Yesterday, we arrived backhome from Orlando after completing our Tiarathon roadtrip (courtesy of GM Canada thankyouverymuch). Today, the word 'exhausted' doesn't even cover half of what we are feeling.
What is it about taking a vacation with children that makes one declare 'I need a vacation to recover from my vacation'? Oh right, the children.
I’m not afraid to admit that I used to consider myself one
of the world’s biggest Poison fans, and that, for a long time, I found the band’s
frontman, Bret Michaels, quite desirable. But sometime late last decade (which, not so coincidentally, is when Rock of Love made its big debut) I stopped seeing Bret as the rugged rock n' roll crooner I wouldn't kick out of bed and started thinking of things like male pattern baldness, venereal disease, male sluts, and one-hit wonders
whenever I heard his name.
The 47-year old rocker is in the headlines again – and no, this
time it’s not because he’s driving a Winnebago across the United States in
search of his long lost rock mama, thank gawd.
This time, it’s about music. Bret’s been busy in the studio, you see, recording
a hot new single with none other than... Miley Cyrus.
Since the inception of this blog, I have written a handful of posts about different school incidents in which I think that the actions of the educators and/or the institutions were, let's say, questionable.
In the arena of people that I always think of as asexual, possibly even neutered, teachers rank right up there with grandparents and clergy. I mean, I know that they're human, but still. When I was in high school, the idea of my math teacher dating was inconceivable. He just went home every night and read calculus textbooks, right? Right?
He certainly didn't know his way around a lap dance, I'm pretty sure about that. Not like the teachers at Churchill High School in Winnipeg, Manitoba.
When I was a kid eggs or robo-newborn dolls served as baby simulators for teens taking health class. Theoretically it's supposed to teach them how insane caring for an infant can be and how much attention a child requires. I guess it works but all I really know is baby simulators are a familiar plot and perhaps even legally required storyline in sitcoms involving teenage characters.
Anyway. After watching the following video I couldn't for the life of me figure
out who would need or want one of these baby simulators? Surely it's too cumbersome for a teenager to parent.
When Gemma was about five days old, we were in the grocery store when an old lady went crazy on me and gave me the first stranger inflicted assvice / verbal dressing-down episodes of my parenting career.
Here I was, barely standing and using the stroller as a crutch for my poor embattled nethers with an old lady yelling at me -- loudly -- that I should never, ever let my child cry 'you MUST pick her up all the time. A good mum picks up her child all the time.' For the record, Gemma had just let out one of those wonderful little baby bird squawks before returning to her slumber and that was the 'crying' I was being reprimanded for. Old lady made this hormonal new mom cry. Hard.
Later this morning Tiger Woods will be emerging from his cave of shame (or that rumored sex rehab I read about in the grocery store checkout lanes) to 'splain himself.
For his wife Elin Nordegren's sake, I hope that if he was in a sex rehab it prescribed to Clockwork Orangesque techniques of rehabilitation and included many visiting guest lecturers like Lorena Bobbitt.
Because, seriously? If even a tenth of his 'story' is true, dude needs to wear a huge cone of shame in front of his wife and children.
A few years back I saw a news report on people who purchased mannequins so they could sneak into the car pool lanes -- or at least they claimed that was their original intention for the acquisition. But then some of these life-size doll owners started bringing their fake coworkers into their home and using them to keep themselves company. It was a creepy report to watch and I really wish that I could find it on YouTube.