EVILFLU - Blogger of the EVILS

The EVILS vs nature...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Thu, 23 May 2013 01:35:00 +0000

One of my most favourite memories of being a kid was hunting for frogs with my “Pa” (grandfather). I had the cutest little rubber boots that almost made it all the way up to my (usually) dirty knees. I’m pretty sure they had My Little Pony on the side. I had this really cool frog carrying case – no, I’m not kidding, it was made for frogs. It had a little flap door and it was painted to look like a circus trailer.

My Pa, although not generally a very nice person, would listen to my demands and catch the frogs I would point out to him. I made him go after specific ones, usually ones that were the furthest away. What kid doesn’t enjoy a man in his 60’s falling in a pond?

The frogs eventually became a part of my very own circus of terror in my Ernie and Bert paddling pool. I made them jump through hoops, walk on a stick trapeze and swim in circles while avoiding flying rocks. I’m sure they loved it.

Naturally, EVILBOY has inherited my frog hunting genes – which unfortunately for him, were not all that proficient. I’m sure he would be good at directing me which frogs to catch for him – but he’s not the boss of me.

However, my son is a very dedicated frog hunter. Of course, he doesn’t have a Bert and Ernie paddling pool to bring them home to, so he just studies them, makes friends with them and releases them to go back and tell all their froggy friends about their ordeal of the day. This kid could try to catch a frog all day with no success and then go back the very next day with the same dedication – One of his greatest characteristics.

Our last frog hunt was spontaneous. No buckets, nets or My Little Pony boots. There was also a lack of sun and bug protection – which made for a pretty uncomfortable afternoon. EVILBOY was not having much luck finding some little green friends, so I decided to wander around the river bank a bit.

The sound of the trickling water was so calming, the sun was only burning a little at that moment and a family of ducks with fluffy little babies paddled past. It was one of those moments where everything is clear for a moment. After standing for a moment or so of enjoying the splendor, my view drifted to my feet.

When I saw the big ugly snake by my sandaled foot, the trickling water, fluffy ducks and warm sun was suddenly ripped from my mind. I never really thought I was that afraid of snakes. I have been around snakes, I have touched snakes and reptiles are kind of cute – but I realized as I was running away screaming that I am afraid of snakes. In fact, I hate them. I hate snakes – A lot.

I live in an area where poisonous snakes are about as common as an elephant – or so I would like to think, so I wasn’t too worried about having to suck out the poison out of a snake bite all Crocodile Dundee style. I did worry about running away with a snake’s teeth stuck in my foot though. That would have been traumatizing…not to mention a little embarrassing.

Sometime after I had calmed down (and ran about a mile away), I calmed down enough to assess the situation. I thought it was strange that the snake wasn’t moving around. It was also kind of strange that there were bees (who are also featured in my “burn book”) and flies around it having a party of some sort. It occurred to me then that the snake was actually dead. I ran away from a dead snake (and bees). It also just occurred to me that a snake and bee tattoo would be pretty bad ass.

I was then brave enough to send EVILBOY back to the snake area to take a picture to share with you all.

You’re welcome!

My Inspired Choice...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Wed, 15 May 2013 19:09:00 +0000

I can probably count on less than one hand how many times I have respected Angelina Jolie. I have known her to be many things, actress, sex symbol, collector of children, raider of both tombs and Botox – but never a role model.

I was first alerted to her courageous decision by clicking on a link that said “Angelina Jolie has a double mastectomy”. Strangely my first thought didn’t go to cancer. Why would she share this information? Why should we care? Maybe she did it so her boobs will never get old and saggy? I figured it was just another stupid celebrity trick to keep herself in the spotlight.

When I read her article “My Medical Choice” in the New York Times, my opinion of her was amended and I did a literal slow clap. Her forthcoming and sincere recollections of her procedure and experience were something to be thankful for. Not only was it very informative, it also made me think of the decision I would make were I in the same situation.

For me, the decision would be easy.

If you are reading this blog regularly, you are probably already well aware of my experience with cancer. Long story short, I lost the love of my life to cancer in 2005. I was invincible back then. I was 23 years old, a new mom and there was no way that cancer was going to ruin my life. But it did.

Before then, I hardly knew what cancer was. Nobody I knew had cancer. I didn’t know anybody personally who had died from cancer. Cancer was just the people who had no hair on the TV to me. Even after I met R. and he was going through his treatments, it never really hit me that it was a serious thing. For years I thought he was going to live through it, and even when they told us he wouldn’t, I still thought he was going to survive. I thought that way up until the day we found him unresponsive (I used to be really tenacious).

Having experienced that kind of loss (albeit not breast cancer), and being left as the only one to care for our child, I developed a fear of the disease.

I am not a beautiful actress. My breasts are not used for anything important. Even though they are possibly my greatest feature – as I was told by the inebriated guy at the bus stop a few years ago – I really wouldn’t miss having them hanging around(literally). If they stood between me and a long and healthy life with my son, then the choice for me has already been made.

Unfortunately, this decision is not always an easy one for all. The decision to have a double mastectomy is surely not one to be taken lightly. I think the most important message that Ms. Jolie is portraying to women everywhere is: “I Choose not to keep my story private because there are many women who do not know that they might be living under the shadow of cancer. It is my hope that they, too, will be able to get gene tested, and that if they have a high risk they, too, will know that they have strong options.”

Ms. Jolie closes with an important message to all: “Life comes with many challenges. The ones that should not scare us are the ones we can take on and take control of.”

I felt like this message was directed at me (as I’m sure many of us do). I devote way too much of my time being afraid of things I could potentially control.

The article is very inspirational. I urge you to read and to follow Angelina Jolie’s advice (Inever thought I would write that – ever).

This guy...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Fri, 10 May 2013 00:39:00 +0000

I am completely on the fence. Again.
On the verge of a major decision.
The choice seems obvious, but everything matters.

Most of my worry is about him.
How will he cope?
Will it be too hard?

Just when I begin to wonder about his wisdom
he turns to me and says "My best friend might be switching schools next year. I am happy for him but I'll be sad if he goes".

...and then I did a back flip followed by a quarter twist on the inside and knew he would be okay with whatever I decide.

Affirmations like that do wonders for my decision making ego.

Wet Cement...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Tue, 30 Apr 2013 01:08:00 +0000

That was a first. Today I actually blamed my mood on the colour of my nails. Sounds absurd but with the dreary weather and my spiraling personal life, "Wet Cement" just didn't do much for my mental health.

Not to mention I chewed the heck outta my nails today and ended up with chipped "Wet Cement" which is even more depressing.

Any suggestions for "uplifting" nail colours? I'm willing to try anything to improve my mood.

Eight.

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Thu, 25 Apr 2013 15:00:00 +0000

I ran out of pictures of us.
I remember one time someone took a picture of us.
I was wearing jeans that made me look skinny.
We were contented.

Somehow I lost that picture.
I have it in my mind, but I can never share it with anyone else.
Now that I have exhausted all photos of us, I really miss that image.

Eight years.
Hard to imagine.
These days I'm more afraid than I am sad.
I don't really know how to feel.

A simple glance across a room and I could see love. I felt safe. I knew what you were thinking.
Glances like that are scarce.
I don't expect to ever find that sort of allure again.

After eight years, I think I can confidently say that we are going to be alright.
Life goes on.
Even though it's a scary ride, we are enduring this crazy little life.

This Squirrel is on Fire....

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Wed, 24 Apr 2013 13:00:00 +0000

We've got squirrels!
Cute little baby squirrels!
I feed them spinach to give them Popeye powers and Cheerios to keep their cholesterol low.

I can only imagine it's a matter of time before they turn into common pests that tear apart my garbage bags and eat my Jack-O-Lanterns, but for now they are just so cuuuuute!

Golden Girls...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Sun, 21 Apr 2013 17:41:00 +0000

Sometimes my friends don't mind being seen in public with me and they take me places.
Like to movie theatres to see movies about action figures that I used to play with as a kid.

Then things like this happen and they sort of regret the invitation:

The G.I. Joe movie was alright though.
It wasn't overly awful, which I guess is kind of good (figure it out...)
One thing that I do wonder though is where did that Cobra Commander guy get those giant White House Flags?

Did he go to a custom flag shop and have those made up?
Did nobody become suspicious when a guy with a cobra mask came into the shop to have bloody cobra flags made up?
Maybe he sent the Russian guy with the big scar over his eye?
Still...those are ginormous flags
(did they have to rent a U-Haul to pick it up from the flag maker?)

My brain hurts.

In all seriousness though...had a wonderful weekend thanks to these girls:

(that's us...you know who you are!)

FLU tip of the week: *do not* Google Golden Girls without adult filter on....unless you're into that sort of thing.

All I know is...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 21:21:00 +0000

This creepy broccoli is not wearing any pants.

Smile though your heart is aching...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Tue, 16 Apr 2013 00:10:00 +0000

Sometimes people do something so assholey that it upsets the entire world.

The best thing to do is be grateful your loved ones are safe, think of those who were not so lucky and do the best you can.

When there is nothing else, you have to keep living.

Keep smiling .
Keep laughing.
Don't let them break you.

So in this case, I present to you my favourite mascot fail.

Yu Gi OHMYGOD I AM A NERD...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Sun, 14 Apr 2013 02:00:00 +0000

Do you remember Yu Gi Oh cards?
Your little brother probably collected them.

Now they are all the rage around the school yard.
They are kind of the equivalent of plastic spoon shanks and musty cigarettes...
If the school was a jail and the kids were hardened criminals.

So I scour the thrift stores and pop tags (I don't even know what that means!) just so I can get my kid the best of the best in school yard currency.

I've had some pretty good luck too. It's not uncommon for me to find a giant bag load of these things for $1.99.

It wasn't until Giant Burly Nerd Man in Value Village told me I should be checking online for their value because some of these cards that my son is trading away are worth small fortunes.

So now here I sit on a Saturday night, all alone, drinking Pepsi and checking my most recent fetch of Yu Gi Oh cards online. All after just applying a layer of zit cream on my chin. I feel like a 12 year old boy. Again. (What?)

Also - I totally snorted when I found this card:

I still haven't found my Bottomless Trap Hole...but a girl can dream right?

Draw My Life...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Fri, 12 Apr 2013 15:00:00 +0000

So I've been seeing a lot of these "Draw My Life" videos pop up on the internet.
I figured my life is really not that interesting...but like... stick people! What a fun little project.

I was wrong. It was not fun. In fact, it was hell.

It made me cry. A lot.

Also, it was really hard because I have never done anything like this before and technology is a bitch.
A big ugly bitch that can shoot you down, make you feel insecure and somehow transform your voice so you sound like you have marshmallows in your cheeks.

But I came this far.
I have conquered Windows Movie Maker and marker stains up my arms.
I'm still not sure why I did this.
I can't even bring myself to watch the 13 minute final version because it makes me sad...
and maybe even a little embarrassed.

Maybe someone else can enjoy it.

I'm not afraid anymore...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 02:56:00 +0000

I had a really great (but nerve wracking) post almost ready. A project I have put a lot of work (and frustrations) into. At one point I just dropped it because I was feeling pitiful about it.

I was inspired to continue on. When I sat down to finish my project, the power went out. Fluke? Perhaps.

When the power came back on, my keyboard was broken. Things were getting really strange...but then it started working again. So back to the drawing board I went.

As luck would have it, the power went out again and I am almost positive this is a sign from my dead grandparents and my dead lover not to continue on with this project because it will only embarrass myself in front of...well how ever many of you there are out there.

But.

Dead people can't control my life forever. I'm not afraid anymore...ya hear that? I'm not afraid anymore!! I will embarrass myself as much as I want to.

But.

The power is still out and I am writing this from the 9% of battery left on my iPhone.

So instead I will share an image of clothing items that I am currently watching on eBay. I think this says a lot about me and my awesome sense of style.

(that wasn't sarcastic)

Superheroes Don't Cry...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Fri, 29 Mar 2013 00:10:00 +0000

I am not very brave.
This week I did something pretty brave.
Something I don't do often enough.
I asked for help.
Again.

Superheroes do not cry.
They try not to at least.
I guess I am not a superhero after all.

I am so dramatic.
I am hurt.
I am surprisingly emotional.
I am an ugly crier.

Right there in front of my good old doctor.
The same one who came to my house many years ago and used a monkey flashlight.
The thought still makes me laugh.
Ugly cried.
Big time.

Mental health is a scary thing.
So uncertain.
So undiagnosed.
I am just "overwhelmed"
and this will pass as EVILBOY gets older

but.
It's not fair.
It's really really not okay.
I shouldn't be repulsed by my child hugging me.
I shouldn't want to avoid life. Living.

It never should have been this way.

I am going to try to focus on the things that make me happy.
Like flowers in my hair
and discovering a car with the license plate that says "Patmobile"
Those things make me smile.

I need to stop listening to so much "90's Slow Dance" on Songza
I need to pick fewer battles.
Enjoy the small things.

Stop fretting over the uncontrollable.
Stop noticing the dirty snow banks.
Start thinking about sandals on bike pedals and crisp spring breezes
because these are the things that make me happy

Open Mouth, Insert FLU

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Mon, 25 Mar 2013 23:10:00 +0000

This may come as a shocker to most of you, but I cannot speak to men.
I actually don't know why that would be surprising to you.

I am a weirdo. Completely.

A weirdo who cannot talk to men. I'm sure there are many of us - let's start a club?!

In all reality, talking to those of the opposite sex has never been a strong suit of mine. Unless there is alcohol involved, but even then the conversation quickly turns to stories of how my mother used to sell dildos or how I ate a dandelion one time and threw up and never told anyone.

You can hardly tell us apart!

I am like the female version of Rajesh Koothrappali. Only he is smarter than me. Also, he is a fictional character. You get the idea.

Sometimes I do try to talk to men.

One time it was successful and we fell in love - although looking back now there probably was alcohol at some point and I'm sure he did most of the talking.

Usually I just end up saying stupid things.

It really doesn't work out for me.

The other day at work, a man confessed to me that he had Diabetes.

Diabetes is an awful disease, I know this.

I know people who suffer from this disease and have a really hard time with it.

Yet, for some strange reason, the first thing out of my mouth upon his confession was...

"That must be fun"

That. Must. Be. Fun.

Diabetes.

Fun.

Then I spent the rest of my life trying to convince him that's not what I meant.

Sometimes I don't even realize that I am saying something completely inappropriate.

Like the other day when the coffee man came to repair the coffee machine in our office.

The machine seemed to be having a hard time producing coffee from the spout.

Surely as a result of a coffee gunk build up (my own technical terms).

I happened to come in in to the kitchen just in time to see the test run of the repaired machine.

Of course I had to comment, as if my opinion of the coffee flow even mattered.

"Looks like it doesn't have a prostate problem anymore!" I commented.

I then walked out of the kitchen leaving a mortified co-worker and a coffee repair man who didn't even laugh at my funny joke.

I'm not even really sure what a prostate is! We may have touched on it in my anatomy training, but most of the relevant information I know about prostates comes from Tom Hanks in The Green Mile. Looking back now, I'm not even sure it was his prostate in that movie. Just to make this completely uncomfortable, check out this montage of Tom Hanks peeing I found on YouTube!

Please tell me I am not the only person (who is not a fictional character) who has trouble having a completely normal conversation with the opposite sex?

Visual Disturbance...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Tue, 19 Mar 2013 00:17:00 +0000

Fact: These are not my glasses.

Without my glasses I cannot even see my hand in front of my face.
My vision is getting progressively worse as I age.
I remember when I was younger, I lost my glasses and didn't wear them for a whole week...
which actually surprises me because I really can't see - at all!

I have never wanted to get laser eye surgery.
I'm not really sure why. My mom had a very successful eye surgery in the back of a truck trailer back when I was a kid.
Just the thought of flapping up an eyeball and using a laser sounds pretty much like something I don't want to do.

I have recently adopted this bad habit of putting my glasses on my bed.
You know, so they are within reach when I wake up (lazy).
I do not recommend this as there have been many mornings when I have woken up with glasses imprinted in my ass.

This morning I woke up and could not find my glasses.
I panicked and threw my covers around everywhere.
I thought I heard my glasses fall onto the ground so I reached around and patted the floor blindly.
When that was unsuccessful,I patted around under the bed.

My hand hit something - definitely not glasses material but I was curious.
In hindsight, being curious while not being able to see probably wasn't a very good idea.
I picked up the object and examined it - about .5 of an inch away from my nose.
Hmm..brown, hairy, a little spongy --

I was examining a mummified hairball that my cat had coughed up (probably a century ago).
Right under my nose.
Rolling between my fingers.

A. Ball. Of. Coughed. Up. Hair.

This is why you should never be curious while being temporarily visually impaired.

Also do not own cats. They suck.

Not a very practical joke....

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Sun, 17 Mar 2013 21:20:00 +0000

As I get older, I am growing tired of humans.
There was a time in my life where I would think a porn DVD in an unsuspecting person's mailbox is the funnies thing in the whole entire world, but now that I am old and grumpy, it is not that funny.

Burglars are running rampant in my building.
First they started off stealing GPS units from cars and now they have moved on to mail theft.
Last fall I had pictures of EVILBOY turn up on my doorstep. No envelope or anything.
I could tell they were taken at my aunt's house so I called her and thanked her for the pictures and wondered if I missed her coming in to town because the photos were not in an envelope.

It turns out she had mailed them to me but someone had received the package, opened the envelope and decided they didn't want to keep the photos of my son holding a toad, so they put them on my doorstep instead. Thanks for having a heart burglars.

A few weeks later an Avon order of mine went missing. Someone stole my yellow nail polish and brown eyeliner. It really spoiled it for the whole entire world because I had never had yellow nail polish before and I had some wonderful plans for that stuff. So thanks for that burglar.

As I was complaining to the building supervisor about the mail nonsense going on in this building, I opened the door to the downstairs laundry room and low and behold, my Today's Parent magazine was open on the bench - so now they are even stealing my reading material.

It has gotten to the point where I am afraid to have any mail delivered to my home. I have a lock on my mailbox and have recently gotten a new lock because I was still having trouble but nothing is stopping the burglar from reading my magazines or wearing my yellow nail polish.

I grew tired of losing my mail so I redirected everything to my work. I stopped requesting those fancy tampon samples online and all my magazines come to my iPad.

and I think it angered the burglar because this week when I was checking my mailbox (unfortunately I still get bills - but the burglar can have those if they want!) I found a porn DVD in my mailbox. It hadn't been mailed, it was just a naked (for lack of better word) DVD case with "busty babes" on the front.

They didn't even leave the DVD - just the case! At first I got all excited wondering if I had a secret admirer leaving me their profession of love in standard DVD format. Then when I pulled the offending item out of the box, I'm sure my face looked like this:

and wouldn't ya know, the whole town decided to come home at that exact moment. I shoved the DVD back in the mailbox and ran away. There was still the little problem of porn in my mailbox. Is that illegal? Will the postal worker think I'm a sex addict? Does it have cooties?

Then I got scared. Someone who lives near me collects empty porn cases and distributes them to his/her neighbours. I mean, they purchased a DVD of porn when you can access such things freely online 24/7.

But seriously. I felt like I am being targeted. I felt like someone has complete access to my mailbox despite all the additional security measures taken. It is such a violation, even though the only thing I still receive in the mail are bills and stupid booklets from political people that I use to line the bottom of my guinea pig cage. Just knowing someone can go into my stuff whenever they please has become quite heavy on my mind.

I want to move far far away - so badly - but it's too expensive and also I can't keep running away from burglars and bad guys and neighbours who touch my laundry.

If you are reading this and you are a burglar - get a job. Go to work for 8 hours a day, come home and cook and clean and take care of your kid and then think about stealing from people in the same situation as you. It really isn't a nice thing to do so you should stop. Also - stop buying porn DVDs. It makes you look like a weirdo.

50 Shades of EVILFLU...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Thu, 28 Feb 2013 01:58:00 +0000

I have been hanging around in bookstores a lot recently.
It's all a part of my complete 'hipster' transformation.
What I have noticed is that this whole "50 Shades" obsession has really gotten out of hand.

Every book in the "Erotic Fiction" section has a sticker on the front that says "if you loved 50 shades, then you will love this!" or "if you devoured 50 Shades...".
Not that I hang out in the erotic fiction section much (I felt like I needed to clarify that).

Head on down to your local bookstore where you too can hang out in the erotic fiction section and read exciting titles such as:
In Too Deep, Destined To Play and of course Fire After Dark.

I'm going to save you the trip. I've decided that since this 50 Shades thing seems to be a good way to make some money, I am going to give you a preview of the new novel I am writing. It's called 50 Shades of Peepees.

WARNING: Do not read this next section if you are under 18. Or Immature. Or if you get offended by erotic fiction. You have been warned by my big boldy line. Also, I didn't finish the 50 Shades series so like, I may be a little off in my writing style.

He smelled like cotton candy. His mouth in the shape of a ripe melon on a warm autumn afternoon. He was a bajillionaire, but like he totally was a nice guy. Not one of those stiff old bajillionaries who swirl their wine around in giant glasses and have a tone of pickle-up-the-butt-itis to their bajillionaire voices.

His looks were to die for, and for some reason I really wanted to eat some cotton candy. but then I walked into a door frame and messed up the ganglion cyst in my wrist. The bajillionaire brought his warm melon smile over and asked if I was alright. I told him I was fine as I shook out my ganglion. Then I pulled out my phone.
"Hey, can I Twitpic you?" I asked optimistically.
"Of course you can sugar-tits" he replied with the smile of a modest fox.

From that moment on we were inseparable.

I invited Bajillionaire over to my muddled apartment. He grinned as he removed my rank Batman socks with only his sideways crescent moon grin. He asked if he could tie me up. I said that was fine, I guess (you weirdo). The only thing we could find to tie me up with was Super Mario shoelaces.

Bajillionaire took off his pants and I saw his wiener flapping around. Then I showed him my cookie. We had a total wiener cookie party. When it was over he looked at me with his dreamy bedroom eyes and said "I have to poo".

When he came back from his dump, he told me about his pirate ship. I offered to scrape off his barnacles for him (if you know what I mean...hehe...hehe..heh). All of our sweet banging even cured the ganglion in my wrist.

After I cleaned off his barnacles with an old dustpan, he bought me my dream car and we totally did it on the car.

Then we dressed up as Power Rangers and took some erotic pictures. Because I've always wanted to do that. Dress up like a Power Ranger I mean, not taking erotic pictures (I felt like I had to clarify that).

Bajillionaire was so smexy, but he totally had this stalker chick after him.
I felt sad when I had to run her over with my 2013 convertible Beetle.

The end.

I mean, it's still in its rough stages.
I may change some of the wording a bit.
Keep an eye out for Part Two to come out next spring(ish).

Also: This website will help you write your erotic fiction: Fifty Shades Generator

PS - I am in this popularity contest thing. If you liked this post, why not send a vote my way?

Let Your Soul and Spirit Fly...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Tue, 26 Feb 2013 23:53:00 +0000

During the rush of making dinner, our song came on.
I stopped for a moment, closed my eyes and swayed my hips back and forth.
I imagined us dancing.
Your smile.
Our time together.
Our left hands held together comfortably
My right resting on your chest lightly.

I was so relaxed.
The frustrations of the day vanished.
I could smell home as dinner broiled.

The timer went off.

Ding.

...and I was eating mashed potatoes right from the mixing spoon.

It's the little comforts of life that get you through the day I guess.

Zombies...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Sun, 24 Feb 2013 15:16:00 +0000

My friend and I went to see a zombie movie tonight...a zombie love story movie. It was a lovely story and all about a zombie who eats a cocky teenager and ends up smearing the dead guys poo-blood on his unfortunate former girlfriend and love is made.

Zombies scare the cheezus out of me. I often find myself wondering what I would do in the case of a trendy zombie invasion. I hate to say it, but I would be that person who "checks out" at the first zombie sighting. I would have to kill my lover (cats) first to write some creepy ass blood letter on the wall. It would say something like "you shoulda saved the polar bears" or "I blame the Kardashians".

Seeing that it is possible to make out with zombies kind of changed my opinion on creepy wall messages and surviving a zombie apocalypse. I haven't had much luck dating humans, so zombies are probably my next best option. Leave the wall messages to the weaklings who can not bring themselves to make out with zombie mouth or people who really really hate the Kardashians. I am ready to make out with zombies!

...plus I look pretty hot as a zombie

PS - I am in this popularity contest thing. If you liked this post, why not send a vote my way?

This Relation Ship Has Sailed...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Tue, 19 Feb 2013 15:00:00 +0000

The best cure to a difficult day is to rush home after work, with tears viciously stinging my eyes as I conquer rush hour traffic, and go to the comfort of my bed and cry. It might not be the most effective or healthy way to deal with a problem, but crying it out until there are no more tears just makes things a little easier to deal with.

That day I was crying about not getting approved for the house I wanted. I was convinced that a complete family had swooped in there after me and charmed the landlord with their perfect complete familyness. They probably get Glamour Shots done and drive a minivan with bucket seats and DVD players and they are just renting this house because their dream house is still being built on a beautiful meadow of bluebells and lavender.

I am sure that particular had nothing against single parents, but the fact of the matter is, he probably didn't particularly like my single income. I realize things might have been a little tighter there financially, but I was planning on writing more and being more artistic and those things would have made me so much happier and happier people get paid more - I think that's a statistical fact and if it's not it probably should be.

Accepting who you have become is not always easy. As I had a bawl-fest under my fifteen year old tiger blanket I began to think of my life as it was before. I thought of the time when I was happiest. For the first time ever, I realized I wasn't crying over him. I was crying over the security I have lost. It was the first time I realized that our relationship was always flawed. The evidence is all there (Seven, Six, Five, Four, Three) I was just too blind to see it until now - and all it took was an imaginary perfect family to take that all away from me.

Looking back now, I have doubts in my mind that he loved me the way I thought he did. I mean, I did so many stupid things. So many. I was 19 when we first met. I was 21 when we were in a serious relationship and by 22 I was the mother of his child. He was six years older than me and I sometimes wonder if our relationship made him feel like he was the nurturer and I was the carefree, immature being that he could take care of. We were like Bert and Ernie...I'll leave you to think about that one for a while...

I loved that about him. He was my grumpy caretaker who made sure I ate real food and made sure that nobody got away with stealing my Dirty Dancing DVD.

I had so much growing up to do, but in my mind I was fully grown. I cried over everything that didn't go my way (and I still kind of do), I didn't see reason and I was so apathetic. He tried to make me responsible, and I saw it as him being controlling.

In some strange twist of fate, I have become him - and it scares me to death. I hate being the responsible one. I hate having to face the world without having someone there to catch me when I fall or to have someone there who will guide me in the right direction.

I am a coward.

I thought this picture was kind of fitting for this post...look how much I haven't changed over the years. Scary.

PS - I am in this popularity contest thing. If you liked this post, why not send a vote my way?

An Expert's Guide to Dog Sitting...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Mon, 18 Feb 2013 16:42:00 +0000

This weekend we doggy-sat two little chihuahuas. This weekend I also learned how to spell chihuahua without having to Google it first as I had to type in "chihuahua with penis injury" a bajillion times into Google. In other words, don't let me watch your dog or they will injure their junk (seriously...this shit doesn't happen to anyone else I know). In case you are wondering, the penis is fine...don't ask.

I also learned that owning (or borrowing) these little dogs would be a really good idea if you wanted to be a serial killer. Owning helpless little dogs is like walking around with a baby Jesus, wrapped in fluffy kittens tied with a bacon bow.

Dog sitting is the next best thing to owning a dog yourself and it is pretty entertaining making sure your cat doesn't scratch off an eyeball, a penis (the cat totally didn't injure the dog's junk - he did it to himself!) or eat these creatures that are 1/3 his size. Also entertaining is chasing around animals who pee and poop every four minutes with bunched up toilet paper and hopes that the yarn they ate doesn't make their poop dangle from their bum.

These minuscule creatures could probably rope in some sweet friends who would only hope you would go away for a weekend so they could dog sit. When you open your apartment door and they flash out your front door like I am Buffalo Bill and they just escaped from the hole (without putting on the lotion), the neighbours will flock and you will find yourself outside your apartment in nothing but a tank top, unshaven armpits, messy hair and sweatpants - with no undergarments. As an added bonus you will get to share a lengthy conversation with your arms stuck to your side and your legs crossed with the person who can probably hear you sing through the wall - just as I can hear her laugh, quite clearly, to syndicated Mad About You.

I did enjoy having these guys around though. They look at me lovingly with their bulgy eyes, silently thanking me for not turning them into this poster:

PS - I am in this popularity contest thing. If you liked this post, why not send a vote my way?

Important Adult Stuff...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Thu, 14 Feb 2013 02:38:00 +0000

What do you wear to a meeting in which you will find out which learning disability your son has?

I decided to wear my comfortable grey button up shirt, mom jeans that are awkwardly too long and respectable granny panties. Messy bun? Too casual! I decided to go for a sophisticated sleek instead. I add a necklace with an airplane pendant (with working propeller of course) because there should always be a little fun in sophisticated attire.

I almost forgot to brush my teeth. How distracting that would have been to have to speak to the evaluator with morning breath. My home-cut bangs are starting to look more unprofessional than I had hoped.

Not that any of this would have changed the outcome. This is just compulsive me rearing it's fascinating head.

My anxiety was on high alert. Many thoughts ran though my head, in which neither outcome of this test would be good. If he is average than I am just a really shitty parent and if he has a learning disability he is in for a world of struggle. As if growing up without a father isn't shitty enough. It would be cruel to give him a disability on top of that.

When I walked into the room, suddenly my attire or hair style didn't matter. This was about my son. The main focus of my life and why all of a sudden he can not keep up with his peers. I didn't need to hear test results to feel like the shittiest parent in the world. The stressed out mom who has been focusing her time on finding us a new place to live, working long hours to make up for the time missed from work over winter sicknesses and all the while making sure there is a meal on the table each night. It didn't matter, disabled or not, my son is at a disadvantage simply because his mother is too busy to go over school texts with him.

My eyes started to water, and I wanted to climb into that little airplane pendant around my neck and fly away.

The tests came back average - and I felt like the shittiest parent alive because I haven't been spending our time together in front of workbooks. We don't sit down at our table on a Saturday afternoon and go over reading lessons and we sure as hell don't do math together - ever (because I couldn't times table to save my life).

I feel like I have been shoved into a role of parent/tutor. I suddenly have to spend our free time together going over printing properly and long division on top of teaching him how to have manners, not to be a menace to society and to remind him to wash his hands after using the washroom.

Forgive me for complaining, I am extremely happy that this is not something we can't work together on to fix, but when does the single mother get a break? When do we not worry about sounding out words and catching up to the rest of his class in reading comprehension? When do I get to stop feeling guilty?

Please...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Thu, 07 Feb 2013 19:30:00 +0000

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and rehearsed...

Please let something good happen to me today.

I have been down.
Problems, hopelessness and frustration have all been present.
In a last ditch effort before I cried and pulled hair I asked that ridiculous question to no one in particular (and later with my Twitter followers).

....Imagine my amazement when it actually worked.

Thinking back now, good things do happen to me every day.
I just spend too much time focusing on the bad things that happen.
Desperation made the good news I received that day just that much better to help get me through.

It's time to stop making the good things transparent.
Good things do happen every day.
Sometimes they are just hard to see.

Holes and Homes...

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Wed, 06 Feb 2013 16:00:00 +0000

This blog post should be titled 'How To Do Things All Wrong' by EVILFLU, expert of all wrong doing-ness, majesty in the highest of screwing up-ness - or something like that.

A few weeks ago my bathroom sink grew (developed?) a hole in it.
This sink had a small rust spot when I moved in. I remember reassuring the building manager that I was fine with it. I was just excited to start out fresh in a new place, up in my Princess Sky Castle (or that's what I call it anyway - sounds much nicer than my apartment that is way too far from the ground).

As the years passed, that rust spot grew. It was actually quite symbolic. As I found my emotions spiraling more and more out of control, that little spot grew. It irritated me to no end. I'm not a complainer though, sometimes we have to live with the little rust spots of life after all. It gives us character (and maybe botulism?).

At one point I covered the rust spot with special porcelain paint. It only hid my rust temporarily though and soon little patches of rust came through the little provisional mask. (I really am talking about a rust spot here...I swear!).

The rust came back in full force. As I was wiping my sink during my "oh shit someone is coming over" routines, the porcelain gave way and crumbled - and it was time for a change.

I arranged to have the hole removed from my life for once and for all. A little relief was all I asked for.

but a week went by...

and the hole continued to crumble.

and then I lost it.

I had been holding it all in for far too long. The annoying neighbours, the mail thief, the burglars, and now the feeling that nobody cared.

I work hard. Every single day I get up out of bed even though my brain screams to stay under the covers all day and feel sorry for myself. We don't have much, but what we do have I am thankful for and once in a while we are able to get some cool shit - and I am really thankful for that - but for some reason not having someone recognize that I was tired and that I deserved attention really made me grow some proverbial balls.

I gave notice to move out of my home.

without having another home to move in to.

I am terrified knowing that in just under two months we will no longer call this little apartment home.

I am relieved to know that I will not have to stare at that growing hole in my sink.

I am proud of myself for taking this step.

but we still don't have a home.

and it scares the crazy outta me to not have a home. To have people go through my home and getting their shit all together, while I am still here shopping around - for places that are beyond my means.

The problem is I want to stay in the same area. I want my son to have a backyard to play in. I want to have a home to be proud of. I want to be able to open my door and be outside. I miss raking leaves and taking out the garbage. I miss all the little things that were a part of my life when I was happy. Even if it was raking leaves, I was happy. I may not have been able to see it at the time, but looking back, I was happy. I had routine. We went outside together. It was nice.

I have seen so many apartments. Only one has been perfect but I really don't want to describe it until I have a key safe in my anxious little paws (biggest bathtub I have ever seen....). I can see us living there on that quiet little street. EVILBOY growing up with his friends and never having to change schools. Something I dream of. Something I never had.

...and here I am getting excited over a dream again. I am off to adopt the mentality that if it happens it happens, and if not it will not be the end of the world. Even if we end up in a cookie-cutter concrete nightmare, we can still be happy. Where you live shouldn't define you.

The biggest bathtub in the whole wide world certainly does scream happy though...

Only Memories

noreply@blogger.com (Nikki Adams) — Thu, 31 Jan 2013 13:30:00 +0000

There is no cake.

There are no balloons.

Only silent thoughts.

of you

of our time

all of us.

Another year

Without celebration

only memories.