Hockey Baby

This is our boy.

He doesn't just like hockey. He eats, breathes, sleeps, and dreams about hockey.

He may not be able to tie his own shoes yet, but he can name every team in the NHL and probably give you the scores of the last few games.

When he's not at hockey practice, he's playing hockey in our living room. He owns three hockey toques and has many pairs of hockey PJs. (Except for the Maple Leafs ones he got for Christmas that he refuses to wear.)

This morning I fed him breakfast and lunch in front of the TV where he sat wearing his lucky toque (that's the reason Canada won), his favorite hockey PJs, and holding his indoor hockey stick. FOR 3 HOURS. HE'S 6.

Of course, it WAS the Denmark/Canada game of the World Juniors. And apparently that's important. GEEZ, MOM.

Silly Wishes

Just a little free advice to parents of female up and comer tweens. DO NOT…I repeat, DO NOT allow them to write a Christmas wish list.

You see, well other little ten year old girls have visions of Bratz dolls and Nelly Furtado CD’s dancing in their heads, my little Shelby has:

Some kind of playstation or Nintendo thingamajiggy that is worth more than me having to sell one of her little kidneys. Yes, I am not above that.

A real live puppy. Yeah. Right. I hate dogs. She should’ve taken better care of the darn'd reptiles, Luigi, and Susan that I caught for her in summer. Now, THEY were cute.

Her very own website or e-mail address. HAHAHAHA….yeah, just so she can fall in web-love with a 60 year old naked/fat/hairy man from Utah who says he’s a 13 yr old boy named Logan who loves horses and High School Musical 2. He’ll then convince her to meet him at Chuckie Cheese. And then next thing you know, she’s got her very own picture on a milk carton. GAH….

A set of two-way radios or better yet…A CELL PHONE. It would be like a bad horror flick. Her and her BFF texting back and forth…”LIKE, OMG, hez SOSO HAWT”.

(excuse me whilst I go rinse the barf out of my mouth)

Luckily, she had a few other normal things like a CD/stereo system and some stupid Polly Pocket garbage. And that’s what she’s getting.

Barry and I are firm believers that raising your children modestly will teach them to grow up knowing the value of a dollar, and that materialism cannot buy love. So probably, we won’t need to sell vital organs or cancel our plans of purchasing a new Graham-mobile. We managed to keep our Christmas spending under our $500 limit and I must say, I’m darn’d proud.

Oh, and don’t even get me started on the list of our little Mr.G.I.Joe. I need a translator to understand all that Megatron and Laser Imperial Star Destroyer stuff.

Whatever happened to Barbie and Hot Wheels?

Ready, Set,... PLAY HOCKEY!!

Just when you thought the “hockey mom” was becoming an endangered species…..yes, that’s right. I am joining the official rankings of hockey mom’s everywhere!!! And I gotta admit… I’m a little excited.

I don’t really know anything about being a hockey mom, but I’m sure I’ll catch on quick.

From what I understand, I will learn to adapt to a new winter diet consisting of rink dogs, popcorn and diet coke. My son will learn to drink gallons of Gatorade.
I will also learn to bare my teeth at hockey moms of opposing teams as their wicked little tyrants body check or even snarl at my precious angel.
Apparently I will learn to make a 50 gazillion pound black CCM hockey bag look like a must-have fashion accessory…that is, if I learn to lift the damn thing…
I am busy making a check list of where all that equipment and other crap goes and whatever order it’s supposed to be in.
I pledge to become a road warrior, trekking across vast expanses of sleet, black ice or blizzards to get my little NHL wannabe to his destination battlegrounds!
I will learn to expand my vocal chords (and vocabulary) to deal with refs who dare put Mr. Handsome into a penalty box, or coaches who may bench him due to his ability.
I’ve seen that hockey moms tend to have longer necks to enhance their ability to see into each ice surface corner as well as expanded peripheral vision to catch any offsides. I hope to obtain these skills quickly.

And Hockey Dad has brainwashed both son and I that colour of uniform such as jerseys or heaven forbid - SOCKS!!, is important. IE – blue/white combo = VERY BAD. (Apparently Hockey Dad harbours ill feelings towards the Leafs – will look into therapy for him.)

I’ve also heard that sometimes, hopefully not in my case….hockey players tend to disown their hockey moms. I’m really not sure why. I shall adopt the “Can’t Happen to Me” attitude on this issue.


So wish me luck, internets! With Shelby in figure skating twice a week and Oscar embarking on hockey once a week, you can find me at the rink. I’ll be the crazy lady with the frozen butt and extra layer of winter blubber.

ISN'T HE THE CUTEST THING EVER?????

Innocence

Okay, I’m a fairly cool-to-the-hip mom. Or try to be. So when my daughter asks me questions about sex, gay marriage, baby birthing, and/or what to do when she’s kidnapped, I am usually pretty straight up with her. However, I am also smart enough to know that I should usually steer the conversation out of ear shot for my son.

So last night, Shelby is asking me questions about babies and uteruses and stuff while Oscar seems absolutely mesmerized in the latest episode of Zack and Cody. I figger he’s not paying attention so I yip and yap and sing praises about my most awesome uterus and how pregnancy usually works.

When suddenly, Oscar runs in and asks in a panic “Mommy! What happens if you get sick and need to barf? Will the baby barf up out of your mouth????”

Shelby fell to the floor in a fit of giggles. I stifled mine and replied “Oscar! What a good question!” And then I attempted to explain all the fixings of a uterus in 6 year old language. Satisfied, he went back to his little man’s soap opera to get tips on picking up grade 2 chicks.

These are the moments I truly live melt for. Like when we’re driving to Grand Forks past the sugar beet factory and Oscar looks up at the tall building blowing fumes everywhere and in his dreamy little voice says “Look Mommy, that’s where they make clouds!”

Masking Nutrition

So, tomorrow night is parent council meeting night. Which is fine. Except as usual, I have procrastinated and have no idea whatsoever what kind of hot lunch I will be presenting to our precious pupils for November.

Now here is the problem. School boards are outlawing all the main food groups like pop, chocolate and chips, and replacing them with the new age fad crap like 100% fruit juice, vitamin water and wood chips. Did I say wood chips?? I meant wheat crisps. And if y’all saw the Echo last week, it reported that the parent councils support and reflect this with THEIR choices. Ahemm….ha ha ha….

I’ve tried, people. Last couple years, I tried serving veggie platters, chicken wraps, and taco salad. I even tried to trick the little buggers by calling the veggie platter “a special picnic lunch!” They didn’t buy it. Not one bit.

The only successes I’ve had are with your good ol’ mac and cheese (I swear that stuff is radioactive), greasy pizza, anything that tastes similar to a fistful of sugar, chicken nuggets and fries. All of course, with globs of ketchup.

I need a healthy lunch idea that will have the parents and teachers oohing and aahing at my nourishment expertise whilst tricking their offspring into thinking it’s better than a fried KFC leg doused in chocolate ice cream.

I would love to go organic, free-range, hormone and antibiotic-free, but as I do not have dreadlocks or partake in the ganja, I think it’s best we start out simple.

So fellow internets – give me a solid idea. One that I will tout as my own and present it to the school board soldiers as they get enriched by my greatness.

Disclaimer: For those who STILL don’t get my sarcasm, I fully support and encourage healthy eating and am mostly aware that chocolate is not a food group.

99 Reasons my day sucked rocks

1. I was pretty much awake ALL night because my darling Barry snored like a dying hyena.

2. I realized I forgot a bunch of people to call or mail about skating registration tomorrow. I feel like a piece of unreliable cheese.

3. I went grocery shopping and bought 8 sorts of crap I didn’t need and nothing of the milk variety which was the reason I went in the first place!!

4. My house is so dirty and messy, I need a shovel fit for the friendly giant to clean it.

5. My poor best Dad fell down the ditch and broke his shoulder in two places and gave my poor best Mom a darn near coronary in her panic to rush out and save him. I feel sickly sad about this.

6. My fridge stinks.

7. I have meetings and what-have-yous every night this week and Barry is working late every day for what seems like the rest of his life. I like Barry.

8. Somebody told me that it’s too early to hang up Halloween decorations. That blasphemous heathen can go to heck. DO YOU HEAR ME??? TO HECK.
(I have a good mind to spitefully hang em up in August next year, because I’m aggressive like that.)

Yeah, so I’m not sure if that’s 99 or what, but remember, I didn’t sleep last night so messing up my counting abilities is allowed. I hate everything.

Goddess in my own right!

Yes, it’s true. I am domestically challenged.

I figured if you can roast a mean chicken and bake a cake from a box, you’re good.

But NOOOOOOOOO. Apparently the gods of great-grandmothers’everywhere, are on to me. Hanging out with the “other mothers” as I affectionately call them has brought up the rather embarrassing and WAY TOO FREAKING FREQUENT questions.

Them : So, what kind of yeast do you use for your whole wheat bread?

Me: Umm….Is that a Wonderbread product??

Them : Did you sew those curtains yourself?

Me : Yeah, and the flimsy purple power ranger costume that Oscar is wearing for Halloween this year is also my creation. Really. I made it with my Superstore machine!!

Them : What kind of canning did you do this year? Did you make peach jam?

Me : Screw off, Martha Stewart. I BUY my condiments. (K fine, I didn't actually SAY these answers but I angrily barked them inside my head.)

I don’t sew, make breathtaking crafts, or throw lavish parties with hors d’hoeuvres that don’t come out of a box in the freezer.

My meager garden has about 4 basic vegetables and sometimes the kids have to take Snak-Paks (shout out to snak-pak inventor!) to school.

Ideally, I’d like to be one of those mothers who grows all her own food, bakes her own bread, whilst gently nurturing her children in an environment of educational bliss. And the charming high heeled wife who naturally converses and chortles among her husbands business colleagues about the Dow Jones and Syria’s nuclear developments.

But not today. Or tomorrow. Sorry, my disappointed internets. It most probably won’t be happening.

However, I may switch from Dream Whip in a can to the powdered stuff. Just don’t push me!

Grade One is the devil

Soooo, it appears that I am doing mildly better than anticipated with this whole “Oscar is 6 and goes to school every day now,” thing.

You faithful readers may remember the letter blawg I wrote to his teachers last year(did not send however due to fear of being diagnosed with some kind of severe neurosis).

Well, Oscar has definitely grown up a lot in the past year. He will tell you himself he’s more than ready for big-boy-every-day school. After all, he can count to eleventy bazillion, is a super awesome monster truck driver, and mostly puts his clothes on frontwards. He can even brush his own teeth…and YES, the big boy teeth are coming!

I, on the other hand, am NOT ready for big-boy-every-day school. I thought I was. I walked out of the school yesterday morning feeling calm and mature. But then one mother asked me if I was okay, at which point, my knees started to buckle, and I booked it to my car and let the tears flow freely. And then today, I walked him all the way to school teaching him carefully to stop at each STOP sign and look both ways. TWICE. (I would like to know who taught him to roll his eyes at me and say “I KNOW MOMMY!!)

I watched him walk across the playground with his little Ninja Turtle backpack and felt an overwhelming sadness that he was not suddenly turning around in panic and running back to the safety of his Mommy’s arms, begging to stay home with me. And then I saw two much bigger shady looking grade two-ers approach him on either side, and was ready to run at them with my teeth bared and my fists flailing, but later learned that those were his friends who were saying Hi and hugging him, not pushing him and trying to sell him drugs.

I spent this bleak afternoon making fattening desserts that nobody needs and watching the clock for 3:30 to finally come.

For Sale - My right to say NO!

Over the many years of my adult life, I’ve attended many ridiculous direct selling parties. I don’t think “party” is the term I would use for these “suck all your female friends into buying crap with a 500% markup so Sheena doesn’t have to get a real job” events. However, that is what they call them. You’ve all been to them…(okay well maybe not the men), but ladies, you’ve attended at least one Tupperware/Party-lite candle/Pampered Chef/Silk Plants/Mary-Kay/Weekender Clothing …etc…BARF…part-ay.

Well these fancy soirees just aren’t my bag. Don’t get me wrong, I love to go eat tiny crackers, cheese and cutesie little spring rolls, whilst we gossip about the new neighbour and her real or fake bustline… BUT…seriously, are you a true friend if you want me to spend $20 on a little box of tealite candles? Or $50 on a plastic cereal container? How bout $100 on a polyester vest that my great-grandma might have liked? Especially when you KNOW that I love to find me a sale at good old Target and can get all the above crap for less than 20 bucks and still throw in a bag of Doritos. And don’t EVER say, “oh silly, you don’t HAVE to buy anything…just COME…it’ll be loads of fun!”…I know that as soon as I’m out the door, you’re bitching about what a cheapskate I am.

So I’m sorry friends. I’m not going to go to your selling parties and feel pressured to buy a large amount of crap I don’t need just to get you to your sales goal so you can get a free votive or measuring cup.

Please feel free to invite me to your wedding/baby showers, anniversary parties, or plain old catching up with coffee nights, and I will jump at the chance. Just don’t invite me to something where I’ll feel like a bonehead if I don’t hand over my cash for useless crap.

P.S. I hope I still have friends!!

New Faces at the Graham House

After we let our little river frog, Susan, go back to the wild, we felt an emptiness within ourselves.

So to replace the burning desire for pets, we caught a caterpillar yesterday. She is the biggest caterpillar on the earth. Oscar named her Vinegar.She is living in the habitat where Susan used to live.

And then, my great pal Rehannon, (the one who caught us Sasha the snake last year), caught us a handsome young salamander today. Shelby named him Luigi. We have a nice big habitat for him and are feeding him some tasty slugs and earthworms.

As you can see, the Graham family loves to take on pets. But fear not, we usually only keep them for a couple days... until Oscar makes us return them to their real home down by the river to ensure they don't get too sad.

Bridezilla! Run for your lives!!

It’s been well over 5 years since I got married but I still get the burning question every now and then as to WHY…..oh WHY would I run away to get married in a small private ceremony?

So, without further adieu…HERE are my reasons.

-I hate big fancy weddings.

-I hate balloon arbors or balloony-ribbony lined aisles. It’s not supposed to be a circus.

-I hate shoes having to match the dumb tiaras and ribbon on the bouquets.

-I hate the same old strapless puffy dress that every bride wears. (Yeah, even I had one.)

-I hate matching bridal party dresses. Why clone your friends rather than allowing their individuality? And don't say..."It's the kind of dress you'll wear again!" No we won't. Not ever.

-I hate the garter, the “wedding party only” dance, the obligatory drunk uncle toast, the fish bowl centerpieces that SO outdid the last bride’s chocolate fountain centerpieces….ARGH!!!

When you spend your family’s savings on a wedding planned clearly to impress your friends and outdo the last wedding you attended, you risk forgetting why you’re there.

Which is supposed to be to declare your undying love and commitment to the man of your dreams. How can you focus on that when you’re in a panic over the shade of pink rosebuds on your 50 tiered bad tasting wedding cake not matching the ribbon on the knife to cut it?

Someday, I may renew my vows to my husband. My wedding will hopefully not reflect any of the above.

Our precious Susan

Dear Susan,

It has only been a couple weeks since our son made us let you go home to your family down by the river, but heck, I miss you.

I caught you in the muddy swampishness that is the mighty Red when we were having a Graham hike and immediately my daughter decided you must come home and be part of our family. She carried you all the way home (we thought she killed you at one point) and gently put you in your new Habitat home. She named you Susan. Yes, I realize you may have been a boy. So what.

I caught plenty of flies and mosquitos for you, and tried to get my children to catch them also. They didn’t. Shelby thought you would self-suffice. Oscar stressed about you missing your frog family and not being happy.

Thus…we took you back. Even though we only had you for 4 short days, you became part of our family and we will forever miss you.

(okay, actually I was afraid we’d forget you in a week so I am blogging about this so I can remind Shelby why she can’t have another freaking reptile for the rest of her life.)

Take Care Susan,

Mama Graham

P.S. Please don’t be offended if you are actually a toad instead of a frog. I don’t see breeds anyways. I love equally.

Clips of taking Susan home.

Updates you won't want to miss!!

I haven’t been keeping up with the ole' blawg lately because it’s summer and I do stuff. YES, I am more than an un-employed bum that sits at home eating chocolate covered cherries watching her stories! Actually I am nothing of that sort, but wouldn’t that be fun?

So just a couple things that you may want to know:

Firstly

I love camping. I love smelling like fire, I love seaweed and sand in my butt crack and I LOVE the hot hot sun blazing on me. And so do my kids. And so does my husband. We’re back for a bit but will head back out for the long weekend.

Shelby and I love to sit on the beach reading trashy magazines while drinking aspartame.


I learned to boat myself and my small humans clear across the lake. I may row in the next Olympics.

We had bird feeders and chipmunk dishes. We tamed them. We are one with nature.



Secondly

She did it again, only worse. Yes, that’s right. My “practically ten”year-old cooler-than-cool daughter came bounding and leaping into the living room yesterday sporting one of my bras. “See, Mom?? It fits!” she says excitingly.
I don’t know whether to be embarrassed that my 32A bra can fit a very small child or start anguishing over the thought that my adorable little girl may be ready to become a woman!

Either way, she is not getting a bra anytime soon. I don’t care if her BFF has a training one or that “Geez, Mother, its part of growing up you know….”

Advice on this issue is welcome…*hint* hint*


Thirdly

I went to the Fringe Festival the other night and saw my dear friend Serena Postel perform. I love her.
Barry purchased me some mighty fine cheap handmade jewelery pieces AND….drumroll please….I completely abstained from purchasing any cute skirts or dresses. Clap for me. Y’all know how I love me a cute dress.


So that’s my July so far, other than the occasional mutant radish I grew or the rebirth of Leonard Cohen music into my life. I hope all four (okay fine, two – love you Mom and Barry!! ) of you faithful readers are relieved to know that I’m alive and well and still able to write my deep thoughts out for you every couple weeks…

Bring Home Our Canadian Troops

Why are we still there?

The news of more Canadian soldiers killed in Afghanistan last week brought tears to my eyes. My naïve little heart has gotten to the point where I can’t even watch the TV reports. I know it’s callous and perhaps a tad ignorant to say we don’t belong there, however, I continue to struggle with the following points:

• We did not invade them and blow everything to oblivion; however we are the ones left with the mess. Where are the U.S. troops? Too busy annihilating Iraq and plotting against Iran? Are we going to go clean up those countries after the U.S. bullies them into submission?

• Is it realistic to believe that our gentle hearted Canadian forces can rebuild a corrupt society that does not want our help? We will never entirely eliminate the Taliban. They will always rise.

• How did the Canadian troops get the shitty deal of being the closest ones stationed to Kandahar – the heart of the Taliban?? Put the f*cking American troops in there!! Let our guys go build bridges on the borders and teach them to farm. WE are a peacekeeping and rebuilding people.


I can’t wrap my head around supporting a mission that sees our brave sons/daughters/brothers/sisters risking and losing their lives for a battle they cannot win. Small victories in various Afghani provinces do not compensate for the lives lost and the reality that this mission will not turn Afghanistan into a society rebuilt in Canada’s image.

Tweens - What are they good for?

You know I acted like I was all excited for summer. And I was. Until I realized that I had to spend actual time with both my children together. Yes, I love my children. But only separately. When you put them together it’s like parenting a pair of angry killer apes. Their sole motivation for waking up each morning is to think of ways to make life as miserable as possible for eachother.
“MOM…Oscar took a sip out of my cup!!”
“MOM….Shelby’s smiling at me!”

“Kids…GO PLAY IN TRAFFIC!!”

I realized they’re probably just bored so before they started gnawing on the furniture, Barry and I decided to take them to Grand Forks for the day. Besides Shelby needing some new clothes (she is growing at the rate of my steroidal lettuce), I also wanted out of the war zone house to maintain what little sanity I have.

So with portable DVD player in the car, lots of water, and sedatives (just kidding), we set out for Columbia Mall.

Now, up until now, shopping for Shelby has been a breeze. I always figured she was switched at the hospital as a baby since she got none of my passion for pink frilly things or floral ensembles. She was happy as long as she could play in mud and roll around in grass.

Well, things have changed.
We went into a store called Raw Edge. Yes, she asked if she could buy a bra. No, I did not quite have immediate heart failure. Yes, she begged and said “it doesn’t matter if you don’t have boobs- that’s what tissue is for!” *gasp* *choke*

Then she found the sunglasses. “Mom, I want Paris Hilton sunglasses.”
“But Shelby, your head is the size of a peanut.”
“Motherrrrrrrrr!!!!” she exclaims in embarrassment since I obviously didn’t care that there were a bunch of little Miss Thang 13 year olds around us.

Nothing in that store was even close to fitting her, since she’s 3 foot nothing and about 50 pound soak n wet. So off to the kids section in Target. What a relief. And luckily, there were no black skull Avril Lavigne shirts or Gwen Stefanie bustier tops there.
So what if she has to wear cute little Bambi overalls for the rest of the summer??


I’m rather enjoying my new role as mother from hell.

Paris Hilton WUZ NOT HERE!

Want to know how to offend Heather?? HEHE...I wrote this after a friend said that I was too high maintenance, just like her! HAHA...NO. Imported from April 2006.

Don't call me high maintenance. For I am not.
I won't buy the name brands as they are charging one hundred dollars for a scruff of a shirt that was made by a small poor child with insects crawling on his face. If it cost more than 30 bucks, it's not in my closet.
I don't want diamonds. Never did. If I ever get married again, I would want a simple silver band with a little blue topaz in it. 300 bucks MAX.
I don't drive a fancy car. I can't afford it. And if I could, the money would be spent on my children's education, not some big giant rims on a big giant suburban.
Yeah, I wear makeup. So what? It's my right and I don't care if you don't like girls that wear make-up. Come see me sometime in the morning and you'll be beggin for a little blush.
I don't have fake nails, fake boobs, hair extensions, or carry a poodle in my $2500 Prada purse.
I don't drink fine wines or eat sushi or talk to waiters like they are beneath me.
I'm happiest in my flower bed with dirt beneath my nails, Serena Postel blaring in my headphones whilst I spit sunflower seeds all over my paint chipped deck. In the background, my kids are gathering twigs for a wiener roast in my simple little fire pit. There's no lush carpet or thousand count thread sheets in this old house. And there never will be. It's just not me.
So tell me, friend, what made you accuse me of being "too high maintenance" for most??
Maybe those of us who are comfortable in our own skin are too intimidating for those who are not.



Yeah, this is the extent of a Heather Graham temper tantrum. Write a furious blog that you know your computerless "friend" will never read.

Riding in bandwagons with boys

I don't usually tackle anything that may cause too much controversy in my blogs since I am a big baby and refuse to argue with anyone. Well, maybe sometimes I do. Like today.
Browsing through various social networking profiles can sure educate us on the reality of society today. Especially our teens and twenty-somethings...
For instance, I sure enjoy watching some of them jump on a cause before committing themselves to the full extent of it and examining the facts from all angles.
I giggle at the cool kids who will rant in their "all about me" sections how they love puppies, world issues, and thunderstorms. Hmm....which one does not belong?
I shake my head at the do-gooders completely against animal testing whose grandparents may be undergoing chemo or radiation treatments to stop their vicious cancer from spreading.
We all want to save the children in Darfur but we're too busy buying a Gucci purse that's hotter or newer than those of the other girls we go clubbin' with.
I especially love the vegans whose pictures show them wearing a wool sweater, a string of pearls and tons of mascara and hair dye!
And do you wonder if the giant rock on princess's left finger was purchased with the guarantee that it was a conflict-free diamond?

All I'm saying, is we ought to really listen to what we're saying sometimes. We end up looking like fakes and hypocrites, and trust me, I'm not excluding myself in this category, heck, I don't even recycle!

I have baby fever. AGAIN.

Some Things I Miss About My Babies being Babies

Watching them fall asleep during the middle of the night feedings. I remember I could stare at them sleeping for an hour and not want to put them back in their crib. Who needed sleep anyways? I’d have the whole rest of my life for that!

Changing diapers as they desperately try to escape giggling so hard they almost turn blue. (I don’t miss the poop.)

Getting lost in their BIG dreamy eyes whenever they see something new. The things we take for granted are so fascinating and beautiful to them. If only we could see more things through the eyes of our children.

Cuddly time after bath. They’re so fresh and soft in their little velour stripey sleepers. I used to give them a baby massage (NO, I don’t massage adults!!) right when they came out of the tub. It was the best bonding experience!

Potty time. Yes, even though my son was over 3, I DO miss it. This was always a good time to sing songs, learn nursery rhymes or have snacks. Now, they want privacy. THE NERVE!

The firsts…you know, first taste of ice cream, first bad word, first time they say “I love you”, and most of all…the first smile. I remember them as if they were yesterday.


The feeling that everything else in the world is insignificant and my BABY is the air I breathe….oh wait…that’s still there!
I sure love my kids. I wish they were still babies.

Me and my nasty habits - A housewife's cry for help!

A few months ago, I saw a show on my favorite network, (TLC) called Clean Sweep. For those of you who’ve never seen it, it’s about a team of psycho organizational freaks who come into a home and help you throw out your junk and set up a system for keeping your messy home, well…tidy.
The show has been burning a hole in my wee brain, because, well, if you’ve ever been in my home, you know that I am the tiara-wearing queen of clutter, mess and disarray. (Hubby is too, minus the tiara, of course.)
I’m the type of person who runs around chaotically throwing fitness magazines, unpaid bills, glued together scissors, broken Polly Pocket doll legs, hot wheel car parts and/or empty lipstick tubes quickly into my bedroom at the first hint of company coming.
The result?
A bedroom fit for swines who love to collect junk and can’t walk from the closet to the bed without stepping in a half completed photo album or pencil crayon box full of unlabeled burnt CDs.
I don’t know why I’m like this. Maybe I was dropped in a basket of odds and ends too many times as a child…but alas, this is ME. And I try, guys, I really do! I WANT to be neat.

My dream is that people who love and care about me (which isn’t a lot, I think there’s only two people who either truly like me or read my blogs anyways,) will come one day all intervention-style and hold me down as they toss out my beloved birthday cards from when I turned 22, movie ticket stubs from first dates of boys who I don’t care to remember, teddy bears losing their stuffing, knives that just don’t cut it, half-burnt candles, wardrobe pieces dating back to the late 80’s (NO, wait, MUST keep those), Pez dispensers, football shaped piggy banks…blah, blah, freaking, blah….and the list could be like 4 or 36 more pages…

Since this obviously isn’t going to happen, I’m going to go out and buy a few more giant containers that hold everything in the world and I’m going to set a date.
So, Barry, if you read this…and you will because you are one of the aforementioned two who is forced to read everything thing I write, we have a Clean Sweep Date.
Bring cheezies and non-alcholic beer. And prepare yourself. I am throwing out your football shaped piggy bank.

Who likes crab legs, anyways???

Yes, I am at it again. Blogging furiously in the trenches of my internet prison….(just kidding, you can’t even imagine the horror of it, if my computer were to be taken away from me for more than a couple of days…I may hyperventilate to death…or morph into Mrs. Grouchy McBitcherson)
SO ANYWAYS….

I know this topic is getting old, but for me, it’s only getting to be a more serious issue that MUST be addressed.

When my precious baby son Oscar was born, it never occurred to me that he would eventually grow up into a proper little man with his very own tastes and opinions.

Last night, we went out for supper, and he ordered snow crab legs. He’s 6, people. How many 6 year olds do YOU know that stray away from the norm of chicken nuggets or pizza? And you know what? He loved them and ate every last one.

I watched the handsome little mo-hawked superhero with laser beam eyes and steel fists, as he dipped each bite in the melted butter and felt a little lump start to build in my throat.

When did the chubby little chewable cheeks start thinning out and developing actual jaws?? When did the squishy rolls of baby fat around his wrists and ankles turn into slender muscle?

When did he learn the kindness and respect to allow all the butterflies and ladybugs he caught for his new fully loaded insect habitat, to go free?? He won’t keep them in there for more than an hour for fear they may be missing their families or not have enough air!!

And who authorized the wardrobe change into pirate skulls and army gear from teddy bears and Bob the Builder????

My little boyo is an expert on every Spider-man villain and has taught himself some superb KAH-RAH-TAY. He has graduated into an Oral B stages 3 toothbrush and only has 5 days left of Kindergarten. He makes up his own insults (albeit they are lame; I am NOT a stinky bumface with garbage on my head!) He creates beautiful art of zombies, monsters and army vs. transformer battles every day for our refrigerator.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t fit so nicely into my cradling arms in a rocking chair anymore, and HE is the one who carries the big milk jugs in from the car because “Mommy, I’m your STRONG helper!”

Each barren and desolate day that my baby slips away from babydom forms another new wrinkle, another gray hair (yes, that is why I dye it religiously), and puts me one step closer to needing some kind of pain-numbing nerve pills.

WHY THE HELL DON’T THEY MAKE CUDDLY SLEEPERS WITH FEET IN THEM FOR 6 YEAR OLDS?????!!!!

Everyone has a pair of fat pants. EVERYONE.

So, friends of mine may or may not have heard about the Easter Cream Egg incident and what it led to. Those of you who don’t know, well, …umm…I really enjoy them and well, I put on over 10 pounds during the Easter season while they were available. Seriously, it’s a good thing I’m not addicted to nicotine or heroine because I would be a madwoman. (ask my husband, and he’ll tell you I WAS a madwoman when the cream egg stash would run out. He feared me.)

Well, that aside, here is the problem. I can’t get into any of my jeans. You remember how nothing came between Brooke Shields and her Calvins back in 1980? Well, I had a pair like that. My most favorite pair is a cute faded ripped up boy cut style that I purchased last spring and do you think I can get them on? NO. It’s like stuffing a hippo into a doghouse. Ask my friend Rehannon. She’s seen me try and nearly peed laughing.

I dread the jean shopping. The tiny dressing prisons with the falsified skinny mirrors and the hyper Lindsay Lohanish salesgirl gushing about how they look SOOO fabulous on me.
I fear for those poor salesgirls as I imagine myself tearing out of the dressing room with 6 pairs of jeans draped around my body yelling “RARRRRR” and going crosseyed with a psycho grin on my face.

I don’t want jeans with some silly butterfly or flower decal draped over one side of them as I do not have a pair of roller skates and a comb for the back pocket to go with them.
I also don’t want any super-low rise rapper girlz jeans because I can now pull off the muffin top spillage like nobody’s business.
And please don’t tell me to buy some high-waisted pleated pantalons because although I DO want to hide my jiggle baby belly (yes I hang on to it for sentimental reasons!!), I just can’t go there yet. I may be 32 but please, my maturity level is only hovering around 23 or 24.

So for now, I’m hoping to eat only celery and lettuce for the next few weeks in hopes to get back into the jeans I love more than my cat. If you see me out and about, I’ll probably be wearing my oversized muddy gardening pants, since they are the only thing that doesn’t make me feel like a kidney is about to slip out.
My sincerest apologies.
(On the upside, I think I have boobs now!)

My kids are going to Harvard. For sure.

Since I go around insulting my children's poor athletic abilities all the time and poking fun at them (REAL parents DO this!!), I thought I should do a bit of bragging to ensure nobody calls CFS on me.
It appears that my daughter has a future in comedy and my son, well...has a future in something. Rapping maybe? ewwww.
But anyways, have a look at how much cuter my kids are than all other kids on the planet. (I think they get that from me.)

Please sir, can I have some nukes?

I've decided to allow a couple of my political blogs on here, as they are pretty tame. This one was written October 10 2006


Dear North Korea,

We're sorry that President Bush called you evil.
We're sorry that Rumsfeld probably sold you your nuking gear.
We're also sorry that we have a prime minister that has regular play dates with Bush.
We really hope you're messing with us when you say you have missiles that can reach America.
We also hope that you were just f*cking around with your buddies when you tested your so-called nuclear bomb the other night. (YES, WE BELIEVE YOU NOW!!!)
And specifically to Kim Jong ll, we are sorry for not feeding your attention starved ego lately, we've been busy helping Bush plot against Iran and cleaning up the messes we made in the Middle East playground. Maybe if you had a bucket of oil, we would play with you more often!!

Finally, it would be wise if you would put your efforts into helping your impoverished country's economy rather than sinking all your money into silly old nukes. Y'know, I'm just saying...

Love and Hugs,

Canada (country north of USA, that does what it's told)

Spirited Energy

This blog was written June 19 2006

Phew....what a relief! I no longer need to be friendly. Now my licence plate will read "Spirited Energy". And I ask, do we need to be drunk for that?

Anyways, this really tops my list for stupid crap now. It's already cost taxpayers $600000 and is estimated to cost over $2 million when all slogans and crap are done.

But fear not my friends, as Gary Doer insists that now everyone will know what Manitoba has to offer. We're more than just friendly folk with bitter winters and killer mosquitos. This new slogan and ad campaign will tell everyone about our creative edge.

Personally I would have voted for " Manitoba - Uncomfortably Close to Ontario".

How much does this suck? I was content being friendly. Now I gotta come up with some energy. And spirit? eww.

Why Swim with the Sharks?

Why Swim with the Sharks?

Is your brand new black acura really going to bring you more happiness than your kid-filled old rusty mini-van with cheezie crumbs, baby wipes and the off key warbling of “The Wheels on The Bus go Round and Round”?

If you put that Ikea retro-modern dressoir and candelabra in your living room, do you think your kids will remember when they’re adults that you took their ugly stained Winnie-the-pooh foam chairs away just so their Dad’s new boss would be impressed when he came over for dinner parties? Where will they play board games now? Why can’t they have popcorn anymore on the new shag white carpet on family movie night?

Is it really going to be better if you take your kids to the most expensive amusement park like your neighbours did, rather than spending a weekend camping and learning about nature and telling campfire stories?

What is the point of dressing your children in Gap or Abercrombie? Do you think the other kids and parents will like them better? What are you teaching your children about the value of a dollar if you spend 30 dollars on a shirt rather than 10 dollars for one just as good that doesn’t have a stupid name on it. And when you stop and think about it, wouldn’t you rather your children (and yourself for that matter) gain the friendship and respect of others based on their attributes rather than the clothes they wear? Maybe that extra 20 dollars you spent on the Gap shirt could be put towards sponsoring a foster child. Think about what THAT would teach your child!

My point is this:

If you spend all your time, money and effort trying to attain the things you think will make you happy or impress others, you may find that you missed out on the things that make life REALLY beautiful.
Don’t get me wrong. I like nice things too. (especially plants!!) We all do. In fact, I just got a new living room suite. So every now and then, I’ll probably go back and re-read this just to keep myself grounded.
However, I see so many people around me trying to outdo one another. If the Jones’ have this or that, we think we MUST get one too. And maybe even a newer model, just to make them jealous..snicker snicker…
My home is my fortress…it is beautiful to me for memories like Oscar’s first wobbly little steps, Shelby’s dislocated elbow from trying to do a WWE suplex on her Daddy, and the abstract artworks hung strategically all over the walls by Shelby and Oscar Graham.
I may not have all the neatest toys or most expensive things, but I am blessed beyond belief for the beauty in my home, yard and family.

Oscar, the Man Boy

Guess who lost more teeth? Yeah, that's right. Mr. Handsome now has a big hole in his mouth where his cute little baby teeth used to be.
Sadly, I don't feel ready for his adult teeth to come in. It's just too soon. Obviously he thinks it's wonderful as this means he is one step closer to being a man. He even checks his arms daily for more hair and always makes a point of showing me when he thinks maybe one has grown longer. "Look Mommy, I'm almost a man today!"
NO BABY, Please don't be a man yet. Mommy is not finished with you being her baby.

My little Liberace

Obviously we all think our kids are the greatest. But seriously, mine really are. REALLY.
Shelby has never been athletically inclined, but after taking beginner piano lessons for a mere 8 months, she is ready to enter the Conservatory of Music!!! I'm so freakin proud of her. Now if I could just get her to stop loving Sanjaya....

Graham Family Fort

This blog was written March 6, 2007


We Grahams, make the best snow forts in North America.
You should all come over for a snow fort party.
(bring beer)









And here is a little clip of the making of the snowy abode:

In God we Trust, All Others, We Virus Scan

This blog was written April 3, 2006


My parents, who are older than Father Time himself, finally got themselves a computer. And let me tell you, they know NOTHING about them. Something as simple as hitting ENTER after a finished document, is completely foreign to them. So of course, I, being the sweet and darling daughter that they love the most, set it all up for them and got them going on the internet.
.*BIG MISTAKE*....
My Mom calls me the other day in a panic, "heather, we got one of those virus thingies!! The monitor went all black with a colored flag that says 'windows' floating all over the place!!!"
"Mom...calm yourself. That's the screen saver, now move your mouse and let me go back to bed."
My Dad can't figure out the whole email thing. I checked my own email on their computer other day. He says " WHOA....how did you get your e-mail into OUR computer?" I had no response.
I told them I was going to get them a free virus protection program and they looked at me like they needed protection from the Avian Flu.

Poor dear fools.

When Streetheart happens to good calm people

This blog was written April 10 2007


After 5 days of pure hell, I have decided that I am never drinking again, exercising again,... or heck, even...leaving my house again, because THIS happens:

Thank god for my wonderful man-mate who has taken great care of me amidst the worst pain ever. He even took the legs off the old couch so I could be propped up in front of the TV. And thank god for the doctor who prescribed 4 different types of super powerful drugs and a cuddly neck support for me today. I can now see a blurry light at the end of this tunnel. (drugs are gooooood)
I think I might attempt a shower tonight. Skin's itchy and that can only mean one thing...GOOD OLE BED SORES!!

Streetheart was oh so good though.

Memory Lane

This blog was written October 16.2006


Who doesn't want to go the local care home and model their Grandmother's wedding dress from 1937? Seriously. It's great fun. You should all try it.


This is how I spent my afternoon. Oscar told me I looked like a pretty princess. WHAT A GOOD BOY!!

Here's the skinny on skinny jeans

This blog was written September 28, 2006


When skinny jeans hit the fashion scene awhile back, I thought they were pretty darn cute. And I figured that I would have to follow the trend because all the "cool" kids had them. So I went shopping, hoping to come home looking all slender and sexy like this.



Apparently it doesn't work for short, full-hipped Norwegians like me, as I came out looking like a sausage mcmuffin. Kinda more like this.



Some fashion trends should not be followed for the greater good of society. And I get that.

Here's to wearing what looks good and not what Nicole Ritchie says is cool.
Damn you to fashion icon heck, Nicole. You need a few Mars bars, you look like a bug-eyed baby ostrich.

Hey gurlz, where's Beyonce at?

This blog was written August 21, 2006.


I am back from my lovely excursion to Minneapolis. I had a wonderful time at the waterslides, the zoo, and the amusement park at the mall. I did NOT go on the roller coaster but please congratulate me for riding the giant scary ferris wheel.

I did not however, shop much. Why? Because every freaking thing down there is expensive name brand garbage.

If I ever think it's cool to shop at Abercrombie and Fitch...PLEASE somebody shoot me. "OOOOOOOH, look at me, I'm like, so cool because I'm stupid enough to waste 40 bucks on a T-shirt that would have cost me 9 without that name! But hey, at least I look like every other cloned human with their bouncy pony tail and pink i-pod playing the latest Rihanna CD yelling 'omigawd, there's a sale at Tommy Hilfiger!'"

It's gonna really suck when my daughter starts acting like this. I better either get used to it or join the clone club myself.

A royal state of pigdom

This blog was written January 6, 2007


What is it about vacations and poor eating habits? They seem to go hand in hand. We went to Grand Forks for a few days and stayed at the Holiday Inn (it was a rat-hole, don't go there.)

I craved salt the entire time. DAMN YOU SALT, you wicked yet beautiful mineral.



Yeah, and look what I can do.



Heehee, I ate that cheezie afterwards. I don't care. Tease me. Whatever.

Me and my jiggle belly are going to go lay on the couch now and only eat celery for a few days.

And so it ends...

This blog was written April 18, 2007


Well, my poor little nine year old daughter is officially in mourning.

Over the weeks, I've watched her love for American Idol contestant, Sanjaya Malakar, blossom into a crazy obsession, and tonight, his journey ended. And with it....my Shelby's happiness.

When the announcement came, her face went into her hands, and her shoulders started shaking. Barry and I knew it was going to be bad, but we had no idea the horrible depression that would ensue.
She cried uncontrollably as she clutched her two stuffed dogs, San (short for Sanjaya) and Mally, (short for Malakar). She proclaimed that there was no way she could possibly go to school tomorrow as her "friends would be ALL talking about it constantly and like, totally asking her how she was."
I tried my best to comfort her (beneath my stifled giggles) and encouraged her that now she could pick another favorite contestant. To that, she viciously spat back " I am NEVER watching that stupid, (sob) dumb show again!"
It's as though she thinks it's my fault he's gone! Just because I wished for it SOOOO badly. I mean, really, he freaking sucked.
Anyways, my heart goes out to her. Thank you to my friends who called to see how she was. First loves are so....umm....CUTE?
Hopefully she'll feel better tomorrow because I am dragging her sorry little butt to school whether she's balling or not.

My new son-in-law

This blog was written March 22, 2007


It seems that THIS isn't the only little girl that Sanjaya Malakar can make cry. I have watched my poor, little brainwashed daughter over the weeks eat, sleep and breathe Sanjaya. She has dreams about him, ponders as she's eating her supper, if HE too hates rice? She named her latest little stuffed rottweiler Sanjaya. (San, for short). She changed her desktop background to a close up of him. Sometimes she'll randomly tell us a stupid useless fact about him that she's learned off his fansite. For instance,... if Barry and I are discussing the latest Bush scandal at dinner, she'll suddenly perk up from her daze and say something utterly ridiculous like...."Did you guys know that Sanjaya's hair is, like...naturally curly? But he can totally wear it both ways." Of course, if you tease her, she will go ballistic, turn 8 shades of red and vehemently deny it. SHE thinks he is AH-mazing at singing. She did however suggest that if he asked her, she MAY consider dating him. Last night, she sat on her chair, then the rocker, then the couch, in a 3 minute span as she waited to hear the results of who was getting voted off. Her bottom lip quivered in anticipation, and at times, she covered her eyes. Barry, Oscar and I giggled our hearts out as we watched this hilarious display of young puppy love/obsession. SHE would occassionally catch us grinning at her and bark out, "WHAT???!! He's just a good singer. RELAX, MOTHER!" And so it begins... I remember plastering posters of Kirk Cameron and Brett Michaels all over my walls. (I had a subscription to Tiger Beat, I'm sure). I can't imagine how my parents let me live. Little girls are such feeble-minded little dopes when it comes to boyz.

The drama magnet leaves us.

This blog was written February 10. 2007


Yes, I am sure that it is tragic that Anna Nicole Smith died.
However, did CNN really have to have 4 continous hours of live coverage?
Was she really THAT newsworthy?
Okay, yes, she did star in Naked Gun 33 1/2, jumped on the PETA bandwagon, married a trillioniare/octogenarian, lost a crapload of weight with that Trimspa poison, but really??? 4 hours? CNN is just like FoxNews, and The National Enquirer. Pathetic.
Well, regardless, may she now rest in peace after an extraordinary life.

WooHoo, the famous babe appears!

This blog was written September 7, 2006.


YAY! It's official! Suri Cruise really DOES exist. We've all been sitting on the edge of our seats nervously awaiting her as though she is the next messiah.

I personally had my theories as to why no one had seen her yet:

a. she was deformed (such as a hairlip or one big nostril)
b. she was afraid of Tom so she crawled back in
c. she was a sea turtle

Tom and Katie did a 20 million page photo shoot for Vanity Fair and apparently the magazine is sold out everywhere. This can only mean one thing.

Suri has been sent to us as an ancient Siamesetology gift from David Koresh who currently is residing on the planet formerly known as Pluto.

Canada Day Guidelines

This blog was written July 5, 2006


Here are 7 basic guidelines one should follow when celebrating Canada Day.

1. Make sure your daughter's bike wins 1st prize in the Bike Decorating Contest for the parade.


2. Make sure you push all the short kids out of the way as the float people toss out cheap candy. (Luckily, there is no pic of this.)

3. After swimming in the park pool ALL afternoon, sit in the beer gardens with all your favorite locals.




4. Attempt to check on your children every so often so as to prevent giant wooden swings from attacking them.


5. After a formidable fireworks display, invite all your neighbours and friends over for waterfights and burgers. Try not to get thrown in the kiddie pool.


6. Do NOT... I repeat, DO NOT try riding your daughter's bike through your flower beds at 1 am. Especially after 1 or 7 beers.


7. Remember, that Canada Day is a huge and important event in your life and try to maintain composure, grace, and maturity for our nation's birthday.


You may need a couple days rest and a good deal of ibuprofen following your patriotic festivities. And that's OKAY.

Pool Party

This blog was written July 17, 2006


As most of you have probably figured out already, I rather enjoy summer. I spend my days lounging in the sun with family and friends drinking margaritas and/or beers. Yesterday was one of these days. Started off with a good time in our state of the art fancy pool.



Once we were dry and ready to start dinner, my horrid husband chucked Mary and I back in the pool, skirts and all. (this is really starting to happen WAY too often)

The girls walked back to Rehannon's place to rescue the lovely bird cooking in her oven. We brought it home to finish burning it on the BBQ. (Barry is not the best bbq'er. )

Rehannon is the supercook among us, but even she could not repair the poor burnt bird.

Although we had ordered a backup pizza, the chicken with the BBQ sauce from the gates of hell, was not totally bad.

In fact, the 2 meat lovers in the group, could not get enough of the saucy, scorched fowl.

The margaritas were too sugary, the chicken was TOO cajun, and the marshmallows were all stuck together, but I could certainly still say, it was a perfect day.