Once Upon an Insanity Plea

Attack of the Pudgy Princess

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Mon, 02 Feb 2009 16:25:00 +0000

Part of my plans for this year are to get into shape - at least a shape I am happy with - the rectangular figure really isn't doing it for me at the moment. On that note, this past weekend's shopping excursion saw us buying a treadmill.

Since patience - or moderation - are virtues that I do not possess - I've jumped into a state of treadmill overdose. And let me tell you this, my muscles are rebelling. For the most part though, it feels pretty good. However, if the hot water tank were to go belly-up and I could not soak in a hot bath afterwards, that pretty good feeling would turn to painful agony mighty quickly.

I haven't set a weight loss goal for myself. Rather, I'm aiming to lose inches. If I can meet my goal measurements, I will be happy with whatever pounds come off. And like stated above, I plan to do this with an exercise program. (Diet is very much a four-letter word in this household - and where I do enjoy using a variety of four-letter words, I have to draw the line somewhere.)

I've debated posting my starting measurements along with my goal measurements - but I've decided to decline. Instead, I'll let you know how I'm doing in three months time. Because I'm also obsessive, I'm not allowing myself to check on my progress until that time.

Otherwise, I'd be moaning and groaning on a daily basis - and none of us need to listen to that.

No More Excuses

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Fri, 30 Jan 2009 17:31:00 +0000

Brace yourselves - I'm back.

I could give you a hundred reasons for my absence - I have a career, children to look after, a house to maintain, continuing education to achieve my National certification, personal goals - what it comes down to is a lack of time.

And that we all know is total bullshit.

Why its bullshit is because there always seems time to sit on the couch and watch a little television. There's always time to hang out with friends or play on the computer. Let's face it, there's always time - we just have to use it properly.

My goal is to post three times a week - possibly more is someone really pisses me off and I need a place to let off some steam. But, three posts is my plan.

So, meet me back here Monday - and let the fun begin….again.

Ghost Stories

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Fri, 12 Dec 2008 17:02:00 +0000

I've always believed in ghosts and spirits. If I didn't, living in this house would have changed my mind.

It's not that the house is haunted - it's not, but the land is another story. Perhaps it's because a church used to stand on this land. Whatever the reason, we have ghosts dropping by on their way to the other side. It's as if the part of the land is a pass-through.

They don't stick around very long - some are here for a day or two, while others hang out for a couple weeks before passing over. In addition to the motley crew I live with, this keeps things around here interesting.

Here are some of our ghostly visitors:

The Hummer - This spirit walked the hallway of our home. Not only did it walk, but it hummed. I remember sitting at my desk in my office and hearing it. As it came close to the doorway, the humming became louder. As it walked past, the humming dulled, until again, it walked by again.

The Mumblers - These two stayed for a few weeks and almost drove me crazy. Every night, around the same time, I would hear them talk. It was always a faint sound, almost as if someone had left the TV on in the other room. It didn't bother me that they had their nightly conversations outside my bedroom door; what bothered me was that I could never make out what they were saying. If I'm going to be kept up by talking, I definitely want to be privy to the conversation.

The Boy in the Basement - I never seen this one but Young Rebel made sure I knew about it. In fact, I've never seen the boy looks so white - he, himself, could have passed for a ghost. The story is this: As he walked downstairs to go to his room, he saw a young boy standing in the family room. He just stood there and looked at the young boy for a while but as soon as he called out for us, the boy disappeared. Weird - but I believe him. I've had shadows rush past me in the hall and that's freaky enough.

The Plate Stacker - Prince Charming, Young Rebel, Girly and I were all in the living room watching a movie when you could very clearly hear plates being rattled in the kitchen. Now, unless Paws has developed the ability to put the dishes away in the cupboard, something was in our kitchen. We all looked at one another, but true to our form, nobody got up to check it out. We aren't that brave of a people. Plus, unless the dishes start smashing to the floor, I say let them be.

The Trickster - I missed this one but it sure did play havoc with Prince Charming. While in his morning shower, PC noticed that every few minutes, someone - or something - kept turning off the water. A little on edge, he continued as if nothing had happened - until the lights started flickering in every room he walked into. Again, he tried to ignore it but when he felt the breath on the back of his neck - he ran - literally.

This last story would have been more amusing to me if he hadn't called me from work a half hour later to see if I noticed anything weird in the house. I told him no and asked why. He related the morning's events - and I think he hoped for some comfort on my part. Well, he wasn't going to get it. Instead, he was chewed out for not saying anything and leaving the rest of us there to fend for ourselves. What a guy.

I guess his mother never read him fairytales as a kid where the handsome Prince would fight dragons to save his princess. That, or else ghosts were never part of the story.

Better Be Worth It

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Thu, 11 Dec 2008 14:20:00 +0000

I'm seriously wondering why I have an answering machine. No good news ever comes from it. If you thought Girly could drive me nuts, the Young Rebel is going to push me right over the edge.

Once again, there is a message for me to call the school. I dread these calls because experience tells me - well - it tells me that it's never good.

So, what's a mother to do? If you're me, you go find your son of Satan and quiz the hell out of him. To my relief, he tells me it's because he is failing science - yes, in my house, that is a relief. He's already been suspended once since the beginning of the school year and I feared a repeat performance.

I guess it's another trip to the school for me and I can't say I'm looking forward to it. Hell, I hated going there when I had to as a kid. Now, I'm being forced to again as an adult.

This boy better end up being a great athlete. I want my recognition for my sacrifices when he scores the game winning touchdown or goal. That big wave and "hi mom" into the camera will be a good start.

That or he had better be successful. Rich enough so when I'm old and in need of care, he can afford to put me into a good home - you know - the kind with the good drugs.

Mission Impossible

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Wed, 10 Dec 2008 13:34:00 +0000

Note found on the kitchen counter this morning:

Hi Mom,

It's me, Girly. I forgot to tell you this so I thought I'd leave you a note because I really don't want you to freak out or anything. I need to take a dozen iced cupcakes to school today for our school bake sale at lunch. It's for a good cause so you really can't be too mad about it. I know I should have told you sooner but I totally forgot about it until last night. And since you hate short notice about these kinds of things, I thought I'd write it in this note instead.

So, mom, could you pleassssse make me cupcakes this morning so I have them for school.

I love you.

Girly

Well, I'll give her some credit. She knows what will make me freak right out. I wonder if I sent my Sainted Mother a quick note if she would make cupcakes for me. I'll even say pleassssse.

Perky Ban

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Tue, 09 Dec 2008 13:38:00 +0000

Perkiness should be outlawed. I'm serious. They should burn these people at the stake.

There's something very wrong with these people - and I should know - I work with one. I love my job but just seeing Sally Sunshine as soon as I walk in the door - bouncing around with a stupid grin on her face is enough to make me long for my bed. I want to suggest she get a psychiatric exam but I haven't found a way to work it into the conversation yet.

It's just unnatural for someone to be that perky all the time. Surely they have some downtime. They'd have to or some unforeseen incident could cause them to blow a gasket - or at least, lose their ever loving mind.

I almost hope that happens. I can deal with crazy people. It's the nice, perky, always fucking smiling people that scare the hell out of me.

Friendly Fire

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 14:05:00 +0000

Having friends over is something we enjoy. It's a nice chance to get together, have a few drinks and catch up on everyone's lives.

Get-togethers at our home always involve a deck of cards. Any card game will do and the more playing, the merrier. We all have a good time but when the spoons come out - the gloves come off and it's time to battle.

I remember playing spoons as a kid, but I don't remember it being the cutthroat game we play as adults today. If you only get your knuckles rapped by a silver spoon, you should count yourself lucky. It's not uncommon for our game night to end with multiple scratches, bruises and the occasional eye gouge.

If you add alcohol to the mix, you're best served with full hockey gear.

Spoons can be best likened to musical chairs. Everyone starts with a pile of cards and if there are seven people, there are six spoons are placed in the middle of the table. At the same time, everyone flips over a card. If, at any time during this process, a pair is made, each person must grab for a spoon. The one with no spoon is out and the rest continue. It's vicious, but man, it's so much fun!

Christmas List

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Fri, 05 Dec 2008 14:12:00 +0000

Unlike yesterday, now to a list I can enjoy.

What I want: A cook. As I've stated before, not only can I not cook, I have no desire to do so. How I would love a talented chef (okay, it can be anyone who doesn't burn every dish) to prepare my dinnertime meals on a nightly basis.

What I'll get: Another cookbook. I have hundreds of these devil-reads stacked away in cupboards. I love books - but cookbooks? Come on, it's like giving a blind person paints and a canvas. The results are rarely pretty.

What I want: Home décor items. Everyone knows I am in the process of redecorating my home - and I've gone on about the style I like. In fact, there are cutout pieces piled on the table of the different items I'm planning to incorporate into the design.

What I'll get: A plant. Every year, I get one of these things. Every year, by the end of January, it's dead. I am the ultimate plant killer extraordinaire. The only "plants" in my house are fake - and I've even killed a few of those. For the love of God people, quit giving me plants.

What I want: The Wii fit. I love my Wii but I'm a simple girl with simple skills.

What I'll get: Some Wii game that takes specialized skills like being able to hit a hundred button sequence while twisting to the left on one leg. The title will be something like NHL 2009 or Smackdown vs. Raw - and this will be the most played game in the house on Christmas - just not by me but by the males in the domain.

What I want: A nice peaceful Christmas at home with family.

What I'll get: Hey, that's mine. Don't open that! Mom, Paws is eating tinsel again. Dear, don't you have a clean spoon? You should really get another garbage bag going. Is breakfast ready yet? Why didn't you get me the blue one? What's that smell? Grandpa needs another coffee. Don't touch my stuff. Where are the batteries? Mom, something's burning.

To Do List

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 14:36:00 +0000

This is such a crazy time of the year. Aside from having to finish my Christmas shopping, I'm overloaded at work, my house needs a good cleaning, there's a concert to attend and we have two birthdays this month.

I'm looking at that list and the only one that appeals to me is the shopping. It's just too bad it couldn't be done with someone else's money. The cleaning - well, that will be done - sort of. I mean, seriously, when you have kids, is the cleaning ever done?

Now the concert sounds fun, doesn't it? Well, it would if it was some great band. But no, this concert will be one of those grueling experiences that tend to suck the life right out of you. Yes, I'm speaking of the high school Christmas concert where the students put on brilliant plays that they have been practicing for, oh let's say, a week. What gets me most is the amount of people who show up who don't even have kids in the play - and I thought I was deranged.

The birthdays belong to Girly and Prince Charming. In fact, their birthdays and Christmas all fall within the same week. I feel for them. I would hate my birthday being so close to Christmas. This year though, I've made a vow. I will remember to buy birthday wrapping paper for their gifts. Birthday presents wrapped in Christmas paper don't go over well - so I've learned over the years.

Oh, a word of advice before I go lick my coffee pot clean - and this has nothing to do with my list - it's just a general public announcement: Never eat or drink anything low fat - it's disgusting and I'm sure it will kill you before you drop an ounce of weight.

Princess, Save Thyself

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 13:44:00 +0000

I now know how I am going to die. I'm going to choke to death - and probably right in front of my family. This was the scene at the dinner table last night:

Deranged Princess: trying to swallow and realizing I cannot - Oh my God!

Prince Charming: What?

Deranged Princess: I'm choking!

Prince Charming: You're not choking.

Deranged Princess: Yes, I am. I'm freakin' choking here.

Young Rebel: Mom, you're not choking.

Deranged Princess: glaring

Girly: Here, mom, have a drink.

Deranged Princess: How am I supposed to drink when I'm choking?

Prince Charming: You're not choking. Would you relax already.

Deranged Princess: Relax? I'm choking to death and you're telling me to relax?

Girly & Young Rebel are now ignoring the scene and back to eating - God, I hope they choke and then they'll see

Deranged Princess: Damn it people, I'm choking here.

Prince Charming: If you're choking, then how are you talking?

Deranged Princess: I've got skills! Now, are you going to help me or what?

Prince Charming: finally rising - Okay, what do you want me to do?

Deranged Princess: I don't know. I'm the one who's choking and now I have to save myself?

Prince Charming: For Christ's sake, you're not choking.

Deranged Princess: deep breath - Okay, I think I'm better now, no thanks to you guys.

Prince Charming: You weren't choking, sweetie.

Deranged Princess: Grrrrrr

Sheesh. I should know when I'm choking. See, I told you this is how it's all going to end for me.

Cracking at the Seams

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Mon, 01 Dec 2008 13:57:00 +0000

Yesterday, after arriving back home from a weekend shopping trip, I got the bright idea to put together a gingerbread house. Let's just say this - it was a good idea, however, the execution was anything but good. First of all, I obviously have a problem with following directions. I mean, who needs them when you can see the end result by looking at the cover of the box.

People, I need to follow the directions. Not only does the house not look like the box cover but it has substantial foundation issues. Only if I tilt the box on its side does it faintly resemble the mess currently on the kitchen counter.

To make matters worse, after talking with my Sainted Mother, it was decided that she and Sir in the Dark would be coming out to our place to celebrate Christmas. That's all fine and dandy but it means that I am in charge of cooking the holiday dinner.

What in the world have I agreed to? I can barely cook a can of soup or build a pre-made gingerbread house, let alone do a turkey and all the fixings. Maybe if I use all my best dishes and flatware, dim the lights and have candles lit everywhere, no one will notice that I've served up a big bucket of KFC.

It's the only plan I have so far.

Half Hour of Hell

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 13:54:00 +0000

Prince Charming and I are heading to the city this weekend to do some Christmas shopping. After the week I had, I could use the break to get away. Sometimes, just a short encounter with a specific person can make you want to run screaming - and I mean run far, far away.

The person I'm speaking of is Her Highness. Normally, we keep our distance from one another but yesterday was avoidable. I knew she was stopping by to drop off a package for us to take to relatives in the city. So, when the doorbell rang, I put a smile on my face and pulled open the door. "Good morning, Her Highness. How are you?"

"I'm fine, dear." Long pause. "I thought you were expecting me."

Confused look. "Yes, Prince Charming said you were dropping by."

"Oh. I would assume one would be more prepared for company." Haughty prissy look as she walks past me with a stick up her ass kind of stroll.

Well, fuck me. It's not like I was in my sweats and a t-shirt. Okay, I was - but it was my bloody day off for Christ's sake. I did suck it up and serve her coffee although I'm sure she was disappointed that I didn't have freshly baked dainties set out on the table.

The entire visit lasted less than half an hour but it seemed the longest thirty minutes I've ever sat through. Oh boy, I can't wait until Christmas when we all can spend the whole, entire (much more than half an hour) day together!

The Buckleys Solution

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Thu, 27 Nov 2008 16:01:00 +0000

The cold and flu bug is making its rounds through our community. I'm feeling pretty safe. I rarely get sick (excuse me while I knock on some wood). My kids are doing good too - although, they definitely hide from me any signs of an impending cold.

This goes back to when they were younger. Whenever one would get a cough, they got a teaspoon of cough syrup. Well, wouldn't you know it, as soon as that sweet cough syrup came out, the other would instantly develop a cough of their own. I'm sure the parents out there recognize this circle of insanity. My kids equated cough syrup to candy, and soon, the fake coughs would begin just to get some.

I knew I had to put a stop to this nonsense. Enter Buckleys. The next time the forced hack came out; I poured the potent liquid onto a spoon and gave the child something no one could ever prepare for. Well, my goodness, between the yelling and the spitting, the second child came running to see what the commotion was about.

Ahh…little innocent child entering forgets all about the commotion at the sight of the cough syrup bottle - and wouldn't you know it, they have a cough too. Step right up, young lady, have I got a deal for you. No amount of warnings from her sibling is going to stop this child from getting her candy treat, and so, another spoonful of Buckleys takes its next victim.

After this incident, no coughs were ever heard clearly again in the house. Sure, there were muffled chokes and gasps, but whenever I asked if anyone needed cough syrup, the answer was always a surprising "no!"

If that's not a good selling point for Buckleys, I don't know what is. After one spoonful, you'll never get a cold again. At least, not in our house.

Bl-$#%#!-eep

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Wed, 26 Nov 2008 13:56:00 +0000

You're not really getting a post today. Okay, it's a post but not a real post. Good grief almighty. Here I am trying to explain why you're not getting a post in a damn post.

In the mornings, I shower, do my hair and then have my coffee while I make my post and surf the blogosphere. That all went awry this morning. I had my shower and attempted to do my hair (notice the word attempted). And yes, while I do have my coffee and am writing a faux post, there's still a major problem with step two.

You see, I thought I would wear my normally curly hair straight today. That was my first mistake. I grabbed my round brush and blow dryer and got to work - except it didn't - work, that is.

As I sit here, I have a brush so tangled in my hair that nothing short of a pair of scissors is getting it out. I refuse to cut my hair so here I sit instead, posting to you - with half my hair dry and straight, the other half curly and wet and a big old brush hanging from the side of my head. People, I'm freaking out! I have to work today for crying out loud (and I almost am).

Why does this kind of stuff happen to me? I bet Rapunzel never had to deal with this kind of shit.

Oh well, I'm off for one last try. Crap - I wonder if my boss will buy that it's a new hair fashion accessory.

Indoor Shenanigans

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 13:36:00 +0000

Before I start this story, let me tell you that I hate mice. Before moving out to the country, the only mice I had ever seen were in the biology lab in high school. So, imagine, when the first time one ran across the floor, the horror I felt that the damn thing wasn't white. My God, it's a rabid mouse - so disease ridden, it's brown!

Thankfully, this story isn't about mice. It's about something much worse - flying mice, also known as bats. During the summer, I had my first run-in with one of these evil creatures and I certainly hope it's my last.

As far as I can figure it, the bat, aka flying black bastard, as it was loving named between screams, tears and flailing limbs, gained entrance to the house via the fireplace.

Girly, Young Rebel and myself never cleared a room so fast. I thought we did pretty well actually - no ear-piercing screaming or total chaos (not at this point anyway). We managed to close off the entrance to the living room and huddled in the kitchen to form a game plan.

It's a good thing the three of us are not in charge of the country's defense department. Our game plan was something to be desired. It consisted of toques (for hair protection, of course), hockey gloves and a swifter dust mop. Armed in our battle gear, we slowly made our way into the living room.

With the front door wide open (and I'm seriously praying at this point that another bat doesn't decide to take this opportunity to fly in), we start our sweep of the room. It doesn't take long to put the bat in motion - and this is what sets in motion the chaos.

Rebel Son develops some sort of warpath holler. Girly is running around like a lunatic, screaming her bloody head off. Me? I'm yelling - yelling at the kids to shut up, yelling at the flying black bastard to get the hell out of my house and swinging my swifter with reckless abandon.

To this day, I don't know how we got that bat out. I just know that the aftermath left us in varying states of being. Rebel Son was energized and gun-ho for more. Girly, who surprising didn't lose her voice, grabbed the phone and retreated to the safety of her bedroom for days. And me, I was shell-shocked, utterly deaf, surprised at how many things one can hit with a swifter in one swoop and reduced to tears by the sheer madness of it all.

Outdoor Shenanigans

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Mon, 24 Nov 2008 13:32:00 +0000

Living on an acreage gives us plenty of access to nature and wildlife. Birds of every variety are plentiful. Unfortunately, they don't seem to be the smartest birds in the Northern hemisphere. In fact, they're down right stupid. At least three times a day, our poor living room window is dive-bombed by these flying projectiles.

We've tried hanging various window ornaments to stop this behavior, but I'm now convinced these just work as homing beacons, guiding them in to the perfect crash. You know the one I'm talking about too - the earth-shattering bang that almost knocks you out of your chair followed by the disturbing image of feathers flying and a convulsing bird on the ground below.

Then there are the squirrels. These are actually my favorite to watch and as long as they don't start digging up the roof, they can stay. Apparently, though, we're not allowed to feed them. It seems that if we do, the squirrels in the other parts of the yard will then try to get into the feeding zone. That's all I need, squirrel turf wars happening out there.

There was another recent incident in the back yard. The two kids, Paws and I were headed out to the woodpile when we all stopped instantly in our tracks. Lying beside the woodpile, and about a yard away (it could have been fifty), was a big old moose. Understand that although it was lying down, the sheer size of it was intimidating. I'm not sure if the proper course was to back away slowly or to run - but you guessed it - we ran for our lives.

Now, you'd think that having the family dog with you would be a blessing in this sort of situation, but then, you don't know Paws. Instead of offering any protection, the damn dog almost mowed us all over in its attempt to get back to the house. I'm seriously starting to question the reason we have this dog.

Anyway, I'm not sure if we should call it our yard or our zoo. Perhaps the word zoo should be left to describe the inside of the house.

The Weather Nitwits

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Fri, 21 Nov 2008 13:24:00 +0000

Every morning, after retrieving my coffee, I turn on the weather channel. I don't know why I do this but I figure it plays into my own delusions. The ones where I think I'm going to learn what the weather will be like for the day.

It never happens. I'm better off making my own predictions using coffee grinds, tealeaves and a turkey baster.

This is how I figure it. Seeing that their offices are in the East - and my home is way in the West, it goes something like this. After looking out their own windows and predicting the weather for their surrounding areas - "yeah, Jim, those clouds look dark, predict rain" - they send their best-sighted employee onto the roof.

From there, they get that chump to look as far as they can towards the west. Once done, they report back to make their prediction - "it's hard to tell through these clouds but I think I saw a little blue a hundred miles off, predict a sunny day."

You'll never convince me it's done otherwise.

Licensed for Delusions

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 14:11:00 +0000

I am starting to think that being deranged, and somewhat delusional, is hereditary. I say this in reference to the Young Rebel (also known as my 15-year-old son). As of yesterday, he is the proud owner of a learner's license.

So, after we pick up said license, we walk out and he instantly proceeds to ask me if he can drive us home.

Okay, let me set the scene:

- It's dark - not dusk, but dark as dark can be
- It's snowing - a nice thick, wet snow
- It's cold - cold enough to freeze that nice, wet snow
- We don't live in town - it's a ten-minute drive down the highway at 110 km/h to get home
- The boy has never been behind the wheel of a car - their driving instructor cannot do any in-car lessons until after the New Year
- I have a brand new truck - also the first new vehicle I've ever owned
- This new truck does not have a steering wheel or brake pedal on the passenger side - and did I mention the truck is new?

Do I need to say it? The boy has lost his freakin' mind. What makes him certifiably delusional is that he is floored by my denial - absolutely shocked. "But mom, I have a license. That means I can drive."

Let me explain to you, as I did to the Young Rebel, the delusional logic behind that kind of thinking. Just because I own a gas stove, it doesn't mean I have any business using it. In fact, experience has taught us to keep me far away from it unless an extinguisher is handy or a fire truck is in the neighborhood.

I thought this a fine example. The brooding teen living in the basement did not. I'll take him out this weekend - possibly drive into town and let the boy cruise around at a reasonable (and heart-friendly) speed so he can gain some experience.

God speed, new truck. God speed.

Scars Vs Skins

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Wed, 19 Nov 2008 13:34:00 +0000

It's close enough - the day has come. What day you ask? I'm talking about the day I can officially stop shaving my legs for the winter.

I hate shaving my legs. Not only do I hate it, I'm terrible at it. A good day shaving means a quick trip to the emergency room for stitches. A bad day is a bloody massacre. Maybe I should think about stock piling my blood in case I need a transfusion brought about by a catastrophic shaving incident. Trust me, it's not that far fetched.

To combat having to take such extreme measures, I've tried other options. Electric razors don't work. Not only is the shave not as smooth, I can draw blood with those evil gadgets too. Don't ask me how, I just can.

Creams? Stinky and they don't work for me. Oh, and I can draw blood from this method as well. Seriously, now - don't ask.

So, what's left? Waxing? Yeah right, don't even go there with me. First off, I'm not into pain, not even the quick kind. Second, if I'm that brutal with the other hair removal methods, imagine the damage I could do with a pot of hot wax. No, thank you. I'll keep the scars versus no skin on my legs any day.

To Cuddle or to… Get the Hell off Me

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Tue, 18 Nov 2008 13:47:00 +0000

The cold weather has settled in and I can't say that I'm enjoying it. I hate being cold, really hate it. I'm one of those strange women who can't wait for menopause to hit so that I actually might be warm. Knowing that, you might believe then that I like to cuddle.

You'd be wrong.

Prince Charming likes to cuddle. No, let me rephrase that, he loves to cuddle. As soon as we get into bed, the big grizzly bear hug enwraps me. What's a non-cuddler to do? Smile nice and then push him the hell off, is what. I'm the kind of girl who could draw a line down the middle of the bed and defend to the death my piece of land. No enemy marauder could pillage my property, and absolutely, no squatters allowed.

Now, I'm not against snuggling on the couch together. But how do people cuddle and sleep at the same time? I don't get it. First, having someone's hot breath on me is disturbing. Not to mention, they're sucking up all my fresh air. I also like some freedom to move. You sure as hell can't do that with another body pinning you down with some kind of Ultimate Fighter rear naked choke.

There has to be a happy medium - five minutes of cuddle time then break, bunk beds, I don't know but there has to be something. Until I figure it out, I'll smile sweetly and guard the line with my life.

The Joy of Giving

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 13:53:00 +0000

This weekend, BarbWire and I decided to hit the stores and do some early Christmas shopping. Dependant on where you are in your relationship, shopping for another can take on very different avenues. Take Barb and me for example.

Prince Charming and I have been together for almost three years. We're still at the point of wanting to please the other when it comes to gifts. The Prince wants a shop vac for Christmas, and while I think that it's a silly gift, I'm all for giving him what he wants.

Barb and Mr. BarbWire are another story. They have been married for the past twenty years and I've noticed with these two that something very different is at play. After roaming through a few manly sections of the store, I was surprised to find Barb in the kitchenware department. Fine, I thought, maybe she's tired of Christmas shopping and wants to pick up something for the house.

Apparently, I was wrong. We were indeed in the right department to find something for Mr. BarbWire.

My confused look led Barb to explain. It seems that Mr. BarbWire had bought his beautiful wife a set of pots and pans for her birthday (which fell in October), and as far as I can figure it, those weren't on her wish list. So, in keeping with the spirit of gift giving after twenty years, the obvious choice for a Christmas present for her dear husband was a new set of dishes.

She went on to explain that if he could give her the generous gift of pots and pans to cook with, she could give him brand new plates and bowls to eat said prepared dinners from. Although I shook my head, how can you argue against that kind of logic?

I know that if Prince Charming bought me a vacuum for Christmas, I'd have to kick his ass.

Furthermore, I'm so glad I treated Barb to a day at the spa for her birthday.

Overactive is Understating It

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Fri, 14 Nov 2008 15:23:00 +0000

When it comes right down to it, I'm a simple girl. My imagination, however, is a little on the high maintenance side. Let me give you an example. I only work Mondays through Wednesdays so yesterday was a scheduled day off. They're not really days off because of all the housework that has to be done - but that's a different matter.

Getting back to the point - I really need to stay focused here. Anyway, when I am alone in the house, this is how my imagination takes on a life of its own and totally fucks me up.

I cringe at eating while I'm alone. What if I make a sandwich and while eating it, I begin to choke. Who would give me the Heimlich? Who would save my 'didn't chew my food good enough' stupid ass and stop me from having to bounce off the walls in an attempt to save my own life? Yes, it's best to stick to a coffee diet during the day.

My laundry room is downstairs, and while I can't get out of doing the laundry, what if I was to stumble and plummet down a flight of stairs? Would I have to lay there, broken bones and all, while I waited for someone to come home and rush me to the hospital? Oh no, that's not for me. I keep a tight hand on those banisters.

I keep all the doors locked. I mean, someone could find their way to our little acreage in the middle of nowhere, break in and attack me. Trust me, there's nowhere to hide in this house. The closets are all jammed packed. I can't fit under the bed and we have no secret door in the floor that leads to a full metal bunker.

Then there is the whole water issue. This rules out hot bubble baths or doing a sink of dishes - and forget about mopping the floor. What if I slipped on a wet spot and went careening into the water? People, I can't swim - but by God, I can panic. I'd probably drown. And yes, you can drown in a bucket or sink full of water - I don't know how I know this; I just do.

You see how this game is played? There is just no quieting an overactive (neurotic, demented, deranged, unstable or whatever you wish to call it) imagination. No wonder I'm burnt out after a couple days off.

Karma's a Bitch

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Thu, 13 Nov 2008 15:05:00 +0000

A few years back, I quite enjoyed teasing my Sainted Mother about the small roll forming around her mid-section. Well, Karma has come to bite me in the ass.

I cannot help but notice that my clothes are fitting - shall we say, snug. Since the snow has already made an appearance, I could delude myself that it is just my winter weight. Unfortunately, it's been there since June. Maybe I should change my name to the plump princess. Gah!

Prince Charming still tells me he loves the way I look. He's going to say that though. The man likes getting laid. Sainted Mother, however, is loving her revenge. It's not too saintly if you ask me.

I don't want to watch what I eat. The holidays are coming and I love everything sweet, chocolate covered and pastry filled. And don't even mention exercise to me. Fuck that nonsense.

So, what's a woman to do?

As far as I can figure it, I only have two options: suck it in or wear a big hat. Hey, it works in my world.

The Paws Experience

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Wed, 12 Nov 2008 13:57:00 +0000

Giving Paws a bath is always an experience. It begins fine, until the bath is poured. It's not bad putting him in the water either; in fact, this is probably the calmest part of the bath.

The real fun starts once you begin to pour water onto the dog. For some strange reason, and this could be because Paws is as crazy as the rest of us, he starts to spin in circles. The scene consists of this: pour water - dog spins to left - "God damn it Paws, sit still" - more water - dog suddenly stops then spins to the right - water flies everywhere - "Paws, quit it!" - more water - more spinning - more yelling.

Got the picture so far? Good, it only goes downhill from here.

By now, Paws is wet (along with me and the rest of the room). The dog shampoo is worked into a lather and now applied to said dog. Does Paws begin to spin again? No. Massaging shampoo into Paws causes him to howl. I guess people aren't the only ones guilty of singing in the shower.

It's not much better than the spinning because, to be honest, Paws can't carry a tune. But by Lord, he tries - and loudly. The only way to make him stop is to start rinsing him off. It works, but you guessed it, the spin cycle is back along with the yelling.

It's always about this time when some yahoo comes knocking on the door. "Is everything okay in there?"

Between the yelling, howling and water flooding out from under the door, the answer should be obvious. I have to bite my tongue. To answer or to open the door means someone could die.

Finally, the bath is over and Paws sits amazingly still while he is being dried. Don't think he's finally devoid of energy. No, the dog is just charging his battery. As soon as the door is opened, Paws runs the house as he is being chased by a demon. It's a ten-minute mad dash around the rooms and over the furniture - and beware to anyone who gets in his way.

Me - I don't care at this point. I'm lying face down on my bed, convulsing slightly and trying to forget the horror of it all.

Friend-ly Irritations

noreply@blogger.com (Deranged Princess) — Tue, 11 Nov 2008 15:11:00 +0000

All men have that one friend their significant other just doesn't like. That man for me is the Black Knight, also known as Prince Charming's number one pal.

Let me give you an example of why this man (and I use that term loosely) gets under my skin. Yesterday, after supper, the Black Knight dropped by. Okay, I can deal with that, especially because most of the guy time happens in the garage.

After about an hour though, I found them in my living room in front of the television. Upon seeing me enter, the Black Knight asked me if I had a nail clipper. Thinking he must have a hangnail to take care of, I delivered the requested item to him before finding a seat for myself.

I should have left the room and the fact that I did not will haunt me forever. Instead, I watched in horror as the Black Knight proceeded to take off his socks and tend to his toenails. Ewwwwww. Why would someone do this?

And, if you knew me, you would know that I had to ask. Apparently, he does not have nail clippers of his own and his toenails were starting to put holes in his socks. Needless to say, he now has his very own nail clippers and I have a freshly steam cleaned carpet.