honesty works.
I gave the woman behind the counter my order while adding that my children would likely murder me if I didn't walk out with a box of Timbits (those would be the brand name for their donut holes, in case you live in a deep pit somewhere). She then returned with my coffee and a very heavy box of twenty Timbits.
So heavy that I had to count them when I got home: 35. That's 20 + 15, in case you suck at math like Barbie.
Karma, you are awesome. Especially when you are good karma and you give me good things on special days when I'm cleaning my house and failing at being a technowhore.
In short, the day was pretty sweet. My house is very clean, my children are happy and my husband should be home shortly to finish off the bulging box of Timbits with me.
Maybe I should have grabbed the Tim Horton woman's cellphone number? She obviously liked me enough that she didn't want me murdered by children. That's a good sign, right?
She's about the loveliest person on the planet, so we do want her up and running - or walking, at least - very soon. Please send all the love and adoration normally sent in my direction over to her, alright? Thanks.
Geekster was in Peterborough today while I held down the fort. He's on his way back now and, if not too exhausted from six or so hours of driving, will be very impressed with the state of Casa Maven. But more on that later. If we're going to talk about my various accomplishments and results, let's start at the beginning:
This morning, after showering and getting myself attractive-like with the help of the trusty makeup box (I need an entire box, which unfortunately says a lot about my looks underneath the caked on colouring, but I digress...), I welcomed five parents and nine children my house, for a total of sixteen bodies, Spawnling and myself included. It was rainy this morning so I invited the playgroup posse over to wreck my house. Not only is playgroup officially over, but the space we rent has been rather germy over the last few weeks, so it's been the park or bust. No park, no playgroup.
I wanted playgroup, dammit. I thrive on chaos and gossip; frankly, I'm but a shell of a human being without my weekly dose. With all the rain I knew sacrifices would have to be made so I could acquire my Thursday fix. Scrubbing down the house last night seemed but a small price to pay to feed my inner demon.
The morning went off without a hitch. I suckered everyone into bringing food while I supplied - get this - juice and coffee. Juice and coffee! Not, like, cheese or anything expensive. Oh, no. The Shoe brought a pricey brick of the orange stuff with her, while Pixie walked in with organic crackers. Handcuffs sported a cute bag of bulk raisins and a few kiwis and Thrashmeister (our resident at-home-dad/rock god) rounded out the feast with bananas and grapes.
See what I mean? Juice and coffee are nothing. I totally rule the snack kingdom right now.
My clean house was obviously trashed with the horde of goblins running amuck. Plastic food mixed with foam swords and a few leftover raisins made for an interesting corner of the playroom closet. Thomas the Tank Engine and friends made their way under my grandmother's antique chairs and in between the couch cushions. I also discovered that banana mashed into a beige carpet is nearly invisible until you step on it.
You learn something new every day. Not always something that gross, but I'm a glass is half full kind of girl. That's what carpet cleaners are for, my friends. They keep a smile on my face even when faced with the digusting.
Pixie had a look around before everyone went home and asked if she could stay to deep clean with me.
...Was that a trick question? Was I supposed to say 'no' or something?
Hell yes, she could stay and clean. I'd even give her a diet cola because I'm that generous.
So clean we did. We got rid of three bags of stuff from the once repulsive playroom. I even - get this - got rid of baby toys without feeling sad. Some heavy magic was weaved this afternoon, I tell you. before long most of the house was about as clean as it gets, which is all I can really ask for with two dogs, two cats and three gremlins making their nests in it. And I, with a face full of satisfaction, welcomed my children home like June Cleaver did the Beave. Smiling and asking about school instead of frantically throwing dishes in the sink in hopes of discovering a clean enough surface on which to cook dinner.
Could the day get any better, you ask? I mean, other than a family member in the hospital, which is bad. But I'm looking at the full portion of the glass here. The day did get even better, but not right away. First, I had to send a text message.
Pixie has a boyfriend we'll call Transit Tom. I met him a few weeks ago and I really like the guy. He's funny and witty and stuff. I wanted to not like him because that's what friends are supposed to do, or so I've heard. But he won me over, much to my dismay. Apparently I need to find someone else not to like.
Anyway, Transit Tom and Pixie send each other text messages that are apparently quite raunchy. Every time he sends her one some porn-like music starts playing on her vibrating pink cellphone. She then giggles, writes back and goes back to talking about potty training or time-outs or whatever else the conversation is about.
I was intrigued. To be quite honest, I rarely text anyone. Since I have a regular ol' phone and not one with a fancy keyboard, I find the entire texting process annoying and pointless. I could just call the person, or fire off an email. I could write on their Facebook wall. I could send them a tweet. Why would I want to very slowly type out a shortened message on a phone? Worse still, I dread becoming one of those people. The ones who, while you're sitting having a coffee with them and pouring your heart out, whip out their phone, chuckle at the incoming message, write one back, put it in their pocket, look up, listen to you for another thirty seconds and start the process all over again the next time a beep is heard.
You know: Those people. The Maven doesn't want rumours to circulate like "Oh, she's beautiful and smart and funny and all, but don't try and talk to her for any length of time. She's one of those people."
I'm annoying enough already without pulling my attention away from a face-to-face conversation. Some people can really pull off doing two things at once and hardly seem like they're zoning out to make dinner plans, but I'm not one of them. I can only focus on one thing at a time and I like to keep my friends. So, no, I do not text very much.
Still, today I thought I would try to explore the other side of texting: the dirty messages. Sexting, as they call it. It seems like a good platform to get skanky. It's private but removed, like email but without the formality. Also, if your dirty message is not well received, you can always claim you sent it to the wrong person or something.
Now, with my husband being at a hospital in another city with his injured grandmother, I thought best not to send him 'what are you wearing, you sexy beast?' messages; probably not a good time. I needed another person I knew well enough to flirt with, albeit innocently. And who other to send my first dirty phone text to than the queen of perverted messages herself? She was complimenting my new shirt today - a lot. She's obviously into me, so why not give her a little thank you in thrill form for all her help today?
In between changing a poopy diaper and folding laundry, I grabbed my phone and hastily began punching keys. After only ten minutes I had written the following:
"You looked hot today - especially when you were mopping my floors. Rawr!"
Extremely proud of myself for entering the nasty world of sexting, I put down the phone and got back to my regular duties; homemaker by day, phone slut by night. That would be my new motto. As soon as I received my first naughty message back I would officially be ready to send randy thoughts to my husband in the middle of his next business meeting. All I needed was my cherry popped, and it was bound to happen at any...
... The phone buzzed. So soon? Wow, she was quick. What dirty little diddy was awaiting my eager eyes?
Txt from: Pixie
Msg: X0
... Xo? That's the sexting equivalent of what? First base? I believe she just blew me a kiss. Or blew me off. One of the two.
I am still, quite officially, a sexting virgin. Apparently Pixie didn't like my shirt that much. I bet her meager response was her way of getting me back for that picture I posted of her a few months ago that she doesn't like. Girls hang on to that stuff for a long, long time, you know.
So, if anyone wants to whip off something raunchy, my cell phone number is on my Facebook page. It's not too late to give me something to tell my husband when he gets home, you know. After sixteen years a little spice is nice, if you know what I mean.
(Mom, if you're reading this post I would like you to disregard everything you read from "Transit Tom" to "Spice is nice". Thank you and I love you. You may read on.)
Just when I was feeling defeated, I went to Tim Hortons to buy the gremlins some donut holes.
Okay, okay: I went to buy myself a coffee and bribed the whining out of them with donut holes. Is that better? Honesty works.
I gave the woman behind the counter my order while adding that my children would likely murder me if I didn't walk out with a box of Timbits (those would be the brand name for their donut holes, in case you live in a deep pit somewhere). She then returned with my coffee and a very heavy box of twenty Timbits.
So heavy that I had to count them when I got home: 35. That's 20 + 15, in case you suck at math like Barbie.
Karma, you are awesome. Especially when you are good karma and you give me good things on special days when I'm cleaning my house and failing at being a technowhore.
In short, the day was pretty sweet. My house is very clean, my children are happy and my husband should be home shortly to finish off the bulging box of Timbits with me.
Maybe I should have grabbed the Tim Horton woman's cellphone number? She obviously liked me enough that she didn't want me murdered by children. That's a good sign, right?
