<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8"?>
<?xml-stylesheet type="text/xsl" media="screen" href="/~d/styles/atom10full.xsl"?><?xml-stylesheet type="text/css" media="screen" href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~d/styles/itemcontent.css"?><feed xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" xmlns:openSearch="http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearch/1.1/" xmlns:georss="http://www.georss.org/georss" xmlns:gd="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005" xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0" xmlns:feedburner="http://rssnamespace.org/feedburner/ext/1.0" gd:etag="W/&quot;AkQCR3s_eyp7ImA9WhVTE08.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919</id><updated>2012-02-27T01:39:26.543-06:00</updated><category term="suggestions" /><category term="cooking" /><category term="Multicool" /><category term="weather" /><category term="revenge" /><category term="beets" /><category term="Fight" /><category term="underpants" /><category term="Babies" /><category term="socks" /><category term="Adoption" /><category term="Christmas" /><category term="#brag" /><category term="Friends" /><category term="parenting" /><category term="marriage" /><category term="gratitude" /><category term="passive aggressive" /><category term="cellphones" /><category term="food" /><category term="diet coke" /><category term="baking" /><category term="Crazy" /><category term="family" /><category term="#winning" /><category term="industrial revolution" /><category term="sick" /><category term="loneliness" /><category term="Nursing" /><category term="character" /><category term="fair trade" /><category term="nipple confusion" /><category term="parenting tips" /><category term="love" /><category term="Choices" /><category term="sleep deprivation" /><category term="pregnancy" /><category term="douchebaggery" /><category term="shove it" /><category term="kids" /><category term="restaurants" /><category term="newborns" /><category term="family credo" /><title>My Life- With Bugs, Brat and Monster.</title><subtitle type="html">Some blogs are informative. Some are serious. Some are even entertaining. This isn't any of those things.</subtitle><link rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/" /><link rel="next" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default?start-index=26&amp;max-results=25&amp;redirect=false&amp;v=2" /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><generator version="7.00" uri="http://www.blogger.com">Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>44</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>25</openSearch:itemsPerPage><atom10:link xmlns:atom10="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster" /><feedburner:info uri="mylife-withbugsbratandmonster" /><atom10:link xmlns:atom10="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" rel="hub" href="http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/" /><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;AkUBRnYzcSp7ImA9WhVTE0w.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-5479557857608710809</id><published>2012-02-26T22:50:00.001-06:00</published><updated>2012-02-26T22:50:57.889-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-02-26T22:50:57.889-06:00</app:edited><title>Teething babies suck.</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/Cv5wizqFwSI4PoOIIFXSZstUNW4/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/Cv5wizqFwSI4PoOIIFXSZstUNW4/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/Cv5wizqFwSI4PoOIIFXSZstUNW4/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/Cv5wizqFwSI4PoOIIFXSZstUNW4/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;I don't like teething babies.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
That is the extent of today's post.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
P.S. My husband has kindly pointed out that I don't like him either. He's right, I don't. He's sick and whines worse than the teething baby.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-5479557857608710809?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/_we9XB9FgMY" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/5479557857608710809/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/02/teething-babies-suck.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/5479557857608710809?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/5479557857608710809?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/_we9XB9FgMY/teething-babies-suck.html" title="Teething babies suck." /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/02/teething-babies-suck.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;A0AAQHk8fyp7ImA9WhVTEEg.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-2603176880029387524</id><published>2012-02-23T23:00:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2012-02-23T23:02:21.777-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-02-23T23:02:21.777-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="suggestions" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Choices" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="character" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="shove it" /><title>Guilt Can: a) Wreck My Happiness or b) Kiss My Ass</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/rlq1uCNUtLalb5TvP3_BvYXCrLs/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/rlq1uCNUtLalb5TvP3_BvYXCrLs/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/rlq1uCNUtLalb5TvP3_BvYXCrLs/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/rlq1uCNUtLalb5TvP3_BvYXCrLs/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;How many different emotions are there?&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Happiness, sadness, love, hate, joy, hurt, pride, guilt, forgiveness, resentment.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Wait, why did guilt make my list? &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I don't believe in "guilt". I understand it is there, and I understand that some people feel it keenly. I refuse guilt in my life. I try my hardest every day and I refuse to be 'guilted' or manipulated by anyone -my kids, my in- laws, my husband, or my friends. Notice my mother and her family didn't make the list. They don't believe in guilt either. I guess for some families/ people, it's a non-issue. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I simply refuse to live my life feeling guilty for something in that can't be undone. I apologize when necessary, and I move on from there. I do not hold grudges. I do not bring up the past over and over (okay, well, I TRY not to do that). That is something I learned from my momma. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
When I was a child, trying to manipulate my momma to my advantage, she would say, "Pack your bags, we're going on a guilt trip!" And that helped me recognize that looking back and 'reheating' serves no one a tasty dish. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
You need to learn that choices cannot be 'unmade' so feeling guilty does nothing except hurt you.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I submit that we ALL stop the guilt.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&amp;nbsp;"Guilt is anger directed at ourselves - at what we did or did not do. Resentment is anger directed at others - at what they did or did not do." -Peter McWilliams&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Neither guilt (nor resentment) is a productive emotion. Move on and get over it- because allowing someone else to 'guilt' you does nothing for them (except encourage the belief that they should hold onto their resentment of you).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
So, if I did something which hurt you, I am sorry. I regret that you've been hurt by me, or my actions. But I won't be eaten up by that knowledge. In fact, I'm over it. You should get over it too. Not for me, but for yourself.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
If you are going to feel guilty for something- don't do it! If you already did something, don't feel guilty for it- learn from it.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-2603176880029387524?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/wB2czIUeaG4" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/2603176880029387524/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/02/guilt-can-wreck-my-happiness-or-b-kiss.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/2603176880029387524?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/2603176880029387524?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/wB2czIUeaG4/guilt-can-wreck-my-happiness-or-b-kiss.html" title="Guilt Can: a) Wreck My Happiness or b) Kiss My Ass" /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/02/guilt-can-wreck-my-happiness-or-b-kiss.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;D0cFRnsyfyp7ImA9WhRaFEw.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-100713507048417142</id><published>2012-02-16T11:35:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2012-02-16T11:56:57.597-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-02-16T11:56:57.597-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="suggestions" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="douchebaggery" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="character" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="shove it" /><title>Consider (before commenting next time) Mr. I'm In A Hurry.</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/dMjbcjpjPQQ79jO2qGeRV-cP6r0/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/dMjbcjpjPQQ79jO2qGeRV-cP6r0/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/dMjbcjpjPQQ79jO2qGeRV-cP6r0/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/dMjbcjpjPQQ79jO2qGeRV-cP6r0/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;So, following up on the last post, I'm officially back at work (almost) full time. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And I remembered how much I do enjoy working there (I would still prefer to stay home; but, such is life). I work in a home for adults with brain injuries, emotional disorders and physical disabilities. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
My coworkers are good people. The clients are, without exception, a cast of characters worthy of being written into any number of theatre productions. They are varied: dynamic; frustrating; hilarious; unstable; kind; loving; manipulative; and sweet. And they are all these things in rotation on any given day, for anywhere from 2 minutes to several hours. They are exhausting- in every way- physically, mentally and emotionally.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Some have the capacity for such bravery it would make you cry.&lt;br /&gt;
Some have the capacity for pettiness on a scale I've only seen in small children. &lt;br /&gt;
Some are so vulnerable that my heart breaks for them and their families.&lt;br /&gt;
Some are only able to communicate non-verbally.&lt;br /&gt;
Some never stop talking (even when you sometimes wish they would).&lt;br /&gt;
They are as different from each other as you are from me, or as Mickey Mouse is from the Jolly Green Giant.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
They all wake up everyday, get dressed, have their meals. They watch T.V., go shopping, visit with friends and family, go to the doctor, hit the gym. Most cannot be in the community without assistance, so you see us together sometimes: walking down the street, talking, pushing wheelchairs, or holding arms.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Our clients come to us because we 
are a "high needs" company. We are touted as "specialized residential services" (previously "neuro recovery services") to the clients and their executors.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
In reality, we do not deal in "recovery". There is no recovery for our clients. They are not going to: walk freely again; think rationally rather than emotionally; have short (or long) term memory come back. We deal with helping the clients adjust to their new situations and new levels of ability. We teach them patience with themselves and with others.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
We teach them how to cope with being unable to cut their own steak, with the inability to make seemingly inconsequential decisions (what shirt to wear; whether to have a cigarette now or in 1/2 an hour). We teach them how to live with life as it is, instead of how it was. And since most of them led completely normal lives at one point, they feel the differences in their personal situations keenly. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&amp;nbsp;And, unfortunately, we're the last stop before most of these 
clients are put into psychiatric care homes. If our company says, "Sorry. We can't help you anymore"- a good percentage of the clients would end up sedated and tied to a bed in a pysch ward. If they ended up institutionalized, they might as well stop trying to live normally- because the institutions are not set up to offer hope, or to encourage small triumphs (putting socks on alone). Institutions are set up to maximize efficiency and minimize interaction with staff. These clients do 
not belong in a palliative care setting. They are not dying, they are trying to live.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I am thankful that I do not have to walk in their shoes (wheel in their chairs). But that does not mean that I think their lives are "not worth living". They require constant care, monitoring and supervision- but they are 
still individuals. They still have likes, dislikes, goals, complaints, 
triumphs and fears. I try my very best to treat them with respect- because they deserve my respect. They do something every single day that I do not believe I would have the courage to do. They wake up knowing life will never be the same- and they still aim to make it better.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Because of this, if it takes me 20 seconds or 3 hours to get someone to choose to take their medications, or to take a shower- then that is how long it takes. I won't force someone to do something they don't want to do (short of dangerous/ life threatening situations). I won't take even one more choice away from them.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
So if you see me taking 5 minutes to find out what my client would like to drink- and that holds up your wait in line at Tim Hortons- too bad. Consider how you'd like me to treat you if you woke up one day with permanent brain damage from a stroke you suffered in your sleep, or after a botched surgery, a car accident, or even a genetic predisposition to schizophrenia.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Consider it carefully, then you wait those five minutes without comment. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-100713507048417142?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/dYR-356qeIc" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/100713507048417142/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/02/consider-before-commenting-next-time-mr.html#comment-form" title="6 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/100713507048417142?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/100713507048417142?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/dYR-356qeIc/consider-before-commenting-next-time-mr.html" title="Consider (before commenting next time) Mr. I'm In A Hurry." /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>6</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/02/consider-before-commenting-next-time-mr.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;C0YFQnw4cSp7ImA9WhRaE0s.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-4240825917290752411</id><published>2012-02-14T01:29:00.001-06:00</published><updated>2012-02-15T20:58:33.239-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-02-15T20:58:33.239-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="suggestions" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="kids" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Choices" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="parenting" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="family" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="parenting tips" /><title>Biting kids is a real job.</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/ln5JKPWefvOp9Nn3rxSTt47fM_Q/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/ln5JKPWefvOp9Nn3rxSTt47fM_Q/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/ln5JKPWefvOp9Nn3rxSTt47fM_Q/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/ln5JKPWefvOp9Nn3rxSTt47fM_Q/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;I'm back at work now, 30ish hours/ week.&amp;nbsp; Monster will be in a daycare 2 days/ week, while I work evenings and days around my husband's schedule.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And I feel like a terrible mother.&amp;nbsp; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
When Brat was a baby, I stayed home full time days with her, worked evenings and weekends (when my husband could be home from work). She didn't enter a day care until she was almost 3. I was tired. All the time. But I LOVED being able to be the full time care giver. I think a large majority of society's issues stem from a lack of parenting- yeah, I said it. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And I think in part this is due to women leaving the 'kitchen' to be a part of the work force. Yeah, I said that too. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I'm not a feminist. I'm a humanist. I think humanity suffers when we forget that our kids should come first. Yes, women can do (almost) anything a man can do.&amp;nbsp; Yes. We can: work; build families; have lives; be superheros. But should we be doing those things when our kids are less than two years old? When they haven't learned to talk yet?&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I think we need to recognize that since women have entered the workforce and become more fulfilled as people, we've let go of 'family first'.&amp;nbsp; Society is falling apart. And it's because we are too busy working to be parenting. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Reality is that the world has changed. Is still changing. It's expensive to live. Very few families can have only 1 full time worker. Most of us cannot afford to stay home from work to raise our children- even if we wish we could. And by the time we're done working 40 hours/ week; doing the housework; the laundry; the chores; and, personal hygiene- we're too tired to cook nutritious meals, too tired to nag the kids to make their beds, too tired to make our kids tell us about their day, lecture them for poor behaviour, bad manners, and irresponsible actions.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
We tell ourselves they'll figure it out. But how? Who is teaching our kids that stealing is wrong? That lying is unacceptable? That being polite is an important life skill? &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The day care workers? The two ladies who have twenty kids under 5 to 
supervise? Sure. They're just trying to keep the stupid kid from snorting a rail of sand and eating handfuls of rocks. They are awfully busy for us to be asking that they also instill values in our 
toddlers.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
With the right to be paid workers; to demand equal pay for equal work; to be put on an even keel with men- we've given up something I believe is more important. We've given up the chance to be the ones to teach our children right from wrong. The chance to be a positive influence these first years of life. Many children go into grade 1 unable to differentiate between letters- let alone sound words out or read. We gave that up too. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
We gave up our responsibilities to our kids. We handed it off to someone else for $30/ day. For $600.00 a month in day care fees. And on the day your two year old bites the day care worker during a temper tantrum; the day care worker isn't going to bite your child back- that was supposed to be YOUR job. My job. I am giving away the most important job on earth. Biting my child. Yes, you read that right.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
But when will someone stop and say, "Being a stay at home mom is more important than being an employee. I'll go back to work when my children no longer need me to teach them not to bite." I wish it could be me saying it.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I understand that there are times when being a stay at home parent is completely impossible. Nothing is free. And single parents simply don't have that luxury at all.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
But I still feel terrible that Monster is going to be in daycare 2 days a week. I hope that the other 5 days are enough for me to teach her all the things she needs to know.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
So, if you see my kids acting like dicks- yell at them. Because I'm not always here to do it myself.&amp;nbsp; And I promise, if I see your kids acting like A-holes, I'll yell at them for you in return.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-4240825917290752411?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/Vm_p7KzvMPo" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/4240825917290752411/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/02/biting-kids-is-real-job.html#comment-form" title="2 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/4240825917290752411?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/4240825917290752411?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/Vm_p7KzvMPo/biting-kids-is-real-job.html" title="Biting kids is a real job." /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>2</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/02/biting-kids-is-real-job.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;C0QFQXg5fSp7ImA9WhRbF0s.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-6008348485925155247</id><published>2012-02-08T22:13:00.001-06:00</published><updated>2012-02-08T22:21:50.625-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-02-08T22:21:50.625-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="kids" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Crazy" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="sleep deprivation" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="sick" /><title>Sometimes, being crazy is hilarious.</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/3rEms02AarqVFUYA0enLIqbc6LQ/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/3rEms02AarqVFUYA0enLIqbc6LQ/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/3rEms02AarqVFUYA0enLIqbc6LQ/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/3rEms02AarqVFUYA0enLIqbc6LQ/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;Sick again.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I am not a big sissy. I hardly ever hit the doctor's office. I mean, I need to be almost dead with a fever before I'll go to the doctor.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I have no 'issues' with doctors- I just have a hard time taking advantage of their time, because mostly I think I have a strong enough immune system to work it out myself.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
That being said, I had strep throat just after New Year, and went to a walk in clinic (my doctor was still on holidays). The doc at the clinic was great, and prescribed the "anti-germy pills" (Thanks Brat).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I got better. Good. That's what the doctor is for.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
However, my kids are all gross. They are all disease harbouring, germ-y hand touching, snotty nose wiping baboons. And they got me again. I'm pretty sure they've organized some sort of betting pool on who can sick me up fastest.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I woke up two days ago with a throat so sore I couldn't swallow, let alone talk. It hurt. I hurt. I had a headache, a fever and felt like a bag of puke- covered bones.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
This morning I didn't feel as bad, but anticipated it could possibly get worse again. So, I called the doctor and made an appointment. I got Monster snugged into bed for her nap with Dada, and Brat and I left for the doctor (she was home from school because- gasp- she was sick with a chest cough). Darned kids.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
We got saddled with a resident doctor, which was fine (so was he). He swabbed my throat, pointed out that it was pretty inflamed and looked super sore. I turned to answer one of Brat's many, many questions. When I looked again, the doctor was putting a pregnancy test into my throat swab.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I started laughing. I couldn't help it; a) I have a filthy mind and b) the second thought that hit me was the equivalent of 'pregnancy is the same as strep throat- and sometimes you let your strep throat grow into a baby'. Not true, but the mental process amused me so much I was virtually hysterical.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The doctor saw me laughing, and said quickly, "I know it's a pregnancy test but...." He trailed off, apparently disturbed by my continued (read: increased) laughter.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I tried to put him at ease, saying, "For God's sake, don't give me a pregnancy test, they keep coming back positive!" I had tears of laughter running down my cheeks. I was clearly not capable of interacting normally. Instead of being amused, he looked at me like I might need a referral for counselling. So I laughed some more. He left as soon as he could, after telling me it was viral, and I'd just have to wait it out. I was still laughing (mostly at his reaction by this point). &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Sometimes, being crazy is hilarious. Sometimes I get laughing, and it's unstoppable (if you don't want to see it, don't ever be in the room when I'm on www.damnyouautocorrect.com).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I do love a good laugh.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-6008348485925155247?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/gao079aBMyk" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/6008348485925155247/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/02/sometimes-being-crazy-is-hilarious.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/6008348485925155247?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/6008348485925155247?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/gao079aBMyk/sometimes-being-crazy-is-hilarious.html" title="Sometimes, being crazy is hilarious." /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/02/sometimes-being-crazy-is-hilarious.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;C0QBQnk_eCp7ImA9WhRbF0s.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-7952462708283992203</id><published>2012-02-06T14:04:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2012-02-08T22:22:33.740-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-02-08T22:22:33.740-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="douchebaggery" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="fair trade" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="cellphones" /><title>I swere, da cellfones 8 mi graymer. lllloooovveee u!</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/VAcC4HrbF3Uc5FjRqiDxbGfIpiU/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/VAcC4HrbF3Uc5FjRqiDxbGfIpiU/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/VAcC4HrbF3Uc5FjRqiDxbGfIpiU/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/VAcC4HrbF3Uc5FjRqiDxbGfIpiU/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;I don't actually have a cell phone. I bought one once. In 1998. It was the size of my arm. Seriously. I haven't bought one since. People today are so obsessed with 'being in touch' that they have sacrificed their humanity.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Teenagers lack ACTUAL social skills (talking to their peers, adults, and family members verbally). The GRAMMATICAL skill set is long gone. lol i wsh ud bin der. Ug. In short, if these teenagers had grown up any other time in history, they'd be considered "retarded" (yes, I hate that term as well- but that was the term used until the 90's). So what?&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
You're absolutely right. So what. It's not just teenagers. I know ADULTS who do it. Grown ass people. People who went to school, learned to read and write. Can spell. But they don't. It's the computer generation. i loooovvvveesssss uuuu!!! Seriously, I am bringing back the term 'retard', but I only apply it to texters. Actually, I'm going to go one further and make up "are-tard" (that's capital R). Extra letters to text.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The problem I have with cell phones is not just the inherent stupidity of someone wanting to be 'reachable and connected' 24/7. I mean, I like my privacy and my solitude. I WISH more of my friends shared LESS of their thoughts/ actions.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The rest of the problem is the fact so many people, who are otherwise good , ethical people, buy products with absolutely zero concern for the production standards that major manufacturing companies (and the umbrella corporations) use.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Here's an example I was given by my mother (one of the most ethical people I've ever known, buying only ethical mutual funds- even though the return may not be as high as the mutual funds which deal with arms manufacturing).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
So, before you run out and buy your next iPad, iPhone, Blackberry (which is just as bad)- look into the manufacturing process and decide if THAT world is one you want your children to be a part of. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;According to the New York Times, workers at a factory in Shenzhen, 
China, owned by Foxconn (a company that manufactures iPhones, iPads and 
other devices for Apple) regularly work sixteen-hour, seven-day work 
weeks.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; They stand until their legs swell and they can’t walk, 
and they perform repetitive motions on the production line for so long 
that some permanently lose the use of their hands. To cut &lt;/b&gt; &lt;b&gt;&lt;span class="text_exposed_show"&gt;costs,
 managers make workers use cheap chemicals that cause neurological 
damage. There has been a rash of suicides at the Foxconn plant, and 300 
workers recently threatened to jump off the roof over a safety and pay 
dispute.&lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt; In short, as one former Apple executive told the New 
York Times, "Most people would be really disturbed if they saw where 
their iPhone comes from."&lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt; Mark Shields, a self-described member
 of the "cult of Mac," started a petition on Change.org demanding Apple 
exert its influence on its suppliers to improve working conditions for 
the factory workers that make iPhones, iPads and other Apple products.&lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt; Click here to sign Mark’s petition right now: &lt;a href="http://www.change.org/petitions/apple-ceo-tim-cook-protect-workers-making-iphones-in-chinese-factories?utm_medium=email&amp;amp;utm_source=action_alert" rel="nofollow nofollow" target="_blank"&gt;http://www.change.org/petitions/apple-ceo-tim-cook-protect-workers-making-iphones-in-chinese-factories?utm_medium=email&amp;amp;utm_source=action_alert&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div style="cursor: pointer; display: inline-block; height: 16px; width: 16px;"&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;  &lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
 Apple knows it can play an important role in ensuring safe and fair 
working conditions for the workers at its suppliers, like Foxconn. In 
2005, the company released a supplier code of conduct, and it performs 
hundreds of audits each year in China and around the world to confirm 
its suppliers are meeting the code’s expectations.&lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt; But that’s 
where Apple’s commitment falters: the number of supplier violations has 
held steady year to year and Apple hasn’t consistently publicly stated 
which suppliers have problems or dropped offending suppliers.&lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt; The bottom line, Apple executives admit, is that they’re not being forced to change.&lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
 One current executive told the New York Times that there’s a trade-off:
 "You can either manufacture in comfortable, worker-friendly factories,"
 he said, or you can "make it better and faster and cheaper, which 
requires factories that seem harsh by American standards.And right now, 
customers care more about a new iPhone than working conditions in 
China."&lt;br /&gt; &lt;br /&gt; That means public pressure is the only thing that can 
force Apple to ensure its suppliers treat workers humanely. If enough 
people sign Mark’s petition -- and tell Apple they care more about human
 beings than they do about how fast the company can produce the next 
generation iPhone -- the company could be convinced to make real change 
for the workers at Foxconn and other factories.&lt;/b&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-7952462708283992203?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/ftI9W_5WRPI" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/7952462708283992203/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/02/i-swere-da-cellfones-8-mi-graymer.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/7952462708283992203?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/7952462708283992203?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/ftI9W_5WRPI/i-swere-da-cellfones-8-mi-graymer.html" title="I swere, da cellfones 8 mi graymer. lllloooovveee u!" /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/02/i-swere-da-cellfones-8-mi-graymer.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;C0QDSX46eCp7ImA9WhRbF0s.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-1556600773388849858</id><published>2012-02-02T22:23:00.001-06:00</published><updated>2012-02-08T22:22:58.010-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-02-08T22:22:58.010-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="kids" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Crazy" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="shove it" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="parenting" /><title>First of 12 Steps.</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/-3BWk3L6DBz6Lus5iQR_z_YlvKY/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/-3BWk3L6DBz6Lus5iQR_z_YlvKY/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/-3BWk3L6DBz6Lus5iQR_z_YlvKY/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/-3BWk3L6DBz6Lus5iQR_z_YlvKY/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;Why on Earth did I say the kids could have a sleep over tomorrow night?&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Why?&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Because I wasn't thinking. I wasn't paying attention. I was bubble shooting. I have an addiction. The first step in the road to recovery is admitting you are powerless over your addiction. Bubble shooter is just so much fun though.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I mean, it's pointless, useless and doesn't make sense at all. It's awesome. I have finished a game in under ten minutes- but not often.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And although there is no time limit, I simply can't walk away and leave the game 'just sitting there'.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Back on track.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Bubble shooter. THAT is how they tricked me. They know I don't listen to them when I am bubble shooting. So, they wait until I'm in the middle of a game, and ask me things they are pretty sure I wouldn't agree to if I'm listening. Because when I'm playing, I agree to anything.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
"Mom, can I have cookies?"&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
"Huh, yeah, whatever."&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
They are sneaky children. So, a sleepover is imminent. And I guess, I'm okay with that. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
We'll order pizza, they can watch Netflix, and I'll let them stay up until 6 pm.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
What? 6 is plenty late. Oh, go lump. If you aren't coming over to help me wrangle these things, you don't get to make fun of me for sending them to bed so early.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-1556600773388849858?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/yv2gJ1I3svc" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/1556600773388849858/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/02/12-steps.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/1556600773388849858?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/1556600773388849858?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/yv2gJ1I3svc/12-steps.html" title="First of 12 Steps." /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/02/12-steps.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;C0MFRHw-fip7ImA9WhRbF0s.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-5922867861591997034</id><published>2012-01-29T23:21:00.001-06:00</published><updated>2012-02-08T22:23:35.256-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-02-08T22:23:35.256-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="loneliness" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="family" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="love" /><title>I miss my family.</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/ScZpGMHn-cxIr3p574lVy4_Anew/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/ScZpGMHn-cxIr3p574lVy4_Anew/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/ScZpGMHn-cxIr3p574lVy4_Anew/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/ScZpGMHn-cxIr3p574lVy4_Anew/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;My family is so far away. Not my kids, not my husband. The rest of my family.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And tonight, I feel the distance keenly. I was thinking about my baby cousin- I am so proud of her- she's overseas studying (to be a bigger pain in the ass than she already is). And while I'm sure she misses us too (probably not very much though), it can't be as much as her mother and father miss her.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And that got me thinking, wondering if my mom misses me tonight. If my gramma misses her own children, and grandchildren, who live farther afield. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I miss my cousins (all bajillion of them), I miss my aunts and uncles (all bajillion of them). I miss my grandparents (all bajillion). I miss the people I grew up with, friends of the family, who were always close at hand.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
My gramma's home was always a 'waystation' of sorts. Right in the middle, visitors welcomed gladly. We all have keys to her house (I've got mine out right now- just looking at them).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And I miss having that special place to go to. A place where your family is right there, or will be soon.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I also miss climbing the cherry tree in another gramma's yard (it's gone now), and swimming in the pool. I miss digging through all the toys she has kept for 50 odd years, playing with old barbie clothes. I miss sitting on the couch, and I miss playing card with my aunt and uncles. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I miss them so much that my insides hurt. And I'm so lucky that I get to Skype my family, and communicate on facebook. That makes it easier to know I may not see them again for a few more years.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
So I guess I answered my own musings. I know my momma misses me. Because I miss her. I miss my whole damn family.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-5922867861591997034?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/UpmCPSUWqqc" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/5922867861591997034/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/i-miss-my-family.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/5922867861591997034?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/5922867861591997034?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/UpmCPSUWqqc/i-miss-my-family.html" title="I miss my family." /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/i-miss-my-family.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;A0cDSX87fCp7ImA9WhRUGEQ.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-8297349879867045490</id><published>2012-01-28T21:51:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-29T22:51:18.104-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-29T22:51:18.104-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Friends" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="parenting" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="family" /><title>A's Hero.</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/08EtI50hrk0rvN2aS1-8ED2vO9Q/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/08EtI50hrk0rvN2aS1-8ED2vO9Q/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/08EtI50hrk0rvN2aS1-8ED2vO9Q/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/08EtI50hrk0rvN2aS1-8ED2vO9Q/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;One of my friends is having her 31st birthday party tomorrow morning.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
We're going out for dim sum, which I alternate between enjoying and hating (I don't like squishy food in general; but, sometimes, it's just so good). I've got a some cupcakes in the oven for her, as she deserves to have cake for being such an awesome person, incredible mother and over all hard worker.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I say this, not because she's my friend (which she is) but because it's true. She is a single mother, on a limited income, going to back to school. She's a star. She makes being a single mom look easy and fun (which is not the case- you get all the 'glory' of being a parent; alternately, you also have years and years of work, struggles and resentments). I think it's absolutely incredible what a single mother does.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I get complimented sometimes on being a rock solid mom; but, she's a superstar.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I &lt;i&gt;can,&lt;/i&gt; and have, made homemade baby food; but mostly I just buy it, convenience is key in my world. She ALWAYS made it. She plans meals in advance (I usually wait until the last minute, and fall back on a staple). She cooks, she cleans, AND she plays with her baby girl.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Her daughter is a lovely little disaster. She's just what a happy, healthy child should be. She's secure in her world, loving, funny and energetic (she's also capable of taking out a fully tidied room in under ten seconds- like every other 20 month old baby).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
A is all these things because she has a mother who works her tail off (literally, she hits the gym twice a week).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
My friend has no support system but her friends (and we'd each do just about anything for her); her own family is too far away/ emotionally inaccessible. The birth father is unstable, and his family is not in a position to be of help to them.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I couldn't do what she does. I couldn't get up every single day, work as hard as she does, and have no one to take the burden sometimes. I applaud single moms.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I might be a rock solid momma, but I'm no superstar. H- YOU are a hero, A's hero and mine. And I love you.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-8297349879867045490?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/YJ3Jmg8IAVw" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/8297349879867045490/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/as-hero.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/8297349879867045490?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/8297349879867045490?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/YJ3Jmg8IAVw/as-hero.html" title="A's Hero." /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/as-hero.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;CEEERn05fip7ImA9WhRUF0w.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-6752392546117598923</id><published>2012-01-26T22:04:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-27T19:03:27.326-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-27T19:03:27.326-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="family" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="marriage" /><title>Hardest Year of Marriage.</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/nV10PfrZ96-qjywvpm6nep4iQ2M/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/nV10PfrZ96-qjywvpm6nep4iQ2M/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/nV10PfrZ96-qjywvpm6nep4iQ2M/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/nV10PfrZ96-qjywvpm6nep4iQ2M/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;What's the hardest year of marriage? Year one? Two? Five? Seven? Ten? Fifteen?&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
If you answered, "Yup, that one!" to anything above, you're wrong. Not a little wrong. ALL the way wrong.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Every year is the hardest year of marriage. First year isn't actually that bad, once you get through it. Neither is two, three, four, five, six, seven, or eight. We're starting our tenth year in a few short months. Not married, but living together (we got married in 2004).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And every year is hard. Hard to the breaking point. We were VERY close a few times. The first was the year Bugs was 3. That was a hard one. For so many reasons. Being young, and not having good jobs was a big part of that.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Then the year Brat was born, that was another hard one. My husband was working full time shift work (plus overtime); a six year old needed attention and love; a baby needed full time care; I worked 24 hours a week from the time Brat was 2 months old. By the end of a week, I'd worked (in house and at a job) a full 80 hours. Cooking, cleaning, laundry, lunches, baby, nursing. On and on. It was hard, there is no way around that. It was hard because neither of us had anyone to lean on- because we didn't know how to lean on each other.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And there were times I stood back, thought to myself, "If we got divorced, he'd have to take the kids for at least 3 days a week, and I'd get a bit of time to myself." Not going to lie, it was tempting.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
There were other times when I stood back, thought to myself, "If I'd killed him when I met him, I'd have been out by now." I got that line from my uncle, the RCMP officer. After he'd been married almost 25 years. True story.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I look around my house right now, and I wonder, why is this year a bit easier? I mean, I didn't start working right away after Monster, but I'm back at work now. My husband is still pulling 50- 60 hour work weeks. There are 3 kids underfoot who want attention and love. I still make meals, make lunch for my husband every day, and do the cleaning? How on God's green Earth could life be better for me now than it was 5 years ago?&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I have someone to lean on. My husband is my best friend. We can sit, we can laugh, we can talk. We know now, leaning our backs against each other isn't weak, it's smart, and it's bracing each other up for the times when we need it most. My back isn't against a wall anymore, it's against him.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And now, I have hope (that's BIG Hope, not measly little "hope"). I have been through the darkest part of the forest; but, I can see through those trees now.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
In a few short months, Bugs will be legally old enough to babysit. It makes my whole heart sing. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Going out to do the groceries after 7 pm again. Going to the gym, even when my husband is working. Having dinner out with a friend on a Tuesday evening. Yeah, I'm going hog wild.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Added to the fact that my husband now does the laundry on his nights off (as he works nights, when he's not working, all the whiny midgets are in bed, so he typically gets to watch whatever he wants on tv for 10 hours straight and hang out on the couch alone); and Bugs does the dishes. My life has never seemed more joyous.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I'm sure Bugs might not like that he does dishes every night. I effin' hated it when I was his age. But, I honestly believe it's good for kids to work around the house. It shows them that part of being in a family is pitching in, and helping out where you can. Chores teach children how to be self sufficient and self reliant in the long run. Brat had to clean the bed room tonight, and Bugs did dishes. I got to watch my favourite Food Network show- which was all the relaxing I needed to get the bathroom cleaned, the living room tidied up and dinner for tomorrow planned and started. Take THAT Martha Stewart.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
So, the hardest year of marriage is all of them. But, making it through the worst, well, it leaves you free to enjoy the best. And if you make it, you have someone who can enjoy that best with you, when you leave the kids at home to fend for themselves.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-6752392546117598923?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/NpSISL82Mys" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/6752392546117598923/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/hardest-year-of-marriage.html#comment-form" title="2 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/6752392546117598923?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/6752392546117598923?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/NpSISL82Mys/hardest-year-of-marriage.html" title="Hardest Year of Marriage." /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>2</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/hardest-year-of-marriage.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;A0INR3YzeSp7ImA9WhRUF08.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-586492919990965495</id><published>2012-01-22T21:06:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-27T23:46:36.881-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-27T23:46:36.881-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="#winning" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="industrial revolution" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="shove it" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="diet coke" /><title>Happy Birthday Old People.</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/B54dsuDRmt6NWKAMabOET2JQSmc/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/B54dsuDRmt6NWKAMabOET2JQSmc/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/B54dsuDRmt6NWKAMabOET2JQSmc/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/B54dsuDRmt6NWKAMabOET2JQSmc/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;It's a friend of the family's 88th birthday this week- and that got me thinking.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
What has she lived through? What laughs? Loves? Hurts? Fears? And I settled my thoughts on the technological advances in specific since the year she was born- 1924.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
In short, she was born before: scotch tape (I'm at a loss as to how a present was wrapped); spiral notebooks; ballpoint pens; aqualungs; velcro; a- bombs; microwave (there were no Pizza Pops back then, so no midnight snacking either); prepackaged cake mixes; nylons and teflon. I'm only up to around 1950- and I've not included everything (obviously, or I'd have to spend the next twenty years on this post alone). Given all the changes in the world of today, I wonder what men and women from my grandparents generation think is the most important.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And I've come to a conclusion. I know what the most important advance in technology is, without argument. The most important technological amazement is Diet Coke.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Don't laugh/ roll your eyes please. I'm completely serious. The single most important thing in our world right now is diet coke. I have several reasons to sustain this claim.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
1. I live on Diet Coke. I know it's not good for me, I'm not an idiot. But it's quick, it's caffeinated, it's fizzy and it's sweet. It's thirst quenching and refreshing. It's almost as good as a sandwich (well, not even a bit, but it's better as my evening snack than a huge tuna salad on white is).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
2. 100 years ago, when the Coca Cola Bottling Company released Coca Cola, very few of the people in North America had 'weight management issues' (that's fancy for 'fat asses'- Thank YOU Fancy Nancy). Back then, a 4 oz bottle of Coke was a treat. It's not what mothers had for breakfast (Yes. I mean me. I drink Diet Coke for breakfast 6 days out of 7). As a society, we've become dependent on soda, energy drinks and juices. Drinking tap water is for losers (Yes, I mean me. I drink tap water, and am clearly a loser). Because of an increase in usage/ dependence on convenience food and drinks, there has been a corresponding increase in weight and obesity (still talking about me). This trend towards larger waistlines and higher BMI's has led towards the companies of our grandparents' generation finding solutions for the consumers (weak willed, soda guzzling idiots that we are); so we can continue to be avid supporters of their bottom lines. This need for a lower caloric beverage has led to EVERY single one of the major soda companies making a zero calorie soda. Which is awesome. I can have Diet Coke, diet rootbeer, Diet 7up, diet anything- and that is a miraculous advancement.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
3. Now that I've established that consumers buy diet drinks, let me point out the best part of a diet soda. If I have 1x 8oz cup of regular coke for breakfast every day (which is likely to be the case because I hate making coffee), I would be ingesting 970ish calories/ week. Which isn't bad- if I didn't sip at a drink all day long (which I do). So, I'd be more like 970 cal/day. Totally unacceptable. That's the equivalent of two large bowls of ice cream. And if I have to choose between caffeine and ice cream, someone isn't getting out of today alive. Not me, I'll be fine. It's your life that could be risked if I'm not getting enough caffeine. Because there is no chance in H*ll I'll be giving up ice cream any time soon. So, clearly, for the betterment of humanity, I get to proclaim Diet Coke as a necessity. And I get to say, without hesitation, it's the most important development of the industrial world in the last century.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
So, having copious relatives, friends and acquaintances who might read this and say, "She's finally lost her mind. What about x-rays, penicillin, and blah blah blah?"&amp;nbsp; I say, "Nope. Diet Coke. Licked it, sticked it, stamped it." (That's the international childhood refrain for ending any argument).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-586492919990965495?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/89ACvYiCP9Y" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/586492919990965495/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/happy-birthday-old-people.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/586492919990965495?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/586492919990965495?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/89ACvYiCP9Y/happy-birthday-old-people.html" title="Happy Birthday Old People." /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/happy-birthday-old-people.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkYMSXY6cSp7ImA9WhRUEkU.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-7302669703567956114</id><published>2012-01-18T11:13:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-22T20:03:08.819-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-22T20:03:08.819-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="weather" /><title>I want a Humvee that runs on cow farts.</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/5u6WtXM76doJ57J7l9JEOgsVs6Y/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/5u6WtXM76doJ57J7l9JEOgsVs6Y/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/5u6WtXM76doJ57J7l9JEOgsVs6Y/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/5u6WtXM76doJ57J7l9JEOgsVs6Y/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;Winnipeg weather is bullshit. Global warming is awesome.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Yeah, I said it.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
One week ago, we were hovering in the 7-10 degrees C. It was warm, sunny, pleasant. YAY! For global warming! We didn't need jackets- let alone mitts, hats, scarves, neckwarmers, snow pants and boots. Then five days ago, it snapped. We lost 25 degrees overnight. Going from +5 to -20 (plus a windchill of -28). It sucked. Hard.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Normally, winter doesn't make me a raging lunatic. Normally, winter doesn't show up in 8 hours either. Normally, I have several weeks to acclimatize to the shift in temperature.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I didn't get any time at all this year. And yes, I know it's the middle of January, and I *SHOULD* have seen it coming. Well, I didn't and that's global warming's present to me. I coasted through a brownish-grey Christmas season, in which I enjoyed being able to take the baby outside.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Now, I can barely leave the house. Because babies aren't supposed to wear snowsuits in their car seats anymore (safety reasons I believe), Monster is in a fleecy PJ looking thing. And I don't feel good about taking her outside when it's -40 degrees with windchill. Even if we're just running to the van, I don't like how cold her hands, face and feet feel when I take her out again.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;b&gt;ASIDE: Personally, I don't remember very many instances of babies being flung out of their car seats because of their snow suits- but maybe that's because I didn't know babies actually existed until I had them for myself.&amp;nbsp;&lt;/b&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I also don't remember winter waiting until mid-January to show up with a vengeance. I mentioned this to a friend, who calmly told me, "That's the effect of Global Warming. It's only going to get more dramatic from here on in." OH NO. I mean, I've heard about global warming. I probably even watched part of Al Gore's movie (I think I fell asleep- but definitely not because it was boring. I fall asleep during all movies I don't give a sh*t about).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
But this might be the first time I've given global warming any thought at all. I knew the Polar bears are losing their homes- but I figured they'd be alright- someone else will deal with them. I knew that the ozone was depleted- people are always going ON AND ON about wearing sunscreen for just that reason. I knew that the ice floes were melting- I saw a power point presentation of the pictures- well, part of a ppp- I got bored and went back to Facebook.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I never thought that I'd be able to wear a tee shirt to the store in Winnipeg in January. And now that I have, I don't want to go back to being bundled up like a Inuit woman in a snowstorm.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
So, if Global warming is the cause of an unnaturally warm November, December and (first half of) January- then I'm in. Whatever causes it- fossil fuels, deforestation, industrial manufacturing or cow farts- I intend to be the front runner in the war on Ozone and breathable air. I'm going to get myself a wooden Humvee with an all plastic interior, running on methane- and I'm going to drive it twenty feet to get milk. Three times a day from now on.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Facetious: &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;h3 class="r g0"&gt;

&lt;span style="padding-bottom: 14px; padding-right: 15px;"&gt;&lt;i&gt;fa·ce·tious&lt;/i&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span style="font: smaller 'Doulos SIL','Gentum','TITUS Cyberbit Basic','Junicode','Aborigonal Serif','Arial Unicode MS','Lucida Sans Unicode','Chrysanthi Unicode'; padding-bottom: 7px;"&gt;/fəˈsēSHəs/&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="speaker-icon-listen-off" id="speaker_icon" style="margin: 0pt;"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/h3&gt;
&lt;table class="ts"&gt;&lt;tbody&gt;
&lt;tr&gt;&lt;td style="color: #666666; padding-bottom: 5px; padding-top: 5px;" valign="top" width="80px"&gt;Adjective:&lt;/td&gt;&lt;td style="padding-bottom: 5px; padding-top: 5px;" valign="top"&gt;&lt;table class="ts"&gt;&lt;tbody&gt;
&lt;tr&gt;&lt;td&gt;Treating serious issues with deliberately inappropriate humor; flippant.&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;
&lt;/tbody&gt;&lt;/table&gt;
&lt;/td&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;
&lt;tr bgcolor="#ddd" height="1px"&gt;&lt;/tr&gt;
&lt;/tbody&gt;&lt;/table&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-7302669703567956114?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/VaZ0qpHGdbQ" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/7302669703567956114/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/i-want-humvee-that-runs-on-cow-farts.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/7302669703567956114?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/7302669703567956114?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/VaZ0qpHGdbQ/i-want-humvee-that-runs-on-cow-farts.html" title="I want a Humvee that runs on cow farts." /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/i-want-humvee-that-runs-on-cow-farts.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkUFRHkzfSp7ImA9WhRUEkU.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-3176906761531537432</id><published>2012-01-13T23:54:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-22T20:03:35.785-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-22T20:03:35.785-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="beets" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="baking" /><title>Dirt Velvet Cake</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/_II8fBy5gFU92oVCI41tIfyvhKU/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/_II8fBy5gFU92oVCI41tIfyvhKU/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/_II8fBy5gFU92oVCI41tIfyvhKU/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/_II8fBy5gFU92oVCI41tIfyvhKU/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;Made a cake tonight. A 'red' velvet cake. Originally designed to use as little cocoa powder as possible during the wartime ration era, TRUE red velvet cake is made with a smidgen of cocoa and a splash of red beet juice (where the colour comes from).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I didn't use beets. I don't like beets. In fact, I'll go so far as to say "Icky". I also didn't use food colouring (which is what most recipes call for). I didn't have any food colouring.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I don't know where it is. I don't know where it went. I am reasonably certain I've never used three ounces of red food colouring in my life, so clearly it should still be in my pantry (careful! I almost typed 'panty'- which is stupid place to store anything, let alone food colourings). But, it's gone.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
So, I improvised. I took some of my red dusting sugar, mixed it in with some water, dissolved it, added the cocoa and used that. It's not 'red' so much as it is dirt brown. Oh well. So, I made "Dirt Velvet" cake.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Having finished the cake, iced it with a luscious cream cheese icing, I decided I'd make the 'red' come on the outside. So, I used the most awesome invention of all time. I got it at Michael's (my favourite place on Earth). It's food colouring spray. I got red, silver, and gold.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
So, I fancied up my cake with some aerosol-y, chemical happiness. I love modern life.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JvSW81ZlDqc/TxEYiEbr4II/AAAAAAAAAFU/wbYWSX5tgII/s1600/IMG_5567.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="240" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JvSW81ZlDqc/TxEYiEbr4II/AAAAAAAAAFU/wbYWSX5tgII/s320/IMG_5567.JPG" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-3176906761531537432?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/UGsbLIG2Z9Y" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/3176906761531537432/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/dirt-velvet-cake.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/3176906761531537432?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/3176906761531537432?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/UGsbLIG2Z9Y/dirt-velvet-cake.html" title="Dirt Velvet Cake" /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-JvSW81ZlDqc/TxEYiEbr4II/AAAAAAAAAFU/wbYWSX5tgII/s72-c/IMG_5567.JPG" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/dirt-velvet-cake.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkUBQHk-cSp7ImA9WhRUEkU.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-8888283975168592339</id><published>2012-01-10T23:22:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-22T20:04:11.759-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-22T20:04:11.759-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="character" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="gratitude" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="love" /><title>A Mitt Full of Gratitude.</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/UrwHzYE_58KeJ5zmyZrjhQRYhtc/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/UrwHzYE_58KeJ5zmyZrjhQRYhtc/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/UrwHzYE_58KeJ5zmyZrjhQRYhtc/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/UrwHzYE_58KeJ5zmyZrjhQRYhtc/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;Can I be grateful for something that isn't my own?&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Can I have gratitude for something without feeling indebted for it?&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I don't know if I 'can'; but, I am and I do.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I am grateful every day for my mother. My mother had a hard row to hoe, but she did it. She didn't complain. She didn't blame other people (at least never in my hearing). I never heard her say a bad word against my biological father. Not once. I never heard her use excuses, or try to reason her mistakes out of existence. So, I am grateful for my mother. I am grateful for her strength of character, for her will to live a better life. Her choices were not made by me (or for me); but, I can be thankful, grateful and appreciative of them.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I am grateful for my step dad, who loved me. He didn't
 have to, he still doesn't have to. But he does. And I am grateful for 
that. For him, stepping in and stepping up. For the time he drove two 
hours (each way) to bring me a hat, mittens and a scarf because I was 
complaining about being cold at university (I don't know that I really 
was cold; but I do know that I was looking for an excuse to leave school and come home). He 
could have simply refused to let me come home, and hung up the phone on 
me. He could have told me, "Suck it up buttercup." Actually, those were 
his exact words. But he drove four hours round trip to hug me and say it
 to my face. I can be grateful I had a father willing to do that for no reason other than he loves me.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I can have gratitude. I do have gratitude. I am able to receive gifts without feeling the need to "repay" the favour. I give gifts because I choose to, not because I have to. I don't 'repay' a gift given to me, because that would be ungrateful (to me it would take away the charm of receiving a gift for no reason other than love) and it would diminish the reason the giver chose to give it. Exchanging gifts is different than 'repayment in kind'.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I've had a chance to read recently a blog written by an adult adoptee. An angry, unhappy person by their own account. This blogger refuses to express 'gratitude' for being adopted. She says that she owes her parents no gratitude at all. In fact, the writer completely rejects them. Berates them even.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The writer of the blog also rejects the notion that being loved and cared for is something to be grateful for.&amp;nbsp; I don't understand that. Maybe that's because I never, ever (not even once) felt like I 'owed' my parents my gratitude. They didn't ask for my gratitude. They earned it. Maybe that is the difference.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Sometimes I think people misunderstand gratitude, and misunderstanding, they dismiss gratitude as something pathetic, or undesirable. I might not have had a perfect start to my life; but, I will forever be grateful to my momma for everything she did to make her life, and my own, better. I will forever be grateful that although I was a shit of a teenager, my father loved me and stuck with us.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Less than three you guys. Always.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: large;"&gt;"Character- the willingness to accept responsibility for one's own life-
 is the source from which all self respect springs." Joan Didion. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-8888283975168592339?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/mOLTZqUaUw8" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/8888283975168592339/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/mitten-full-of-gratitude.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/8888283975168592339?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/8888283975168592339?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/mOLTZqUaUw8/mitten-full-of-gratitude.html" title="A Mitt Full of Gratitude." /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/mitten-full-of-gratitude.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkUCRXY-cSp7ImA9WhRUEkU.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-2033731552577337048</id><published>2012-01-09T11:44:00.001-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-22T20:04:24.859-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-22T20:04:24.859-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="baking" /><title>Lemon Meringue Pie- FOOLPROOF</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/8v2vGGMGvsoA7XhcCsTS0LoXVP8/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/8v2vGGMGvsoA7XhcCsTS0LoXVP8/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/8v2vGGMGvsoA7XhcCsTS0LoXVP8/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/8v2vGGMGvsoA7XhcCsTS0LoXVP8/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
I made a lemon meringue pie. It's so good that I can't even think anymore. Here are the directions. I assume since you choose to make a pie, that you already know how to make a crust (or you'll buy one pre-made) I don't care either way. It's the filling that makes this pie phenomenal.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9RZTvzk7FG0/TwsrJDQiGcI/AAAAAAAAAFE/BlkIBJHVEWc/s1600/IMG_5563.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9RZTvzk7FG0/TwsrJDQiGcI/AAAAAAAAAFE/BlkIBJHVEWc/s320/IMG_5563.jpg" width="240" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: large;"&gt;Lemon "Curd" Pie Filling (not a true lemon curd):&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
1 1/2 cup sugar&lt;br /&gt;
3/4 - 1 cup lemon juice (I like lots, but the more you use, drop some of the cold water from the recipe, or you'll end up with runny filling)&lt;br /&gt;
6 tbsp cornstarch&lt;br /&gt;
1/4 tsp salt&lt;br /&gt;
1/2 cup cold water&lt;br /&gt;
3 egg yolks (lightly beaten)&lt;br /&gt;
1 cup BOILING water (I use my kettle)&lt;br /&gt;
rind of 2 lemons (I sometimes use more) &lt;br /&gt;
2 tbsp butter&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
1. Start by mixing the sugar, salt, cornstarch (or flour in a pinch, but it's not as good) and the COLD water into a midsized sauce pot. Mix the heck out of it, because the starch makes it glomp up. After the lumps are out, mix in the yolks and then the lemon juice. So good.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
2. Add the boiling water all at once, while you whisk the mixture at the same time. Place on a (preheated- ie, glowing) medium-low stove top. Keep stirring, constantly until it thickens. I DO NOT use a whisk here, or touch the bottom of the pot too much, because it starts to brown, and I don't like brown guck in my pie.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
3. As soon as it starts to boil, remove from heat, stir in the lemon rind and butter. Pour into the baked AND cooled pie crust. I like to take this opportunity to lick the spoon, ensuring quality before I continue. If it isn't lemony enough, I just zest extra lemon, and add another squirt of juice on top.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: large;"&gt;Meringue:&lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
6 egg whites.&lt;br /&gt;
1/4 tsp cream of tartar- this helps prevent 'weeping' meringue, but isn't necessary&lt;br /&gt;
1/2 cup sugar&lt;br /&gt;
2 tbsp water&lt;br /&gt;
3- 4 tbsp cornstarch- a second stabilizer in the meringue.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
1. In a stand mixer (you can do it by hand, but I don't like to), start mixing the whites, get them to the foamy, soft peak stage. Add the cream of tartar and the sugar.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
2. In a small pot, mix the water and the cornstarch, heating until it goes clear, and thickens. Take it off the stove, and stir to cool a bit.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
3. Once the cornstarch has cooled to your touch (ie, not hot enough to cook the egg whites), slowly pour it into the mixer while whipping the whites to a stiff peak. (You can test your peak by touching the back of your spatula/ spoon to the whites and lifting off. If the white peaks, without drooping down, it's stiff. It will also be shiny when it's done, but if you over whip, don't worry too much).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
4. Top your Lemon Curd pie, making sure you touch ALL the crust, the entire way around, this prevents 'shrinking'. Pile the rest of the meringue onto the pie, and 'style' in any way you like.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
5. Bake at 350- 375 F for 10-13 minutes, until the meringue is golden and brown.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I will take a picture and post as soon as I find the camera.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p-JeV70FScA/TwsrKGAnVhI/AAAAAAAAAFM/767PolFmGGk/s1600/IMG_5564.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-p-JeV70FScA/TwsrKGAnVhI/AAAAAAAAAFM/767PolFmGGk/s320/IMG_5564.jpg" width="240" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
P.S. Obviously, I found the camera.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-2033731552577337048?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/ZbTl1WrBacg" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/2033731552577337048/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/lemon-meringue-pie-foolproof.html#comment-form" title="1 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/2033731552577337048?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/2033731552577337048?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/ZbTl1WrBacg/lemon-meringue-pie-foolproof.html" title="Lemon Meringue Pie- FOOLPROOF" /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-9RZTvzk7FG0/TwsrJDQiGcI/AAAAAAAAAFE/BlkIBJHVEWc/s72-c/IMG_5563.jpg" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>1</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/lemon-meringue-pie-foolproof.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkQFQngzeSp7ImA9WhRUEkU.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-6527120631991652248</id><published>2012-01-06T22:41:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-22T20:05:13.681-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-22T20:05:13.681-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="suggestions" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="kids" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Crazy" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="family" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="socks" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="parenting tips" /><title>I have that. That too.</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/rCq25hQ5pJTPxV_1tHP2puRJnVs/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/rCq25hQ5pJTPxV_1tHP2puRJnVs/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/rCq25hQ5pJTPxV_1tHP2puRJnVs/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/rCq25hQ5pJTPxV_1tHP2puRJnVs/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;There are things that are mainstays in my diaper bag. Obviously, diapers and wipes are the most important. But there are other things in there too. Things you might not consider essential to your day- to- day travels; but I wouldn't be caught leaving the house without them.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I will try to outline the need for some of my choices, others should be reasonably clear. I think everyone should carry a diaper bag. Everyone. Including non- parents. Well, okay, maybe not non parents.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
First, I have three different bags. The small one is for short, less than an hour trips. It's got only a couple diapers, a pack of wipes, a small blanket (in case the baby is cold, or I need to nurse discreetly). That's it. There is room for my wallet and keys to be thrown in. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The midsized one (it's actually quite large) is my everyday roaming about bag. It's got everything I need for the baby, the kid and the pre teen. And then some.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I've got: diapers, wipes, a change of clothes for baby, a clean shirt for myself, toys, soothers, blanket (x2), snack bars, "Baby Gourmet" fruit packs, dry baby cereal portions, a sippy cup, two spoons, a small pack of 'surface wipes' (ie, a ziploc I cram Lysol wipes into- for use when I have to put the baby down someplace she might chew). &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Now it gets more 'unusual' (I'm pretty sure it only seems unusual to people who don't have children or "anxiety" issues). I also have: socks- one pair for each of us (I've been in situations- repeatedly- where the kids needed new socks), bandaids, polysporin spray, needle and thread, lighter, large candle, tooth brush and paste, floss, gum, at least ten different colours of crayons, small sticker pads (unused and as yet unseen), "feminine crap", pads of paper, children's books, MY book, orajel, tylenol, cough drops, cough pills (adult and kid), antihistamines, kleenex, rubber gloves, plastic ziploc bag with more plastic bags in it, and last, but not least, $20 in cash and $10 in change. I also try to change up which toys are in the bag from week to week, and I check my 'stock' before I go to bed at night, and add anything specific I might need the next day. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Yes, that really is the list of things I need almost every time I leave the house. Really. Including the socks.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
My biggest bag is for over night trips. It includes all of the above, PLUS, two extra changes of clothes for baby (for cool and for hot nights), a nasal aspirator, vicks vapor rub, batteries (camera, kid toys), more foods and books.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Okay, so basically it's a huge survival kit. But, that is what parenting is all about. It's not about having the cutest kids (it is a bit about that), or about what brands your kids wear. It's about survival. Pure and simple survival. Making it from today to tomorrow- with a minimum of crying (my crying- I don't care if kids are crying- it's like choking, if they are making noise, they'll live)&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Once you've run into a situation where: your pants rip, your child skins a knee (and won't shut up), you're still ten hours from being done your 'quick visit', one kid is acting like a bored schizophrenic, another starts to gag and cough because of allergies, the baby poops ALL over the place- well, you'd be grateful to have my diaper bag with you. I have it ALL covered.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I also carry a card (I made for myself) which says,&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
"This Card Entitles the Bearer to: FREAK the F*** Out- &lt;span style="font-size: large;"&gt;OR&lt;/span&gt; Bribe Children with McDonalds."&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Feel free to make yourself a card like that.&amp;nbsp; It's saved all our asses more than once, reminding me that it's easier to bribe for temporary good behaviour than it is to suck up your pride and apologize to your kids for acting like a head case.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-6527120631991652248?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/WonA3ShCpmk" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/6527120631991652248/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/i-have-that-that-too.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/6527120631991652248?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/6527120631991652248?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/WonA3ShCpmk/i-have-that-that-too.html" title="I have that. That too." /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/i-have-that-that-too.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkQARXs4fyp7ImA9WhRUEkU.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-4147054635692033662</id><published>2012-01-04T22:54:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-22T20:05:44.537-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-22T20:05:44.537-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="douchebaggery" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="character" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Babies" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="family" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="parenting tips" /><title>Happy ___ ____!</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/HniRGxx7V4eeqEdD7Y0JyvmRND8/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/HniRGxx7V4eeqEdD7Y0JyvmRND8/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/HniRGxx7V4eeqEdD7Y0JyvmRND8/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/HniRGxx7V4eeqEdD7Y0JyvmRND8/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;It's a new year. Again. 2012. I'm still waiting to see if the world crashes to an end. Maybe it did and I just slept through it.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I have lost the ability to enjoy New Years Eve. In fact, I'm pretty sure the last time I had much fun on NYE was in 2000- and there are pictures floating around someplace that substantiate just how much fun I had. I can party. Sort of.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I COULD party. I can't party anymore. Not because of the kids. I'm not so lame that I'll blame my kids for how lame I am. I can't party anymore because I'm not allowed. I don't have the requisite number of friends.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I don't know what happened. When I was 18, I had more friends than I had barrettes (and at that time, I had a really impressive barrette collection). When I turned 21, I still had lots of friends, but I had learned to become slightly more 'selective' about whom I spent my time with. By 25, I had a couple handfuls of friends.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Now, I have three-ish. My oldest friends live 2000 kms away, so I don't count them in my three-ish.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The problem, as I see it, since I'm not super cool anymore, I don't get to have/ go to big parties, which, as everyone under the age of 20 can tell you- THAT is where you meet your newest besties. Well, parties and bars.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I'm just not awesome enough to: spend three or four nights a week barhopping; to meet everyone (well, everyone worth knowing); spend hundreds of dollars on liquor and beer; use facebook to find the people I met at the club and spend the next two hours tagging myself in all the pictures from the night before.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
It's probably why I haven't managed to crack 1000 friends yet on facebook. Because I'm too lame.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I don't go drinking. I don't have parties. I don't text (actually, I haven't seen my cell in over a month now- and if I do find it, I'm not sure where I put the charger). I don't spend hours everyday trying to find the most flattering picture of myself, so I can make it my newest profile picture (in fact, I once used a picture of me making "monkey face" as a profile picture, and it's about the most unattractive picture I've ever seen).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Those are some of the reasons I can't have NYE anymore.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The biggest reason though? I got a letter from the "cool" kids about five years back, uninviting me to "New Years Eve" for the rest of my life. I'm not even allowed to SAY, "Happy New Year".&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
It's federally mandated that I have to be in bed before the ball drops. Fact.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
So, instead of HNY, I say, "May you have the longest year of your life. May you have all the things you never knew you wanted. May the people who love you continue to do so."&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-4147054635692033662?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/Ynq160L-Nh8" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/4147054635692033662/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/happy.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/4147054635692033662?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/4147054635692033662?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/Ynq160L-Nh8/happy.html" title="Happy ___ ____!" /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2012/01/happy.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkQNQX4_cSp7ImA9WhRUEkU.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-8802743126360688714</id><published>2011-12-25T11:32:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-22T20:06:30.049-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-22T20:06:30.049-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="gratitude" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="family" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Christmas" /><title>Puke and Monopoly are what make a family a "family".</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/V4bYOBNNUvrqSbmXaew7lr57WJo/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/V4bYOBNNUvrqSbmXaew7lr57WJo/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/V4bYOBNNUvrqSbmXaew7lr57WJo/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/V4bYOBNNUvrqSbmXaew7lr57WJo/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
It's Christmas!&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Santa has come and gone, the presents were opened, played with and left behind in a hail storm of ripped gift wrap, scraps of cardboard and shards of plastic (also, what's with the impenetrable packaging on kids' toys these days, it's like saying, "Here's your present, but damn me if you'll enjoy it").&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sqXilzyG6ng/Tvdfha4QXxI/AAAAAAAAAE8/9KCbw80WeI0/s1600/IMG_5460.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sqXilzyG6ng/Tvdfha4QXxI/AAAAAAAAAE8/9KCbw80WeI0/s320/IMG_5460.JPG" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
D was up at around 5 am- despite the fact that he isn't a big fan of Christmas, the kids were up by 5:30 am, and I was up at 6. Then the REAL fun began.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Brat had already thrown up on the couch by the time I woke up, so my darling husband wiped it halfheartedly and covered it with a blanket. Wonderful. That will smell awesome come dinnertime tonight I'm sure.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
So we handed out the stockings (I got a Bitchin' Kitchen cookbook in my stocking- and I didn't even buy it for myself). Brat continued to throw up, but wouldn't go to the bathroom and "miss" anything, so I have a picture of her sitting on the couch, holding her puke bucket and trying to open her stocking at the same time.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Rh6uboqHQHw/TvdfS7pJHwI/AAAAAAAAAEk/uHzrW18h5pY/s1600/IMG_5467.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="320" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Rh6uboqHQHw/TvdfS7pJHwI/AAAAAAAAAEk/uHzrW18h5pY/s320/IMG_5467.jpg" width="240" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
Ah. Family. Isn't it grand?&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-N2q9noEnx0g/TvdfY-P4aRI/AAAAAAAAAEs/qUf3TVhzXIA/s1600/IMG_5473.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="240" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-N2q9noEnx0g/TvdfY-P4aRI/AAAAAAAAAEs/qUf3TVhzXIA/s320/IMG_5473.JPG" width="320" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
As of right now, the baby is whining, the older kids are fighting over who said a bathroom word first, and I'm trying to pretend none of them exist at all. But I wouldn't change a thing. Because having a good fight, having a good laugh, smacking someone smaller than you (sorry Soph) and biting are all a part of ANY good family get-together. Just like crying, hiding and playing board games (until Poppy gets mad and slaps the monopoly board into smithereens- which, to be fair, only happened seven or eight years in a row). Board games, stories, food and laughter.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I love everything damned thing about this holiday. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"&gt;
&lt;a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bIOueasx8Xw/TvdfcPLFhoI/AAAAAAAAAE0/44uukzlO9yc/s1600/IMG_5496.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"&gt;&lt;img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-bIOueasx8Xw/TvdfcPLFhoI/AAAAAAAAAE0/44uukzlO9yc/s320/IMG_5496.jpg" width="240" /&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/div&gt;
The spirit of Christmas is loving and giving. Just keep saying it until you believe it too. Time for some left over turkey sandwiches, with mashed potatoes and gravy on the side. And maybe a nap.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-8802743126360688714?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/eAKIEb9UyCU" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/8802743126360688714/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2011/12/puke-and-monopoly-are-what-make-family.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/8802743126360688714?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/8802743126360688714?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/eAKIEb9UyCU/puke-and-monopoly-are-what-make-family.html" title="Puke and Monopoly are what make a family a &quot;family&quot;." /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media="http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/" url="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sqXilzyG6ng/Tvdfha4QXxI/AAAAAAAAAE8/9KCbw80WeI0/s72-c/IMG_5460.JPG" height="72" width="72" /><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2011/12/puke-and-monopoly-are-what-make-family.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkMER3c6fip7ImA9WhRUEkU.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-8161948596621617968</id><published>2011-12-22T09:10:00.000-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-22T20:06:46.916-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-22T20:06:46.916-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="douchebaggery" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Crazy" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="shove it" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="passive aggressive" /><title>I'm crazy, but not crazy enough to shop at Walmart</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/V98Lsyv2gRXxCIe1aWu0kVbYA14/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/V98Lsyv2gRXxCIe1aWu0kVbYA14/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/V98Lsyv2gRXxCIe1aWu0kVbYA14/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/V98Lsyv2gRXxCIe1aWu0kVbYA14/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;I hate Walmart.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I do. Not just because of the shitty corporate practices (you've heard them all before), not just because they force small businesses to close, not just because it's cool to hate Walmart.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I hate Walmart because of everything. I hate the fact that every single time I've had to go to Walmart, it's busier than a Christmas Eve Midnight Madness. Why? Why is it always busy at Walmart? 24 hours a day. I can go any damn time and the whole freakin' place is still packed.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I hate that there are no carts, ever, available for you to use. I think they only have 100 carts, and not once have I ever been able to just walk up and use one. I have to stalk somebody in the parking lot, follow them to their car and ask if they are done with the cart. I had one guy say "No, I chain this one to the fence for later."&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Awesome.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Then, there's the people themselves. PACKED to the rafters with people, each of whom is late for something. So, everyone in the store is tense, pushy, muttering about how busy it is, how long the lines are, why the things they're looking for aren't where they should be, etc.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I hate it. There isn't anything I need for one dollar cheaper. Because to me, one dollar off a pack of jello isn't worth the hassle. Walmart makes me crazy.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And that turns me into one of the masses of grouchy, pushy, muttering assholes who clog the aisles.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-8161948596621617968?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/ACv46YtpUJ0" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/8161948596621617968/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2011/12/im-crazy-but-not-crazy-enough-to-shop.html#comment-form" title="2 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/8161948596621617968?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/8161948596621617968?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/ACv46YtpUJ0/im-crazy-but-not-crazy-enough-to-shop.html" title="I'm crazy, but not crazy enough to shop at Walmart" /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>2</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2011/12/im-crazy-but-not-crazy-enough-to-shop.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkMFRnY-fyp7ImA9WhRUEkU.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-3493707474642202721</id><published>2011-12-20T23:30:00.001-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-22T20:06:57.857-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-22T20:06:57.857-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="cooking" /><title>Shepard's Pie (Cottage Pie)</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/C8zCyXDcJTwfc0xkCANLJbNOQ3U/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/C8zCyXDcJTwfc0xkCANLJbNOQ3U/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/C8zCyXDcJTwfc0xkCANLJbNOQ3U/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/C8zCyXDcJTwfc0xkCANLJbNOQ3U/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;&lt;div class="mtl fbDocument"&gt;
This is my take on a Shepard's Pie. I 
don't like lamb, so I use beef, but really, you could use any ground 
meat. So, in actuality, this is a cottage pie.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Ingredients:&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;ul&gt;
&lt;li&gt; 1  lb  lean ground beef (or 1  lb                              ground lamb) &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt; 1/2 small                              onion, chopped finely &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt; 1  teaspoon                              olive oil, for frying &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt; 1 -2                                garlic clove, minced &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt; salt, to taste &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt; pepper, to taste &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt; 2                                beef bouillon cube, or 2 tbsp bouillon paste, or approx 1 cup beef stock &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt;2 tbsp tomato paste (I buy the tube of double concentrated paste and
 use a 1" strip, because I rarely use a whole can of the paste)&lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt; 1/4 cup                              flour (you may not need all of it)&lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt; 3/4 - 1.5  cups                              water (cold)&lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt; 1 1/2 cups corn or 1 1/2 cups                     frozen mixed vegetables&amp;nbsp; &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;/ul&gt;
Mashed Potato: &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;ul&gt;
&lt;li&gt; 5 -10                                potatoes, peeled        (depending how much you love potato) &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt; 1/8 cup                              butter &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt; 1/2 cup                              milk, more as needed &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt; salt, to taste &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt; 1                                egg, beaten               (optional) &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;/ul&gt;
Directions:&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;ol&gt;
&lt;li&gt; Peel and quarter potatoes and set them in a pot of water to boil (on high). &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt;In a large pan on the stove, quick fry the onions in the olive oil (maybe 2 minutes), until they are translucent- NOT burned. &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt;Add the minced garlic to the onions and fry for 30 sec to 1 minute longer. &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt;Add the ground meat. &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt;Fry the meat/ onions  until the meat is BROWN. Not gray. BROWN. Some
 bits might stick to the  bottom. That's flavour, that's good. If there 
is a lot of fat, try to  drain some off. &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt;In a bowl mix a couple  teaspoons of water with the Oxo packets (I 
use fresh beef stock),  and deglaze the pan with the beef stock. &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt;Add your salt and pepper now too- I find it takes quite a lot of salt. Almost half a teaspoon. &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt;Next, add the flour to the remaining water (or stock) and blend it well. I add the tomato paste now too. &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt;Pour it into the  beef/onion/stock mixture and let it thicken for a 
few minutes. I stir  vigorously here so that there aren't any "lumps" in
 the gravy. &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt;Once the 'gravy' is thick, I add the veggies. Usually I use frozen, and just keep adding them until I think there are enough. &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt;By this time, your potatoes should be ready to mash. Salt, butter, milk and mash, until your potatoes are thick and creamy.&lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt; Then, here's my trick  (Thank You, Alton Brown)- I add a raw egg 
and mash the heck out of all  of it. The egg helps the potatoes stay 
'together' and brown nicely. Try  it one time, and if you don't like it,
 leave the egg out next time.&lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt; Pour the meat mixture into a cassarole dish (size depends on whether you like a "deep"  pie). &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt;Top with the mash.   I have a friend who puts some shredded 
cheese on top. I've had it,  it's pretty good, but I prefer plain 
potatoes with a smidgen of butter  smeared around the top. &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li&gt;Bake at 400F for 20- 40  minutes, or until the top is nice and 
golden brown. Or, freeze it  unbaked, well wrapped in saran wrap and 
tinfoil. Just remember to take  the saran wrap off, because I forgot 
once, and that's an EFF of a mess you just  don't want in your oven. &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;/ol&gt;
&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-3493707474642202721?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/5EDbpQpVibU" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/3493707474642202721/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2011/12/shepards-pie-cottage-pie_20.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/3493707474642202721?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/3493707474642202721?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/5EDbpQpVibU/shepards-pie-cottage-pie_20.html" title="Shepard's Pie (Cottage Pie)" /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2011/12/shepards-pie-cottage-pie_20.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkMBRXszeip7ImA9WhRUEkU.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-7024973659128970768</id><published>2011-12-20T11:25:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-22T20:07:34.582-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-22T20:07:34.582-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="suggestions" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="shove it" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="restaurants" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="food" /><title>Neck tattoos and boogers.</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/zc5oYIecTpUJHsq8ura1C-7_tvA/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/zc5oYIecTpUJHsq8ura1C-7_tvA/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/zc5oYIecTpUJHsq8ura1C-7_tvA/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/zc5oYIecTpUJHsq8ura1C-7_tvA/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;I like food.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Well, I like food that I like. I'm not so big on food I don't like.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
There are so many wonderful restaurants in Winnipeg. I've heard that Wpg is the test market for pretty much every single new product/ restaurant chain in Canada. I believe it.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
There is a restaurant every twenty feet in this city. Most of them are awesome. Some are terrible.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I'll talk about my favourite restaurant EVER now, with the reasons I love it.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I love Casa Grande. It's a hole-in-the-wall on Wall St. and Sargeant Ave. It's Italian, and it's good.&lt;br /&gt;
It's really good. In fact, I don't think I've ever eaten anything on their menu that wasn't tasty. Mind you, I always order 1 of 3 things, so maybe I'm biased. But I'll tell you what, if you order the cream sauce pasta with mushrooms, you'll never finish and you'll not regret it.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
My husband and I love to go there (when we can get away from our children), have apps, dinner and spumoni ice cream for dessert. So tasty. Then there is the 'decor'. It's old, it's faded, it's dark, and it makes me comfortable. It's not dirty, it's honest. The 'mama' who works there (I'm sure she's an owner), once came out and shouted at D and I to finish our dinner.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
That might sound strange to some, but I like it. We saw a big table coming, and I knew they'd need our table, so we were going to scoot and make room. Next thing I knew, a 50 year old little Italian lady was pushing me back down into my chair and saying. "Nonono, you eat. You eat. Finish your dinner. I bring you some ice cream. You like our ice cream everytime- yes?"&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
So, I sat, because when someone tells you to eat ice cream, I think a good rule is to just eat the ice cream. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Now, a restaurant I don't like? Easy. Rae and Jerry's Steakhouse. It's not good. It's not good at all. In fact, I'll go so far as to say downright gross. I only went once, with two of my friends, and I can say with almost complete certainty, NONE of us will ever go back.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The only thing that we got that tasted 'okay' was the steak. And you can get a decent steak most any place these days. But it was HOLY crap expensive. Which I don't mind- if I am getting good food. I will gladly pay through my nose for delicious food. I only get crabby when I get crap food at overly inflated prices. The Keg has better food than this place (and I think the Keg is pretty crap too).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Okay, the Keg isn't 'bad' but, it's QSM food. There is a HUGE, huge difference between QSM (which is basically tableside fast food), and fine dining. Fine dining, or home cooked taste, is where I am at. But I've discovered that people who think the Keg (or Applebee's, Moxies, Earls, Joeys) is 'good food', well, those people have never had REALLY good food. They just like the decor at the QSM restaurants.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Which is the point. Most of these chain restaurants spend several hundred thousand dollars to make themselves look as 'upscale' as possible, then they hire 1 good, well trained, Chef, nationwide, to design their menu. But the restaurant YOU are eating at, it's usually some 20 yr old guy with neck tattoos (if this guy is hard then I'd rather be soft) and an eyebrow piercing making the 'Goat Cheese and Spinach Dip with Mango Chutney Puree and Toast points' that you paid $20 for. And he picked his nose just now. Enjoy that image next time you visit a chain restaurant. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I laugh at you. I'm sorry, but I do. I've worked in so many restaurants, and I know that in order to maintain standards, every single thing you eat at a "big Chain" restaurant comes out of a packet. It's reheated, 90% of the time. But that doesn't make it 'bad'. I don't mind some of the stuff at Earls. I just happen to know that you'll get a better product, with better flavours, better ingredients at a smaller restaurant- and that's almost always true.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Not every 'small' restaurant is good though, some cut corners. Well, lots cut corners. If you want the skinny on the best restaurant in the city, don't ask people who call themselves 'foodies'- they don't know what the back of the house REALLY looks like. Ask waitresses, bartenders and food service reps where THEY like to eat. You'll never be disappointed again.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
So, from one food lover to another. Stop thinking YOU know what good food is, and ask someone who actually knows.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-7024973659128970768?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/Xj27oZjpa1Q" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/7024973659128970768/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2011/12/neck-tatttoos-and-snot.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/7024973659128970768?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/7024973659128970768?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/Xj27oZjpa1Q/neck-tatttoos-and-snot.html" title="Neck tattoos and boogers." /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2011/12/neck-tatttoos-and-snot.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkMDQnw9fip7ImA9WhRUEkU.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-1937530464879383920</id><published>2011-12-19T18:46:00.001-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-22T20:07:53.266-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-22T20:07:53.266-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="#winning" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="shove it" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Christmas" /><title>#WINNING!</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/AKeNdqecEUMeWbsxNyGmZpkxjh4/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/AKeNdqecEUMeWbsxNyGmZpkxjh4/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/AKeNdqecEUMeWbsxNyGmZpkxjh4/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/AKeNdqecEUMeWbsxNyGmZpkxjh4/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;That's right. I win.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I'm done. I'm done shopping, wrapping, baking- EVERYTHING. I win.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Christmas is just as much of a race as parenting is. You know it. I know it.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Unlike the majority of my fellow Christmas-ers, I won it.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I do a happy dance everytime I manage to get something just exactly right. And I've been dancing for two whole days now. I WIN!!!&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I'm not much of a 'twitter-er', but here we go #IWINCHRISTMAS&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Now, I get to sit back, laugh gleefully at my husband who still hasn't started shopping (I'm the only person he has to buy for, so that's not unusual), and at all my friends who are freaking out over the number of things they have left to do.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
WINNING!&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-1937530464879383920?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/nvGy06Ai8zw" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/1937530464879383920/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2011/12/winning.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/1937530464879383920?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/1937530464879383920?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/nvGy06Ai8zw/winning.html" title="#WINNING!" /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2011/12/winning.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;A0MGR34yeCp7ImA9WhRUGEQ.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-1161856022092946236</id><published>2011-12-15T20:19:00.003-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-29T22:57:06.090-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-29T22:57:06.090-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="kids" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Friends" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="gratitude" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="family" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="love" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Christmas" /><title>The Bringer of DSi's</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/Hn9ezd3GWLwGxyJokcpvBzce3R4/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/Hn9ezd3GWLwGxyJokcpvBzce3R4/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/Hn9ezd3GWLwGxyJokcpvBzce3R4/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/Hn9ezd3GWLwGxyJokcpvBzce3R4/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;Today I want to write about Christmas. The way Christmas makes me feel, the traditions I grew up with, the ones we've started with our kids and the ones I wish would go straight in the garbage bin.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The way I feel about Christmas? I love it. I love every single thing about Christmas. Family, food, presents, laughter, days and days of celebrating. Stockings (that's the best part).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
There is something so calming about Christmas for me. Church pageants, collecting toys for the toy drive, spending time with people you love. The lights, the sounds, the smells. Everything. I love every damned thing about Christmastime.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Christmas in my memory always comes back to the year I was 6 or 7 years old. This was the best Christmas ever- and most of them were pretty close to this.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
This particular year, every person in my family got together at my gramma's house. All gramma's kids, all their spouses, all the children. And back then there weren't many of us grandkids, so the 3 of us were spoiled completely by all the different adults. Our stockings were so big that they were put into green garbage bags to hold all of it. Awesome.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
There was food, delicious food. There were boxes of chocolates on the countertops, cakes, tarts, pies, turkey, gravy, bread, potatoes- well, you probably have all those things too. But when you're 6, and there is such an array of food, you just get absolutely blasted by it.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
So, that was us. Crackers got cracked, and all of us have to wear our paper hats, tell the joke to everyone else. Then the stories start. Things my mom and her siblings did as children- told by some of the absolute funniest people on Earth. All of it told at a volume that could deafen an apple. It's incredible.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
My family- both sides- have done this year after year. The stories are just as funny today as they were 30 years ago. The food is just as good. The stockings have (unfortunately) gotten less impressive, and they are less of a surprise every year (I now have to buy my own stocking stuffers). But the feeling is the same. Sheer love and joy. Being with people I love, who love me- who always will.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The traditions we've kept with our kids are much the same. My in laws come over, my father and stepmother come over, we invite friends- Christmas Eve is a happy time here.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The new traditions are computer/ tv related. The kids track Santa on the www.noradsanta.org Norad Santa Tracker website. We turn the "Holiday Firelog" on the tv and listen to Christmas music. My children go to bed, and I make the stocking- laughing with the other adults while I do.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
There are so many things to be grateful for, to be thankful for. Family is top. Friends, God, gifts (of any size, price point or usefulness), food, love. But here is one thing I don't think we should keep up. I don't think we should keep up the consumerism.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
There are so many things I want my kids to have. That's true. I want them to have the best I can give them of everything. But I don't want them to believe that something has to be expensive/ paid for in order to be worthwhile. And I think overall the kids know that- we make gifts every year for the people we love.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
But then, the top TV commercials for the last month started me thinking. My daughter keeps asking for a DSi. She can't have one. It's not the money. It's the fact that she's 5 years old. What the bloody buggering hell could she possibly need a DSi for? She doesn't know how to play video games. But, she overheard one of the other moms telling a classmate that "Santa will probably bring you a DS".&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I wish Santa brought only a stocking. Apparently, Santa gifts are expensive. I wonder how long I have before Brat points out to me that Santa brings her a 'crappier/ cheaper' gift than he brings her friends.&amp;nbsp; Ohh, poopballs. What age do kids figure out that the real Santa is the spirit of sharing- NOT the bringer of DSi's???&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-1161856022092946236?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/9zFRMKaQ33s" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/1161856022092946236/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2011/12/bringer-of-dsis.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/1161856022092946236?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/1161856022092946236?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/9zFRMKaQ33s/bringer-of-dsis.html" title="The Bringer of DSi's" /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2011/12/bringer-of-dsis.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkIHR3g-fCp7ImA9WhRUEkU.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-5946603687753031115</id><published>2011-12-14T22:06:00.002-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-22T20:08:56.654-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-22T20:08:56.654-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="suggestions" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="kids" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="shove it" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Babies" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="passive aggressive" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="family" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="love" /><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="parenting tips" /><title>Suggestion Box? I've got a place for your suggestions...</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/WFrLmZGhniyYnz_PqGebYi2BjYk/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/WFrLmZGhniyYnz_PqGebYi2BjYk/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/WFrLmZGhniyYnz_PqGebYi2BjYk/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/WFrLmZGhniyYnz_PqGebYi2BjYk/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;I wish parenting came with a pretty little suggestion box. You know, you leave the hospital (new baby tucked into the lastest, side impact resistant, composite infant carrier) and on the way through the front door, a little old lady who raised 15 kids, grandkids and great grandkids gives you a handmade, glitter covered, "SUGGESTIONS HERE" box.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Oh, that'd be helpful. I've got a place for all your suggestions all right. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&amp;nbsp;I read today, another mom's blog. She was discussing the fact that as parents in the world today, we have a never ending stream of information to digest, filter, and then apply to our own situations.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And she commented on the fact that, as every mother out there knows, someone you love, someone who loves you thinks, "they're doing it all wrong".&amp;nbsp; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Every other day another study comes out. Don't co- sleep with your kids, it fosters dependence. Co- sleeping with your kids fosters a greater sense of love and self worth. Don't vaccinate- it could cause Autism Spectrum Disorder. Don't vaccinate and you'll be the cause of the next huge pandemic of pertussis (and for MY record, just shut up and vaccinate your children). You'd better be breastfeeding, because the formula could have been made in China with ground up paint chips. Don't breastfeed- wait, no I've never seen anyone say that. But you get the point.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
No matter what you choose, every single choice you make as a parent is up for scrutiny by every single person you know. And admit it, you do it too. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I do it. I disagree with some of the choices I see other parents making, thinking to myself, "Oh, God, that's going to bite them in the ass five years from now." But generally, I also know that there are things that I do that might rear up one day and nip my own ass. So, I don't point out 'mistakes' (as I see them) to other parents, because I wouldn't appreciate other people pointing out my failures as a parent (which, I am here to tell you- I don't have. My children are bloody angels).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Because I know how sensitive a mom can be, even when I have a suggestion, I try to make sure the other person understands that I believe it's ONE way; but, I know my way isn't actually the ONLY way. But yeah, I think my way is the best- that's true.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
And I try so hard not to judge you for using your own way. Time straightens most all kids out. The way we get a kid from point A (in the here and now) to point B (five years from now) doesn't change the outcome. They will get there, and they won't still be pissing their pants (or being awake all friggin' night long).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I know that there are a thousand ways to sleep train a baby. Or to stop a baby from biting. Or wetting the bed. It goes on and on. I've been lucky to find what works with my children- and it's been different for both the older ones so far. I imagine that it will be different yet for this baby. So, please feel free to share your suggestions with me- IF/ WHEN I BLOODY WELL ASK FOR THEM (or if I don't- you can still tell me, I'm sometimes not smart enough to ask for help when I need it).&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
With that said, I cannot abide being given advice by people who do not have children of their own.&amp;nbsp; If you haven't raised a child, from diapers to kindergarten (I also don't want advice from you momma, because it's 30 years out of date- but you did a fantastic job with moi. Love you.) don't share your advice with me.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I heard for years from a childless friend that my older daughter is "bad". She's not. She's energetic, lively, passionate, friendly and loving. Sometimes she's mischievious, but she doesn't have a malicious bone in her entire body. This same friend spent years telling other parents the same thing- that their children were 'bratty', 'too noisy', 'too messy' or all around poorly behaved.&amp;nbsp; In fact, to listen to that friend, every child under the sun was wretchedly behaved, and should probably be put down for the good of all Mankind. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I don't have an answer to all of the things we were told we did wrong (by this friend without children) but what I do know is that if I took to heart all the criticisms, 'pointers', unsolicited advice, and general helpfulness, I'd believe what this person said. And I'd hate my children as much as she seemed to.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/286270437988135919-5946603687753031115?l=gondolaqueen.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~4/aPxEFuS0rxA" height="1" width="1"/&gt;</content><link rel="replies" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/feeds/5946603687753031115/comments/default" title="Post Comments" /><link rel="replies" type="text/html" href="http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2011/12/suggestion-box.html#comment-form" title="0 Comments" /><link rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/5946603687753031115?v=2" /><link rel="self" type="application/atom+xml" href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/286270437988135919/posts/default/5946603687753031115?v=2" /><link rel="alternate" type="text/html" href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/MyLife-WithBugsBratAndMonster/~3/aPxEFuS0rxA/suggestion-box.html" title="Suggestion Box? I've got a place for your suggestions..." /><author><name>GondolaQueen</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/08871925909481760422</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" width="32" height="24" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Euv1MaNsZl0/TEZe6cI4v5I/AAAAAAAAAAM/gElslTGGckg/S220/IMG_3343.JPG" /></author><thr:total>0</thr:total><feedburner:origLink>http://gondolaqueen.blogspot.com/2011/12/suggestion-box.html</feedburner:origLink></entry><entry gd:etag="W/&quot;DkIAR3Y_fSp7ImA9WhRUEkU.&quot;"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-286270437988135919.post-3661652827976964761</id><published>2011-12-14T01:14:00.001-06:00</published><updated>2012-01-22T20:09:06.845-06:00</updated><app:edited xmlns:app="http://www.w3.org/2007/app">2012-01-22T20:09:06.845-06:00</app:edited><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="baking" /><title>Banana Flax Seed Bread- for H.</title><content type="html">
&lt;p&gt;&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/AdtBOMcFW3e0rEIjO_o1_zl2OFc/0/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/AdtBOMcFW3e0rEIjO_o1_zl2OFc/0/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;br/&gt;
&lt;a href="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/AdtBOMcFW3e0rEIjO_o1_zl2OFc/1/da"&gt;&lt;img src="http://feedads.g.doubleclick.net/~a/AdtBOMcFW3e0rEIjO_o1_zl2OFc/1/di" border="0" ismap="true"&gt;&lt;/img&gt;&lt;/a&gt;&lt;/p&gt;I was told today by a friend that a good idea for a post would be some of my recipes. Fine. You can have them. But you owe me a sucker. No, TWO suckers. We'll start with my favourite banana and flax seed bread recipe. I'm leaving out 1 key ingredient- you have to guess what it is. Also, since I have almost zero inclination to continue typing all night, I'm going to cut and paste from my cookbook. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;ul&gt;
&lt;li class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredients"&gt;
       &lt;span class="ingredient"&gt;&lt;span class="amount"&gt;&lt;span class="value"&gt;1/2&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="type"&gt;cup&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&amp;nbsp;&lt;span class="ingredient"&gt;&lt;span class="name"&gt;butter (softened is best, or you can melt it completely in the microwave- more like a brownie though than a bread)
       
       
       &lt;/span&gt;
       
       &lt;/span&gt;
       &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredients"&gt;
       &lt;span class="ingredient"&gt;&lt;span class="amount"&gt;&lt;span class="value"&gt;1 &lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="type"&gt;cup&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; sugar (I also like to sprinkle a bit of sugar over the bread after I pour it into the pan. It caramelizes nicely, and makes everything taste like happiness)&lt;span class="name"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.food.com/library/sugar-139"&gt;
       &lt;/a&gt;
       
       
       &lt;/span&gt;
       
       &lt;/span&gt;
       &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredients"&gt;
       &lt;span class="ingredient"&gt;&lt;span class="amount"&gt;&lt;span class="value"&gt;2 eggs&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="type"&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;span class="name"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.food.com/library/egg-142"&gt;
       &lt;/a&gt;
       
       
       &lt;/span&gt;
       
       &lt;/span&gt;
       &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredients"&gt;
       &lt;span class="ingredient"&gt;&lt;span class="amount"&gt;&lt;span class="value"&gt;1 &lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="type"&gt;teaspoon&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; vanilla&lt;span class="name"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.food.com/library/vanilla-350"&gt;
       &lt;/a&gt;
       
       
       &lt;/span&gt;
       
       &lt;/span&gt;
       &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredients"&gt;
       &lt;span class="ingredient"&gt;&lt;span class="amount"&gt;&lt;span class="value"&gt;1 1/2&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="type"&gt;cups&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; flour&lt;span class="name"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.food.com/library/flour-64"&gt;
       &lt;/a&gt;
       
       
       &lt;/span&gt;
       
       &lt;/span&gt;
       &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredients"&gt;
       &lt;span class="ingredient"&gt;&lt;span class="amount"&gt;&lt;span class="value"&gt;1 &lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="type"&gt;teaspoon&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; baking soda&lt;span class="name"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.food.com/library/baking-soda-7"&gt;
       &lt;/a&gt;
       
       
       &lt;/span&gt;
       
       &lt;/span&gt;
       &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredients"&gt;
       &lt;span class="ingredient"&gt;&lt;span class="amount"&gt;&lt;span class="value"&gt;1/2&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="type"&gt;teaspoon&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; salt&lt;span class="name"&gt;&lt;a href="http://www.food.com/library/salt-359"&gt;
       &lt;/a&gt;
       
       
       &lt;/span&gt;
       
       &lt;/span&gt;
       &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredients"&gt;
       &lt;span class="ingredient"&gt;&lt;span class="amount"&gt;&lt;span class="value"&gt;1 &lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="type"&gt;cup&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;  
       &lt;span class="name"&gt;
        
       
       mashed ______ (approx. 4 ripe _______)
       
       
       
       &lt;/span&gt;
       
       &lt;/span&gt;
       &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredients"&gt;
       &lt;span class="ingredient"&gt;&lt;span class="amount"&gt;&lt;span class="value"&gt;1/2&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="type"&gt;cup&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt;  
       &lt;span class="name"&gt;
       chopped 
       
       nuts
       
       
        (don't use nuts if you have a nut allergy. Just a suggestion.)
       
       &lt;/span&gt;
       
       &lt;/span&gt;
       &lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredients"&gt;
       &lt;span class="ingredient"&gt;&lt;span class="amount"&gt;&lt;span class="value"&gt;1/2&lt;/span&gt; &lt;span class="type"&gt;cup&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/span&gt; sour cream (I also like to change it up for any flavour yogurt- it works just as well)&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/li&gt;
&lt;li class="ingredient" itemprop="ingredients"&gt;&lt;span class="ingredient"&gt;1/2 cup ground flax seed&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/li&gt;
&lt;/ul&gt;
&lt;div class="pod directions"&gt;
&lt;h2&gt;

Directions:&lt;/h2&gt;
&lt;span class="instructions" itemprop="recipeInstructions"&gt;
 &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;ol&gt;&lt;span class="instructions" itemprop="recipeInstructions"&gt;
&lt;li&gt; &lt;div class="txt"&gt;
Grease a loaf pan, or line muffin tin with cuppy thingers.&lt;/div&gt;
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&lt;li&gt;&lt;div class="txt"&gt;
Mash the butter, sugar, eggs and vanilla- they should get sort of fluffy looking, unless you melted the butter (like a jerk in a hurry)- in which case it'll look kinda glompy.&amp;nbsp;&lt;/div&gt;
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Add bananas, nuts, flax and sour cream. Mix it up thoroughly, THEN add the dry ingredients. &lt;/div&gt;
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Mix well-ish. But not too much, because then the gluten sets up and the bread becomes heavy and icky.&lt;/div&gt;
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Bake at 350 F for 1 hour. Or less. It depends on your elevation, your oven and the size of your pan. I like to use the muffin tins so I don't end up with as much overly- browned edgy pieces.&lt;/div&gt;
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&lt;/span&gt;
 
   
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