Ballad of the Trout

Lake trout for sale, frozen hard as a club
$5.50 a fish, just buy it, you'll love!
So the shopper she looked at that fish with a head
And a tail and a fin and some scales and real dead

And she said "I can do this, I'll clean the whole fish!
I'll bake it for supper! We'll try this new dish!
My husband will praise all my kitchenly skills
And I will have conquered the beast with the gills!"

So home came the fish, as long as her arm,
She defrosted it, laid it out, kept it from harm
She sawed off the head, (with a groan of disgust)
And snipped off the tail and the fins as one must.

She scaled that damn fish, right over the sink
But our hero, she wasn't prepared for the stink!
The house, the utensils, her hands smelled like trout
And trout is a smell that is hard to get out!

But battling on, she seasoned unhalted
Crushed lemon, tomatoes, black pepper and salted
She put it to bake, while the kids gave her hell
Saying "Mommy, please help us escape from that smell!"

And when it was done, it didn't look bad
Hubby ate it, and liked it, and then more he had
But when the chef sat down to sample her dish
She declared; "Ew! It tastes too much like fish."

So, now the house stinks, trout wafts in the air
The fish is long gone, but the smell is still there
$5.50 a fish, it seems such a waste
To slave for the trout and then not like the taste.

(Or the smell! *plugs nose*)

Swearasaurus

I need to watch my language. As much as I try to be a nurturing mom, a stimulating mom, an everything-for-the-children mom, (aka: a "Good Mom"), my unadultered use of impolite expletives are rubbing off on the children, and making it all for naught. For example:

Good Mom: Look honey! It's a note from our friend Piglet, and he needs our help to find him! He's lost in the park and it's his naptime!

Daughter, age 4: HOLY SHIT!

**

Good Mom: We can't use your blanket tonight sweetheart, because you puked on it and mommy's washing it. But you can use mommy's blanket instead!

Son, age 4: Aw mommy, you're the effing best. *hugs*

**

Good Mom: And God bless grandma, and grandpa, and our teachers and- is there anyone else we'd like to bless?

Son, age 6: What about the asshole who cut us off at the light?

**

To keep my kids from being sent to the principal's office, I've decided to curse at my enemies and frustrating situations in a different language! For example, the next time I am cut off at the light, I can scream:
Da bi ti vse krave crknile! (Which is Slovenian for "I wish your cows will drop dead!")

Or, if I'm double-charged on my credit card statement:
Äitisi nai poroja! (Finnish, for "your mother copulates with reindeer")

And on those days that you need something EXTRA special:
Ssi v kompot, tam povor nogi moet! (Russian for "go urinate in the punchbowl while the cook is washing his legs in it"!)

Yes, I may be a vamadoola*, baa**, or a linguistic kaynay***, but at least I am not, nor ever will be, a complete kokëderr****.


*"wierdo" in Punjabi
**"crazy" in Thai
***"fool" in Tamil
**** ha ha, you'll never know!

Loves Me Like a Rock

She has a dozen My Little Ponies, a hundred dolls to choose from and close to $100,000 worth of miscellaneous books and games and dress-up clothes. She has a playset in the yard, a trike, a wagon, two brothers to entertain her and a daddy who will get on all fours and pretend to be a dog all afternoon just to make her laugh.

And she plays with rocks.

My daughter comes home from school with pockets FULL of rocks. We went for a nature hike, and she collected nothing but rocks. Same thing at the garden centre, except we had to put THOSE rocks back because, "no no honey, you have to PAY for garden centre rocks" (they call it pea gravel, but its still 'rocks' to me.) She cried when her brother touched her "special" rock that, frankly, looked like every other one of her 34 identical grey rocks. She gives me handfuls of rocks as gifts, and leaves rocks all over the house. My washing maching and dryer are currently full of, you guessed it, rocks.

I asked her today what it was with her and rocks, and she said "I just yike them."

I asked her if maybe she thought they were pretty, and she laughed at me and said "Nooo" like I was a little slow.

So I said that maybe they looked a lot like jewels, and she said "Nooo" like I was abundantly stupid.

"So, you just yike them because you yike them?" I asked.

"Yup." She grinned, and then she left a handful of rocks on my bed and ran away.

So I am still puzzled, but as far as preschool obsessions go, rocks are kinda sweet and it's cheap to maintain and at least she's not eating them. By the way, I just looked up what a geologist makes: $70,000 to $109,000 per year. Hmm, Nattie, you keep yiking those rocks honey!

The THWACK Heard Round the World

The Devil: So, Franny, you are here to atone for what you did on the evening of April 23rd, 2007. Do you have anything to say for yourself.

Me: The devil made me do it.

The Devil: Heh, heh, heh, yeah, I DID make you do it actually, and I'm pretty proud of myself. But your MOTHER Franny? Surely you feel some remorse?

Me: Of COURSE I do! But in my defence, she WAS telling my children that I was a BAD MOTHER for not letting them have sticky sweets before bed, and who would have thought my aim was THAT good, really?

The Devil: True... *raises eyebrows* That WAS an excellent shot, Franny.

Franny: *flutters eyelashes, flattered* Aw, thanks! I have great aim, you should SEE me play Whack-A-Mole and I used to ALWAYS win at Duck Hunt on Nintendo! I mean... er... I AM SO ASHAMED OF MYSELF! *hand to forehead, laments* What kind of daughter throws a Cadbury Mini-Egg at her mom from across the room and actually hits her in the centre of the forehead with it?

The Devil: I liked the sound when it cracked open on her head - THWACK! The look on her face was priceless, and to do it in front of your father and your kids as well? You've got some nerve girl!

Franny: *muttering* Well, they DO make good projectiles... AND I had a handful of them but I only threw ONE... surely that counts for something?

The Devil: Sorry honey, nice try but what's done is done. So, before I write this one down in the book for, ahem, later, *rubs hands enthusiastically* I just NEED to know. What on earth were you thinking Franny?

Franny: Honestly?

The Devil: Sure. Be honest. I won't tell a soul.

Franny: Okay. I was thinking...Bet I can SO thwack her RIGHT in the middle of the head with this... *Franny walks away whistling*

The Devil: *to self* I should consider taking on a partner...

Room of Doom

I will try very hard not to overuse the CAPSLOCK key during this post. *Franny glares at keyboard, knows it's IMPOLITE to CAPLOCKS SHOUT throughout an ENTIRE BLOG POST*

HEY, STOP THAT! ... I mean... Hey, stop that! *keep that left-hand pinky raised while you type, Franny* Okay, now where was I?

I left my mom here to sit the kids while I scurried out to buy myself an outfit for a big, upcoming family "do". I did not bring the cellphone with me. (Cue 'dum-dum-DUM' organ music) Well my 3-yr old son locked himself in the bathroom, and for over an hour my mom tried to get him to unlock the door, until finally the &$#$#& knob broke off. (THIS IS THE SAME DOOR MY HUSBAND 'FIXED' WHEN I GOT STUCK IN THERE LAST YEAR WHEN THE KNOB CAME OFF.) *pst, Franny, easy on the capslock, baby* My mother then proceeds to dig up every single tool in my entire house and dismantle the OTHER doors looking for spare parts that she could use to rescue Nicky. I understand the poor boy was fairly even-tempered throughout this ordeal, very politely asking panicking grandma "Can I come out now?" every couple of minutes.

Meanwhile, at the mall, Franny's Spidey-sense was tingling. She needed to go home. Oh and the mall was closing too.

When I got here and rescued the situation, my mother was about to call the fire department. It took us a couple of days to put all the knob hardware back on all of the doors, but god bless her, that woman TRIED. (BTW, I told Nicky to push the button UP. And he did. The door opened. "Unlock the door" is too abstract for him.)

~*~

Flash forward to tonight. Bathing the twins, STUPID DUMBASS ME (*ahem, capslock*) decides to scurry to the kitchen and grab an empty garbage bag with which to empty the overflowing, non-floral scented bathroom trash. WHAT WAS I THINKING TRYING TO MULTITASK ANYWAYS!? (*angry mom, step AWAY from the capslock...*) In the ten steps to the kitchen, Nicky managed to turn the shower on, full blast with frigid water. There were screeches, and a mad dash to escape the tub, during which my daughter slips and smashes her face on something.

I return to the bathroom to see the floor soaking wet, kids shivering, Nicky looking like he ate a canary and MY DAUGHTER'S NOSE BLEEDING ALL OVER THE PLACE! WHAT THE HELL!? I STEPPED OUT FOR NOT EVEN SEVEN SECONDS!? I HAVE A SMALL HOUSE, ITS NOT LIKE THE KITCHEN IS IN A DIFFERENT FRIGGING WING OF THE MANOR! AND IF ANYONE TELLS ME THAT I SHOULD NOT LEAVE SMALL CHILDREN UNATTENDED IN THE BATH, I SWEAR I WILL E-X-P-L-O-D-E BECAUSE I KNOW THIS ALREADY BUT THAT TRASH SMELLED LIKE FERMENTED DIAPERS AND FOR PETE'S SAKE, NOBODY DROWNS ON MY WATCH BUT WHY MUST THERE BE BLOOD AND/OR SCREAMING AND/OR CHAOS WHEN I AM OCCUPIED ELSEWHERE!? AM I THE GLUE THAT HOLDS THE UNIVERSE TOGETHER?

Oh my goodness.

I AM the glue that holds the universe together.

I have such a headache. *Franny clutches head, peels capslock key off of keyboard and pours herself a beer*