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!)