<?xml version='1.0' encoding='UTF-8'?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns='http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom' xmlns:openSearch='http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/' xmlns:georss='http://www.georss.org/georss' xmlns:gd='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005' xmlns:thr='http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0'><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702</id><updated>2011-07-07T17:25:16.092-07:00</updated><category term='halloween'/><category term='indian'/><category term='racism'/><category term='bi-polar'/><category term='ILs'/><category term='institution'/><category term='sledding'/><category term='birthday'/><category term='babysitting'/><category term='knorr red pepper tomato'/><category term='bi-racial'/><category term='economy'/><category term='MIL'/><category term='babybug'/><category term='winter'/><category term='white'/><category term='depression'/><category term='boarders'/><category term='march'/><category term='renting'/><category term='ordering'/><category term='Mother in Law'/><category term='job search'/><category term='those people'/><category term='sunshine'/><category term='pumpkins'/><category term='mulan'/><category term='anger'/><category term='canadian eh'/><category term='angry mom'/><category term='sick'/><category term='family fun'/><category term='mixed family'/><category term='canada'/><category term='snow'/><category term='SADD'/><category term='satellite'/><title type='text'>Curried Grasshopper</title><subtitle type='html'>The tale of a white chick, with a brown guy, and their baby.</subtitle><link rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default?max-results=100'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/'/><link rel='hub' href='http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><generator version='7.00' uri='http://www.blogger.com'>Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>24</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>100</openSearch:itemsPerPage><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-77227748738726248</id><published>2010-02-21T13:13:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2010-02-21T13:28:08.885-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Depression How I Loath Thee</title><content type='html'>So it turns out that apparently weaning can trigger depression.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I weaned BabyBug mid november and have been kind of doing a slow and graceful free fall ever since. As I often feel a little down during the depths of winter (woo living in northern canada! SAD is rather common unfortunately due to the huge lack of sun) it took a while before I clued in that this was something more then that.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I'm constantly tired, I have little to no patience for poor BabyBug. I'm just generally blah and grumpy, everything is a chore... and get this.. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Lately I don't even want to go to work. Now I LIKE my job, I enjoy chatting with my boss in our crazy orange basement office. So that was a big red flag for me. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Googling led me to many many forums and sites where women talk about depression after weaning, now obviously some of it was mislabeled as depression when it is in fact simple mourning for the relationship you had with your baby that is gone now.  That is not what I'm dealing with, I enjoyed those special snuggles and miss it a little, but what I'm feeling is entirely hormonal combined with a lot on my plate at the moment. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Weaning led to my period returning. Starting to bleed monthly definitely bummed me out, it's such a messy disgusting part of being a woman. My IUD is giving me problems, especially after having sex. I'm sorry but being in AGONY the day after getting some whoopy and my abdomen puffing out in a painful bloat that makes me look 4 months preggo is NOT normal.  So there is that. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;DaddyBug is away at school for his apprenticeship, so I'm doing the solo-parenting gig. Which seriously while working is a challenge. If I'm not working, I'm Mom-ing, I have not had a single fun carefree moment alone since Daddybug first went to school 5 weeks ago. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Then yesterday, yesterday was bad. I have not felt that level of depression in years, literally not since my blackest days as a teen in the depths of a rather severe depression have I felt like that. It scared me, a lot. The last time I felt that bad, I withdrew from the world, I drove my friends away, I dropped out of school, I pretty much hibernated. So feeling that horrible, with that oppressive, crushing weight of hopelessness and doom sitting on my chest scared the crap out of me. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;How lucky I am that some wonderful wonderful ladies were on facebook last night for me to chat with. I love my friends. Just talking about how badly I was feeling helped a lot. Like, a LOT. Because I can't dump on DaddyBug right now, he writes his final exam in a week and if I told him in detail how bad I'm doing, he would not be studying, he would be worrying. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I'm not lying or keeping secrets from him, I gave him a vague overlay of being down, but yesterday I would have spilled too many details and he would be worried. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Today, is not as bad. It is bad.. but the degree from yesterday to today has improved sufficiently for me to function a little without feeling like crying. I hate crying, loath crying. I think DaddyBug has only seen me cry twice, perhaps three times in our 6 year relationship. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Yes yes not crying is unhealthy, I *know* this. Theoretically. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Well, to the doctor I will go, I will make an appointment on monday, talk about birth control, and depression, and see what to do about this. I'm hoping to come out of this without medication, but if needed I will start popping some happy pills for a while. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-77227748738726248?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/77227748738726248/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=77227748738726248' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/77227748738726248'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/77227748738726248'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2010/02/depression-how-i-loath-thee.html' title='Depression How I Loath Thee'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-7991019624465542721</id><published>2009-11-15T01:10:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-11-15T01:21:03.404-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I am a failed blogger.</title><content type='html'>Holy - not a post since april batman!&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Ah well. Been rather busy.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Got a job, lamess at a liquor store, but hey whatevs it was a job.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Is a job rather. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Then, this lady I know who owns and runs not one, but TWO businesses, messages me on facebook wanting to also hire me. As her assistant, her general assistant who is so many types of assistant (production, administrative, etc etc) that cutting out the fancy extra prefix is simply easier.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;i&gt;A job that I get to use my brain with? &lt;/i&gt;Obviously I accepted.  So now I'm insanely doing the two-job shuffle. Luckily they are both part time, and the assistant gig is still flexible on my terms. Till spring anyway, and the I'll probably quit the liquor store. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;BabyBug is spending extra time with the Gramasitter and sometimes lately the Bijisitter and she is digging getting to see her Grandparents extra. Especially now that I've been working a few months. Because hooo-boy it was a bit of an adjustement for wee Babybug not having her Mama around 24/7. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;But it's good, and internets... We have this wonderful thing called 'extra money' and I have been able to buy a few shirts, get our accounts out of the red, and even buy a few small life-enhancing toys. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;*cough*Beatles: Rock Band*cough* &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Babybug was a very cute lion for halloween. My man is officially a survivor of H1N1 and somehow didn't pass on that virus to either BabyBug or myself. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;We just got home from a middle of the week 'weekend' celebrating my man's birthday and we had a fantastic time. Well he better have, how many wives will take their men to the strippers on their birthday and then encourage him to 'really, go ahead and get that lap dance' and honestly be fine with it? But seriously a great time was had by all, and I even had my boobs signed. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-7991019624465542721?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/7991019624465542721/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=7991019624465542721' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/7991019624465542721'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/7991019624465542721'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2009/11/i-am-failed-blogger.html' title='I am a failed blogger.'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-7854354509972064449</id><published>2009-04-29T22:10:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-29T22:18:26.970-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Just the two of us..</title><content type='html'>So in reg to last post.. it seems that airing my dirty laundry so to speak was just the balm my soul needed, because I feel like myself again. Angry Mama seems to have taken a hike. Thank goodness. BabyBug and I are much happier.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;------&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Daddybug started school this monday. I'd forgotten how &lt;i&gt;creepy &lt;/i&gt;it is being alone in a house. So much more so then being alone in an apartment. In general it's fine, but there are those 'what ifs'. I think of what I would do if anything bad happens. Anything bad generally being having someone scary come into the house. (Sooo not likely in my little town) but I check the locks twice, and I make sure my cellphone has  a charge, bringing it to bed with me where it sits on the nightstand. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I miss him. I miss him a lot. We have bad chemistry on the phone, the conversation lags, it isn't the same. But he's doing well in school, and he'll be home friday afternoon until sunday evening. I hope that it's nice outside and we can get out together as a family, go for a walk, take the kid to the park. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Babybug and I are keeping busy, we have started Mom &amp;amp; Tot swim lessons twice a week and we have found a new Playgroup to go to every thursday at 10am. I'm keeping the house clean, and have just taken on the job of reformatting/updating cleaning a friends computers, the tower today, a laptop tomorrow. I'm honestly thinking of putting flyers up around town to do PC Spring cleaning.. a package deal including physical cleaning (a highly underestimated part of computer owning, especially with summer coming) , and virus/malware scan. We'll see. It would bring in some cash though.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-7854354509972064449?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/7854354509972064449/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=7854354509972064449' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/7854354509972064449'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/7854354509972064449'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2009/04/just-two-of-us.html' title='Just the two of us..'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-4403491877835010016</id><published>2009-04-16T22:36:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-16T22:52:57.009-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='babybug'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='sunshine'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='birthday'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='knorr red pepper tomato'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='sick'/><title type='text'>Happy Birthday To Me</title><content type='html'>So today I've reached the unripe age of 25. I spent my birthday hanging out with a sick baby by myself. Night before last I put Babybug to bed, and around 3ish she woke up to nurse and seemed to have a low grade temp  but she went right back to bed so I didn't think much of it. Until yesterday morning. Oh she was sick dear internets. She felt very very ill all day.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Early on she clearly felt rather &lt;i&gt;ick&lt;/i&gt; but manageably so, and when she noticed the blue sky and sunshine that was waiting for us out the door she started imploring me "side? .. side?" and I figuring that if we were going to do this, early on would be our only chance, so outside we went. I was unwashed, unbrushed, and still in pajamas but damn it we went for a walk.  Our walk went splendidly, she walked down the street, around the corner and &lt;i&gt;almost &lt;/i&gt;to my Mom's house when she puttered out and wanted up. We came home where she promptly asked to nurse and fell asleep. The rest of the day was downhill, poor thing.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I abandoned all ideas i had of doing laundry, vacuuming, loading the dishwasher and otherwise being productive and went into fully Mommy Mode. Which is to say, as her temperature climbed and she began to feel progressively worse, we spent the day snuggling, napping and watching DVDs. She loves the music from Across The Universe if anyone cares. In one of her more cheerful moments I had her singing along with it at one point as she sweetly sang "na na na nana naaaa, na na na naaaa naa naaa" &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;She ended up spending most of the night snuggling in bed with me, initially she was in her bed, but after waking up every 40 minutes four times I just brought her to bed where she slept much better. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So today as she was a fair bit improved for most of the afternoon, I did some basic tidying and we went outside for another walk. I whored it up on facebook to make sure I was getting some birthday lovin, received some phone calls from family, and just hung out with the kid.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;We also had a lovely three hour nap together. First time I've had a birthday nap since I was a preschooler dear internets, and it was the best nap ever. We both woke up in a wonderful feel good mood, ready for lunch. Babybug started asking for nums "num?.. num?.. num?" "Are you hungry honey? Do you want some soup?" And she looked up at me and said "num? ssshhhcooop(that's my lame attempt at typing a slurping sound) num!" So I heated up her favorite soup (Knorr Red Pepper Tomato) and she ate an entire baby-sized bowl of it.  I had some too because that soup really is delicious. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;All in all, a pretty good birthday. Mellow, snuggly, no drama. And sweet sweet sunshine!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-4403491877835010016?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/4403491877835010016/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=4403491877835010016' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/4403491877835010016'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/4403491877835010016'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2009/04/happy-birthday-to-me.html' title='Happy Birthday To Me'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-6316755769356272794</id><published>2009-04-13T23:29:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-13T23:56:21.133-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='depression'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='angry mom'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='bi-polar'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='SADD'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='anger'/><title type='text'>Angry Mama</title><content type='html'>My temper has been rather fickle lately and I'm not sure what needs to be done about it.  Things that shouldn't piss me off are, generally things related to babybug. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The problem is that in my head I *know* as in really really &lt;b&gt;know&lt;/b&gt; what is an appropriate response and what isn't. But having this knowledge isn't helping me respond with the appropriate response lately. I've been going from being fine to full out RAWR pissed the fuck off, snap, snarl, etc etc. And then fine again (bi-polar much???) Then the guilt and the self doubt and me going "Dude WTF is your problem, you have all this knowledge and you know what to do and how to do it, but you're letting your pissy emotional brain get the better of you!"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Like, I'm fine getting up with her in the night, whatever. Go to baby room, pick up baby, hug baby, whip out boob then put her back to bed and I go back to my bed. But if she decides to let me get warm and snuggly in my bed only to wait 5 minutes and start "Aiiiieeeeee"ing me, or heaven forbid.. wait till I'm actually JUST ASLEEP AGAIN. Eeesh. Hell hath no fury like Girl's Sleep Interrupted.  Daddybug gets to here me grump and snarl in bed before I get up and go to tend to her. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;A lot of the time my patience level is GREAT, it's fine, because a lot of the time my supposedly 'evolved' primate mind can rationalize that a given behavior is normal, typical and common. It isn't out to get me, it isn't to piss me off, it just IS and that's fine. Annoying, but fine. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Then other times, she chucks her fruitsation coated spoon on my nice clean floor and I see fruit goop splatter all over and my blood freaking boils. Especially when she's only eaten like 2.5 bites of food. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Is this a weird angsty and very much delayed form of post partum? Is this bi-polar disorder? Do I need meds or just a break? I've googled bi-polar and I don't *seem* to have it, as I definitely never have anything nearing a manic phase. Excess energy? What's that? The only time I have an excess of energy is when I can force myself to start cleaning my house the moment I've woken up (and it's FORCE MYSELF.. as my chair calls to my ass in the morning) and then I can ride a sense of accomplishment through the afternoon.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Is it SADD? This winter that's moving into the &lt;b&gt;7th month&lt;/b&gt; is starting to bring me down, I keep getting taunted with blue skies and sunshine that melts most of the snow, only for us to get dumped on with more. I yearn for spring, I ache for summer weather. There is so much I want to do with Babybug now that she is older and does play, and CAN do all kinds of cool kid stuff. But we're cooped up inside time and time again.  So I get bummed and kind of fizz out. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I don't know what to do, I've been through a long and horrible depression. This isn't that exactly, but it's a funk for sure. I really want to avoid another depression, I don't want to have to get anti-depressants again. But I also don't like this anger that keeps bubbling up. And it isn't fair to babybug, because she is awesome and I love her to death, and I want what's best for her. I don't want her to grow up remembering an angry mom.  I don't want to &lt;b&gt;be&lt;/b&gt; an angry mom.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;This needs to stop, this isn't me. I will not let this get worse and become 'normal'. I refuse. Normal is not this blood boiling, vein bulging UNREASONABLE anger. This is ridiculous. I need to stop this pattern now. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Alright. I have noone to talk about this too, noone who can understand, who won't judge. Won't assume or read more into then there is (because hello, I'm not beating or hitting my kid, or screaming at her day and night.. it isn't like that, most of it is contained and away from her) &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;All the same, it needs to stop before this escalates and worsens. Please come out sunshine, come and play. Alright, I'm holding myself accountable here. Will post in a week and see if I've been able to make improvements. If I'm feeling the same or worse by monday next week I'll go visit a doctor and see if they have any ideas. If I need meds, there must be something that is safe to take while breastfeeding.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-6316755769356272794?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/6316755769356272794/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=6316755769356272794' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/6316755769356272794'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/6316755769356272794'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2009/04/angry-mama.html' title='Angry Mama'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-3061022461164434773</id><published>2009-03-31T23:44:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-04-01T00:06:06.900-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='sledding'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='canadian eh'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='snow'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='family fun'/><title type='text'>Sledding. Or Not.</title><content type='html'>So a few days ago I turned to DaddyBug and said "Hey when BabyBug wakes up.. want to take her sledding?" And he said sureeee why not?&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It'll be fun I thought, the big kids are in school, there's fresh snow on the hill, BabyBug will &lt;b&gt;love&lt;/b&gt; it. She certainly likes getting tossed around the house. (In the safe and gentle onto the couch kind of way peeps.) Geez. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So I scoured the basement for my proper winter boots, spent 15 minutes stuffing BabyBug into several layers, then snowsuit &amp;amp; babylegs to hold her winter boots on and camera in pocket off we went. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;The hill is just down the street, BabyBug was so excited! What fun new thing were we doing outside? With Mom &amp;amp; Dad! Wow! She babbled excitedly in my arms. So we arrive at the very large hill, the fresh powder is broken only by two lone snowboard trails. I set BabyBug onto the sled and slide in behind her. Daddybug gives us a slight push to get going and we started rushing through the air.  My stomach takes a lurch as we glide and drift across the snow and we begin to pick up speed, I briefly take a moment to ponder if perhaps this is too fast but my ruminations are short lived because now the fresh powder is our downfall as it begins to fly into our faces.  BabyBug is not impressed, BabyBug is &lt;b&gt;scared&lt;/b&gt; of this awful cold white stuff that is daring to poof into her face. She makes this annoyed/scared/ warbling cry and as I'm trying to vainly wipe the melting flakes from her face we come to a slow and gentle stop so I scoop her into my arms and after a moment of snuggling all is fine again.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Daddybug walks down to our place on the hill and carries the sled back up for us. I suggest to him, does he want to go down once with her? Because surely she was only distressed from the snow in the face, and now that I've broken the trail as long as they go down it again, no more snow should fly. It sounds reasonable to DaddyBug so I set her on the sled.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;b&gt;"No."&lt;/b&gt; She says. She puts her arms up and imperiously commands &lt;b&gt;"Mup!" &lt;/b&gt;So I pick her up and she immediately leans out of my arms for her Dad. (It's my fault the nasty snow blasted her you see) She looks down at the sled again &lt;b&gt;"&lt;/b&gt;&lt;b&gt;No" &lt;/b&gt;Then turns towards the hill starts waving her mittened hand and firmly says &lt;b&gt;"Bye."&lt;/b&gt; Flabbergasted that our little 15 month old could so clearly convey her opinion on this we laugh and ask her "You want to go home eh?" She laughs, delighted that we understand, and turning for home says &lt;b&gt;"Dehr"&lt;/b&gt;. So home we went. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And we may not have gotten any pictures of our little snow bug, and we definitely didn't really do much of the intended purpose, but I'll never forget her turning to that hill and waving bye, then looking at us expectantly, and of the unabashed delight on her face when we turned around and did exactly as she wanted us to do. It was hilarious, it was so sweet. I'll remember that afternoon always. Oh BabyBug, your sweet little hand waving and saying bye to that hill. Precious. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;There's always next year ;) &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-3061022461164434773?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/3061022461164434773/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=3061022461164434773' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/3061022461164434773'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/3061022461164434773'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2009/03/sledding-or-not.html' title='Sledding. Or Not.'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-6530105695418210587</id><published>2009-03-27T21:23:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-27T21:41:50.113-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Mother in Law'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='MIL'/><title type='text'>Oh MIL...</title><content type='html'>Please when reading the title instead of assuming the 'M' stands for Mom, please substitute it for the first word that comes to mind that also starts with Mo but ends rather differently. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I don't &lt;b&gt;want&lt;/b&gt; to write a post bitching about her again, but I can't help it and am going to anyway. The other day when she so rudely showed up unannounced , I sat her down and very gently explained that while we loved her to pieces, she &lt;b&gt;really must&lt;/b&gt; start doing us the courtesy of calling ahead of time. She sulked and pouted and did the really mature &lt;i&gt;well fine you want me to leave i'll leave&lt;/i&gt; thing, until we had gotten our message through (I thought) that we &lt;b&gt;do &lt;/b&gt; want her in BabyBug's life, we just want the common courtesy of a damn phone call.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I posted the incident on a certain &lt;b&gt;Dealing With The Inlaws &lt;/b&gt; forum, and they pretty much told me that I was &lt;b&gt;too nice&lt;/b&gt; about. eh..&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Which brings us to this evening. A boo-hooing MIL calls us up to pitch a pissy-fit because we're keeping &lt;b&gt;her granddaughter away from her&lt;/b&gt;.  So she bitched and moaned to poor DaddyBug and he's getting right pissed at her (&lt;i&gt;I was so proud peeps)&lt;/i&gt; stating again and again that it's all in her head, we just want to make plans, at the very least a goddamn fucking &lt;b&gt;phone call&lt;/b&gt;. And why yes C.G's family &lt;b&gt;does always &lt;/b&gt;call first. Yes, &lt;b&gt;every time.  &lt;insert&gt; &lt;/b&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;We don't answer the phone she says, we don't call back she says.  We've been telling her for years to &lt;b&gt;leave a message if she wants a call back&lt;/b&gt;. She doesn't want to leave a message, she doesn't want to make plans, doesn't have time to. Well Boo-Fucking-Hoo. It is really not that hard to say "Hi C.G, this is MIL. I was thinking of stopping by later today, please call me when you're home".  If you're going uptown then call us and say "I'm going up town now and was going to stop by on my way home, is that good for you?".&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It isn't torture, we aren't asking much. It's a 15 second voice mail.  If we're home we do answer the phone. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So in the end a very cranky DaddyBug got off the phone and informed me that MIL would like to be called tomorrow after after BabyBug's nap. However the way she worded it was; &lt;b&gt;&lt;insert&gt; "Tell &lt;/b&gt;C.G to call me when BabyBug is up from her nap" and DaddyBug said "I will not &lt;b&gt;tell&lt;/b&gt; C.G to call you, but I will &lt;b&gt;ask &lt;/b&gt;her to." &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So now the thing is... do I call her? I want to stand my ground and force the demanding spoiled MIL to get off her high horse and &lt;b&gt;call me&lt;/b&gt;. Or do I compromise and call her and start the ball rolling? I just really feel like she is getting her way by me calling because she &lt;b&gt;told &lt;/b&gt;DaddyBug to &lt;b&gt;tell &lt;/b&gt;me to do so.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-6530105695418210587?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/6530105695418210587/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=6530105695418210587' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/6530105695418210587'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/6530105695418210587'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2009/03/oh-mil.html' title='Oh MIL...'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-3732332006864173359</id><published>2009-03-18T21:16:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-18T22:18:47.178-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='ordering'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='Mother in Law'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='babysitting'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='ILs'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='mixed family'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='MIL'/><title type='text'>Le Sigh</title><content type='html'>So today despite what I wanted to do, we went to MIL's for a visit, that as always turned into dinner. It went fine all things considering. She isn't horrible always, she can be quite nice and generous when she's in the mood for it, our main problem is P/A comments and her annoying habit of ordering us around. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;However, Daddybug was feeling charitable and made an insanely foolish comment. MIL whisks the kid away down the hallway, coming back with a toy out of SIL's room. MIL comments on how Babybug pointed up at the dozens of teddy's hanging from the ceiling and Daddybug says... "Oh that's where you'll have sleepovers with your Booji (Aunty) someday, that's where you'll sleep when you have sleepovers with Biji(Grandma) ... yeah someday you'll have sleepovers!"&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;*head bang*&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Thus opening the road to future whining along the lines of "but you &lt;b&gt;said &lt;/b&gt;she'd sleep here someday"  Because she really is the type to take that inane little conversation, catalogue it away and hold it against us forever more. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And while I suppose it's &lt;i&gt;eventually &lt;/i&gt;possible that MIL will be granted a miraculous overnight visit, I at the moment cannot fathom how I will achieve the comfort level to grant such a thing. I suppose it'll happen when I'm not worried about her bad mouthing me in my child's presence, (&lt;i&gt;she was busted doing this exact thing about her SIL with her Niece staying over)&lt;/i&gt; and when she's of an age where a whole grape and a cashew are no longer dangerous.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;MIL, Children with 6 teeth cannot eat nuts, not any nuts at all, ever, unless in spreadable paste like peanut butter.  And whole grapes are a squishy choking hazard. DUH. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Bah. And the other worst moment of the evening:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;MIL turns to me and says "Bring her over for an afternoon some day, leave her with me so we can see how she does. So she can get used to me, yes an afternoon some time."&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;b&gt;*crickets chirping*&lt;/b&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;She &lt;b&gt;told&lt;/b&gt; me to do this, there was not the slightest suggestion of it being an offer or a request. This was an order. Give me the child unsupervised because supervised visits are not good enough.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I left Babybug with her once, at DH's request. I felt horrible about it, didn't want to do it, leaving was hard.  I do not have this problem with my parents so I wasn't sure if it was Mommy Instincts or just a personal bias showing through, so I did it. And MIL lasted until BabyBug needed a nap, couldn't get her to settle, and called me to save the day. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;That was the first and only time she's had the kid to herself.  She keeps destroying chances of a future alone visit by feeding the child inappropriate foods, and by vanishing with the kid every chance she gets. She finds an insanely large amount of reasons to flee the room with my kid in arms. So annoying.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Although obviously the Neice/SIL story stays in my mind all the time, especially since She puts all the blame on SIL sending dear Niece to SPY on her talking with her daughter. She didn't innocently overhear and go ask mommy why aunty was saying mean things.. no no.. the 7 year old was a spy. Sure. That makes perfect sense.  Blame the Hannah Montana obsessing 7 year old.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I know, dear peeps, the MIL rants are old, but DH is feeling so good about a 'good' visit with his mother, that I don't want to spoil his evening by going off on him about promising sleepovers, potential death by giant whole grape and demands of babysitting.  So, since I'm *trying* to give the guy a break, you guys get the brunt. Sorry. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-3732332006864173359?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/3732332006864173359/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=3732332006864173359' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/3732332006864173359'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/3732332006864173359'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2009/03/le-sigh.html' title='Le Sigh'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-5037493247433635526</id><published>2009-03-15T10:57:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-15T12:24:29.848-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='canada'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='satellite'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='march'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='winter'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='snow'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='mulan'/><title type='text'>Friday the 13th the Second can bite my Canadian Ass</title><content type='html'>&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;So thursday was lovely and warm, things were melting and the sun was shining. The weather forecast for the weekend was perfect, highs of 13 lows of 5. Wonderful.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Instead, friday morning I woke up to this:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_U0nnY91-d00/Sb1DZVFO-II/AAAAAAAAAAM/5gzAzEsd35Q/s320/IMG_3889-1.jpg.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313477237801941122" /&gt;&lt;img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 230px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_U0nnY91-d00/Sb1D2SYDP4I/AAAAAAAAAAU/9V-Jj-6YpAg/s320/IMG_3890.jpg.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313477735291764610" /&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 230px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_U0nnY91-d00/Sb1ESpaQN0I/AAAAAAAAAAc/9mW8M8L_OPw/s320/IMG_3896.jpg.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313478222511355714" /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 230px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_U0nnY91-d00/Sb1FLJTiXVI/AAAAAAAAAAk/pYDOPKxHNew/s320/IMG_3894.jpg.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313479193145793874" /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;Which was rather depressing, so I was all, whatevs lets watch some cartoons BabyBug. But the satellite gave me this message:&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 230px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_U0nnY91-d00/Sb1FLB1mAdI/AAAAAAAAAAs/Q8nOW1kDMY8/s320/IMG_3893.jpg.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313479191141155282" /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;And the little light on the receiver was &lt;b&gt;red&lt;/b&gt; which means that either my dish is covered in a foot of snow, or it just can't receive the signal from the satellite through the shitloads of white stuff floating in the clouds. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: left;"&gt;But hey, that's okay. Because we still have DVD's. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;img style="cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 307px; height: 230px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_U0nnY91-d00/Sb1FLRI2TCI/AAAAAAAAAA0/dbdsRfMgd_4/s320/IMG_3898-1.jpg.jpeg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5313479195248446498" /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div style="text-align: center;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-5037493247433635526?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/5037493247433635526/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=5037493247433635526' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/5037493247433635526'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/5037493247433635526'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2009/03/friday-13th-second-can-bite-my-canadian.html' title='Friday the 13th the Second can bite my Canadian Ass'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><media:thumbnail xmlns:media='http://search.yahoo.com/mrss/' url='http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_U0nnY91-d00/Sb1DZVFO-II/AAAAAAAAAAM/5gzAzEsd35Q/s72-c/IMG_3889-1.jpg.jpeg' height='72' width='72'/><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-7219051202832047479</id><published>2009-03-12T22:49:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2009-03-18T22:18:03.764-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='renting'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='boarders'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='institution'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='job search'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='economy'/><title type='text'>This is how we do it.</title><content type='html'>So I got a call yesterday from a guy who is organizing the housing arrangements for the new institution guards that will be coming to town, he wanted details on the room we're letting (it's half of a basement damnit! Clearly far superior to a piddly bedroom!) and informed me that they will not be arriving until Mid May. Oh dear. Mid May is rather far away.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Guy on the phone was wondering if we would still have it available then, and I told him I hoped we would have someone here by then, but to keep us on the list and give us a call later on as who knows what will happen. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Sigh.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I am on the job hunt. Out of the crappy jobs available I have decided to try and get on at a sort of Hotel/Apt Building hybrid as a housekeeper. I detest cleaning, it will deny me the one thing I really wanted to get out of getting a job other then money (socialization with real live people), but it pays $15 an hour. And since I don't want to work more then 4 days a week I need a job with a much higher rate then say... waitressing.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I know they're hiring, their add is posted at the local Jobstart place. I tried to give them my resume yesterday but the front desk manager was mysteriously absent, the phone was ringing, I called hello.. and waited.. and dinged the bell.. and waited... repeat. No one around so I left and will try again tomorrow. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Today DaddyBug went to visit his mother after work as she's sick with the flu (again). They're worried about us, keep inquiring how things are going. He let it slip that I'm on the job hunt. No big deal obviously she was going to find out eventually, it isn't as if I'm going to sit at home while the bank takes the Suzuki away.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;She offered to babysit &lt;b&gt;if I need her to&lt;/b&gt;. Give me a minute. BAHAHAHAHA. Um, no. Hell to the No. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Eventually she'll ask me, and I already know what I'm going to say &lt;b&gt;'Thankyou for the offer but it's already been taken care of." &lt;/b&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-7219051202832047479?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/7219051202832047479/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=7219051202832047479' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/7219051202832047479'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/7219051202832047479'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2009/03/this-is-how-we-do-it.html' title='This is how we do it.'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-6289047957330596198</id><published>2009-02-22T12:06:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-22T12:35:07.661-08:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='indian'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='white'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='those people'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='bi-racial'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='racism'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='mixed family'/><title type='text'>Irony.</title><content type='html'>There is a movie on tv right now, about an Indian family living in Canada, the main character has the same name as DaddyBug. In the movie this guy fell in love with *gasp* a WHITE girl!! And his Mommy Dearest has a panic attack and says many mean things about those horrible white people in general.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Deja Vu?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;My MIL also likes to say things about '&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;those people&lt;/span&gt;'. She's been in Canada for 26 years and still talks about us white folks as '&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;those people'&lt;/span&gt;.   As in "well you know how those people are regarding _______". Babies before marriage, divorce, premarital sex, low income.. pretty much anything you can think of has nothing to do with the families and the individual people themselves, it can all be lumped into one simple phrase... "&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Those people.&lt;/span&gt;" &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;One of her biggest freak-outs when we told her we were pregnant was because people in town were going to think badly of &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;her&lt;/span&gt; and we were going to embarrass &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;her&lt;/span&gt;. And we must get married &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;right now! &lt;/span&gt; Because it's fine for 'those people' to have babies without being married, but they're better then 'those people'.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;That's a direct quote out of MIL's mouth passed on to me via DaddyBug peeps.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;For the record, noone in town batted an eye.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;She also likes to go off on tangents about 'The Chinese, and The Koreans" because according to her, every single person of those race's are out to rip you off. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And I'm always the disrespectful DIL (or Daughter Out of Law really lol) and make a comment along the lines of "not everyone in ______ minority group fits a freaking stereotype!!!) and she lets it fall off like water by saying "well no, but &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;most&lt;/span&gt; of them.)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So I guess I can feel a little mollified that her racism and bigotry is spread around the board to most groups that simply arn't Indian. But I still find it disgusting. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Now I realize as a white girl living in Canada I'm treading a turbulent river by even daring to call out other people for racism, but I am consistently baffled on why it is considered OK for someone in a minority group to bash people in a different minority group. And unfortunately such bigotry has seeped into DaddyBug's subconscious, as he's been known to make snap racist judgments on people too. It's a constant source of contention for us. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So between snarking at my Dad's family for their derogative comments (If I hear my dad say the word 'chink' one more time... *head explodes*), snarking at DaddyBug.. and occasionally snipping at MIL, I am a busy busy grasshopper some days. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And a cranky grasshopper, because such talk pisses me off.  And it stresses me out, because I am the mother of a bi-racial child, and every time I hear MIL make rude comments about 'those people' I think of how this is going to affect my daughter, because half of her family is 'those people' , SHE is half white.  I don't want her feeling like she has to deny her white family when she's around MIL, I want my daughter to accept and be happy with the fact that she is indian.. AND she is white. But irregardless, what she is primarily is just.. Canadian. I know from my research that bi-racial children tread a fine line in their lives about knowing where to belong, are they this.. or are they that.. and is it okay to be both without betraying either? &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;It does not need to be made worse by my little girl having it in her head that "MIL will only love me if I try to be as Indian as possible". Someday.. I will have to sit MIL and have a chat about that, because if she is going to be a toxic influence on my daughter's self image.. she will be cut out. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I hope someday that we can all just be Canadian.. or American.. and drop this division amongst ourselves.  Oh how i hope. But until then I'll continue being a little grasshopper on shoulders, poking and proding, and trying to raise my daughter to the best of my ability.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-6289047957330596198?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/6289047957330596198/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=6289047957330596198' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/6289047957330596198'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/6289047957330596198'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2009/02/irony.html' title='Irony.'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-8244541817864740150</id><published>2009-02-13T22:24:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-02-13T22:36:47.244-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Woo VDay Feel the Commercialism Peeps!</title><content type='html'>So guess what day it is tomorrow? Hope you've bought your required and unromantic yearly gesture of consumerism.  Or.. follow the demands of the DeBeers Commercial and buy &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;DIAMONDS. &lt;/span&gt;Remember your wife will only love you with yearly expensive gifts.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I'm just guessing, but somehow I think that VDay gifts this year are going to be a lot more along the lines of say.. dinner.. or a box of chocolates a la Forrest Gump. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I know that I'm getting a card because D.B mysteriously vanished uptown in the Suzuki while BabyBug and I were showing. Probably shouldn't spend 5 bucks on a card right now.. but eh.. he's just trying to be sweet, he knows I'm a little sad that we can't go to the event at the lounge. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;A Girls entitled to a &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;little &lt;/span&gt;pouting though, the event involved a dinner (appy, main course, dessert) and entertainment! 40 minutes of standup comedy, something lame during intermission, and then a 1 hour adult magic show! &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;The child in me still gets all excited thinking 'oooo illusions!' But the tickets are &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;40 dollars a plate.&lt;/span&gt; So we are staying home tomorrow. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Having VDay with the family yo. D.B is cooking dinner, which is a very cool and rare event. He's even a great cook to boot. So I feel lucky. I'm thinking of doing something extra nice for him, involving a certain red silk lingerie I own and the fireplace downstairs.. the inner cynic in my head cringes and says "Noooo C.G you foolish woman that's playing right into the goddamn VDay stereotypes!!" But yaknow, sometimes being a little bit cliche once in a while is okay, especially when it's all in good fun.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-8244541817864740150?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/8244541817864740150/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=8244541817864740150' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/8244541817864740150'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/8244541817864740150'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2009/02/woo-vday-feel-commercialism-peeps.html' title='Woo VDay Feel the Commercialism Peeps!'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-8577975462580737205</id><published>2009-01-29T20:42:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-29T20:59:43.510-08:00</updated><title type='text'>The Curried Half of the Equation..</title><content type='html'>The MIL is angry that we refused her order to go visit FIL at the hospital yesterday.  In her world it is perfectly acceptable to call up your &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;adult&lt;/span&gt; children and &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;order&lt;/span&gt; them to do things or go places. It's been a continuous problem. I thought that things were turning around after we made a few comments (gentle teasing..) &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;of are you asking or &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;telling??&lt;/span&gt; &lt;/span&gt;But it seems she has reverted to her old and wretched ways. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;She also keeps &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;showing up at my house&lt;/span&gt; unannounced.  This drives me batty. She is completely thick and will not take all of the millions of hints I have given about how we would really appreciate a fucking phone call before coming over. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I am a big reader of a certain Dealing With The Inlaws forum. They preach tough love on those forums, and would hand me my ass on a platter with a big giant can of &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;coward&lt;/span&gt; on the side.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;These ladies would tell me: Confront your MIL. If she shows up unannounced &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;do not let her in&lt;/span&gt;. Explain to her in a sit down that under no circumstances is she to &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;tell or demand&lt;/span&gt; that we do anything. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I just wish I knew how much of our problems stem from cultural differences and how much is just standard MIL crap. I do know that in India you pretty much do what your MIL wants, elder respect and all that shit. But Hello.. this is Canada, welcome, bonjour! You've lived here almost &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;30 years! &lt;/span&gt; Your son picked a&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt; white girl!  &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;She had such a full on hate of me for so long, and I was so determined to 'get along' that I have pretty much never properly stood up to her. And after years of being with DaddyBug it's become a very destructive habit to try and avoid causing waves with her.  She is so used to ordering everyone around and getting her own way that when she is thwarted she resorts instantly to tears and sulking. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;I know that I need to grow some balls and have a talk with her. But how do you sit down and basically attack someone on many things they do while they are still dealing with the continuing intense care of their husband who is still in the hospital and has been through hell and back over the last 8 months??? &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Either way.. I never used to be a doormat and I need to stop acting like one before it becomes a habit in the rest of my life. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Someone.. just lend me a pair for a day or two?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-8577975462580737205?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/8577975462580737205/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=8577975462580737205' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/8577975462580737205'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/8577975462580737205'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2009/01/curried-half-of-equation.html' title='The Curried Half of the Equation..'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-993618095183451221</id><published>2009-01-28T12:16:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-28T14:08:05.226-08:00</updated><title type='text'>A giggle a day..</title><content type='html'>&lt;span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;As both of her parents are getting frazzled and stressed from the current situation, Baby Bug is unaware of the politics going on in the house and is continuing to be her sweet radiant self. She tackles us with giggles and teases us with shrieks and squeals of delight as we play and cavort through the thickening air.  She trots over to me and with a toss of her arms demands "Mup!" which Daddybug realized is a cute blend of Mum and Up.  &lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;Just when we are about to become too mired in the practicalities of finding a way to ride this storm out, BabyBug busts into the moment and distracting us fills our thoughts with grins of delight, cherishing this sweet little person. It's such a contradiction, we are stressing more because now we have BabyBug to worry about, but at the same time she absolutely prevents us from focusing on the bad all the time. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;We are formulating a plan, and looking into our options. I am seeking out cheap menu ideas while I challenge myself to see what I can do with the ingredients in the house with very minimal spending to supplement.  We may take on a border for a while. I may get a job. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;It'll work out. Always does. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-993618095183451221?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/993618095183451221/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=993618095183451221' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/993618095183451221'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/993618095183451221'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2009/01/giggle-day.html' title='A giggle a day..'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-4817385993562160383</id><published>2009-01-25T15:57:00.001-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-25T16:26:54.153-08:00</updated><title type='text'>A question of Dollars</title><content type='html'>&lt;span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;Daddy Bug has been informed that although he is an Electrical Apprentice he is also an employee of the mine and therefore also restricted by the new overtime rules. Which basically boils down to no longer showing up for overtime whenever he feels like it, and there is now a &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;sign up sheet&lt;/span&gt; that you can put your name on in the hopes that one of the crews will give you a call and let you come in for extra hours.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;This is a very bad thing. We bought the house knowing money would be very tight; how could it not after taking a rather large pay cut to become an apprentice? But it seemed doable &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;as long as Daddy Bug worked some overtime. &lt;/span&gt; We are officially up the creek people.  With christmas, him having a few sick days, missing a day from lack of a ride and switching back to 4 and 4 shifts, the last few cheques have been meager as it was, I've been doing the bill juggle and it's stressing me out and pissing off the utility companies. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;I've never had to do this. I thought I was good with money, smug about it really.  It was so &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;easy&lt;/span&gt; living on my own, it was a &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;breeze &lt;/span&gt;paying the bills and rent. I could cook whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted it. Sales? Pah who waited for a sale on meat when I wanted to cook blahblahwhatever today?&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;Ummm hello C.G you were working in a bar, in a booming town. The main bar. And double hello you were a good fucking server girl so yeah you &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;worked it&lt;/span&gt; and made ridiculous tips. Of course you could piss off to the next city all the time and smack down 600 bucks in a day and not bat an eye.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;Obviously life is a bit different now, single income + family + chick who's used to having enough money for whatever = major trouble peeps. In the years I've lived on my own I've become a total food snob, used to tripping up to the store to lay down 30 or 40 dollars on spices and ingredients I don't use all the time to try out random recipes off the 'net. I don't know how to cook &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;cheap meals &lt;/span&gt;. Literally. No Fucking Clue.  Another problem is I'm used to major &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;flavour&lt;/span&gt; in food, and in my experience cheap meals are usually bland. Or horribly horribly unhealthy. Or *cringe* both.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"&gt; &lt;/span&gt;I need to make a plan. Obviously I need to do some budgeting to find out if we can even get by without overtime. If we can and it leaves very little money for food then I clearly need to either start living on kraft dinner some days, find cheap meals to make that arn't revolting. Possibly try and suck it up even if they are kind of revolting. Or.. and this option is the best in my opinion; find a way to bring some money into the house. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Damnit. Fucking sucks being a grownup sometimes.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-4817385993562160383?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/4817385993562160383/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=4817385993562160383' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/4817385993562160383'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/4817385993562160383'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2009/01/question-of-dollars.html' title='A question of Dollars'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-709810831980202722</id><published>2009-01-23T07:42:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-23T07:58:51.242-08:00</updated><title type='text'>An Ode To Sleep</title><content type='html'>Dear Sleep;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;You Rule my house. You Dictate the enjoyment we all achieve throughout the day, this is usually chosen by how much you decide to visit Baby Bug. And I have to say, Sleep that you were especially &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;cheap&lt;/span&gt; on the nap front yesterday. C'mon Sleep 15 minute naps? No one year old can function on a half hour of shut eye throughout the day. Yeah I know &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;teething&lt;/span&gt; blah blah. I still think you were being &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;cheap.&lt;/span&gt; And I know that usually once you've decided to &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;scrimp&lt;/span&gt; on dear Baby Bug that it becomes this awful revolving door, she gets &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;whiny&lt;/span&gt; and you &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;bail out &lt;/span&gt;on her at night too. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So Sleep I have to commend you on your awesomeness last night. Now I realize that the kindness you bestowed upon us was probably a giant lump of &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;starry pity. &lt;/span&gt; But at 5 am this is accepted as a simple generous act. Baby Bug only waking up &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;twice&lt;/span&gt;? Oh that was lovely, can we please have a repeat of this tonight? Pretty Please?&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Thankyou Ever So Much,&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;C.G&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-709810831980202722?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/709810831980202722/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=709810831980202722' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/709810831980202722'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/709810831980202722'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2009/01/ode-to-sleep.html' title='An Ode To Sleep'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-8335458861349491418</id><published>2009-01-22T13:37:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2009-01-22T13:48:27.341-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Oh snuggle puppy you're so fine!</title><content type='html'>For a while Snuggle Puppy by Sandra Boynton  was our most very favorite book, followed by The Belly Button Book. Then Baby Bug discovered books with real pictures. Thus ended our courtship with decent books for a time. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;For ages we've been reading a never ending revolving due of books comprised of Happy Baby 1,2,3 and a random Koala book from a dear Aussie friend. The counting book is fun enough because she gets excited at finding the babies (bay!) the kitties (kee or Keedy) and the puppies (kee or puh!)  But the Koala book is a badly written hack job of a novel that hurts my unfortunate brain with it's clashing phrases time and time again. But Baby Bug loved it.  All other books were pushed to the side for this new love, I was left to pout over the unfortunate circumstances that were preventing me from upgrading our library of real picture board books beyond two.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;But this morning  she remembered her love of the Snuggle Puppy book and we read it 3 times in a row. Alright we &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;sang&lt;/span&gt; it because it's really a song. But it so made my day.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Baby Bug tries to sing now, if I'm snuggling &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;alright, rocking I admit it&lt;/span&gt; her before bed singing lullabies she tries to hum the tune, it's adorable. Today she kept starting me off on another line of Snuggle Puppy by humming &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;hummmnnn. &lt;/span&gt; Way to melt my heart kid. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Also: why has no one told me the awesomeness of the extra cheesy goldfish crackers?? They are a million times yummier then the plain regular cheese fish.  I need to stop eating them. Seriously. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-8335458861349491418?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/8335458861349491418/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=8335458861349491418' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/8335458861349491418'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/8335458861349491418'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2009/01/oh-snuggle-puppy-youre-so-fine.html' title='Oh snuggle puppy you&apos;re so fine!'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-3435873604827850394</id><published>2008-12-22T21:41:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-22T21:53:24.741-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Holy Vocabulary Batman!</title><content type='html'>Baby Bug has suddenly started to astound us with her incredible store of vocabulary. Just in the last three days we have heard many new words, and now she is spouting &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;sentences. &lt;/span&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;She has a great appreciation for the written word, even though she does not always manage to sit through a whole book anymore. Baby Bug busted out the cutest toddling over with book in hand move the other day and topped it off by holding it out to me and proclaiming &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;'read ish' &lt;/span&gt;So I course I obliged; how could I not?? The next day she repeated this feat, only saying &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;'read.. book' &lt;/span&gt;while handing me the book. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Such a devoted lover of books her Mama is, it didn't take her long to figure out that I will &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;immediately &lt;/span&gt;stop whatever it is I'm doing to read to her if she brings me a book, so throughout the day I am now approched by my little wobbler holding  a book, sometimes silently and other times saying '&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Ree?'  &lt;/span&gt;I guess the 'd' is optional at this point. Passe as it were.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Yesterday while playing with Hermes with her fairy wand she snarled (as well as a 1 year old can snarl) '&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;Bad Kiddy!' &lt;/span&gt;I doubt I need to say that we all died laughing to that gem. In that same day she also said for the first time, Aunty and Cookie. Cookie came out more like Ct.. tee But whatever that was a good attempt for a tricky word.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;And today to send me up into the air with proud Mama happiness when I walked in the door from stepping outside she left my Dad and trotted towards me, held her pretzel stick up high and said '&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;I got Num!' &lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/span&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Dude, my just turned 1 year old just said a &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;three word sentence &lt;/span&gt;holy crap. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Yes yes, num isn't really a word, but its what she/we call food stuff, so to her it is the name of food that isnt a cookie or cookie shaped thing. (we also call rice rusk wafers cookies)&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Go Baby Bug! Mama is so so proud of you.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-3435873604827850394?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/3435873604827850394/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=3435873604827850394' title='2 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/3435873604827850394'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/3435873604827850394'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2008/12/holy-vocabulary-batman.html' title='Holy Vocabulary Batman!'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>2</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-1725493973912789356</id><published>2008-12-16T00:50:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-16T00:58:53.547-08:00</updated><title type='text'>How the Hell is it Tuesday morning?</title><content type='html'>Or is that Monday night still?&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Anyway, today was my second serious installment of tackling the basement.  It went about as badly as last time. Baby Bug is still really stressed with the Mama flitting around the big scary basement &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;moving things&lt;/span&gt;. Sometimes going so far as to dare to &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;vanish&lt;/span&gt; out of Baby Bug's sight! And crying ensues. With heart-wrenching &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;crocodile &lt;/span&gt;tears for superior effect.  &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;But despite carrying Baby Bug around with me, setting her down and listening to her bawl like the basement floor is &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;made of lava&lt;/span&gt; I managed to accomplish a lot. The main room is now almost completely done. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Yay. Applause. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;But why does BabyBug get so stressed? This cannot be a normal behavior for a child to have.  She's worse then my cats when I move a piece of furniture in the &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"&gt;omg woman you moved something this is catastrophic!!!&lt;/span&gt; way. Eeeesh. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-1725493973912789356?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/1725493973912789356/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=1725493973912789356' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/1725493973912789356'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/1725493973912789356'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2008/12/how-hell-is-it-tuesday-morning.html' title='How the Hell is it Tuesday morning?'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-9005624336364827844</id><published>2008-12-11T19:14:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T19:20:45.273-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Woa</title><content type='html'>Dear Baby Bug,&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;In exactly one week you will be 1 year old. Already you are more child then baby. You walk, and have many words, astounding us with new ones every week. Two days ago you yelled 'DOWN' at Hermes because you think he doesn't belong on my chair. You give your cousin, who is heavier and the same height as you toys now. You often steal them back a few minutes later, but at least you *sort of* share. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;You have one tooth, it is a lone top tooth and it's adorable. The bottom two are busting through the gums now and then you'll have 3. I've never heard of this combination of tooth arrival before, but I'm not surprised that you would have to be a little different even with that.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;You are beautiful and amazing and I often feel like I don't deserve you.  You make my heart melt with sweet sighs and snuggles even after we've both had a day and have been very frustrated with one another.  I am lucky to have you Baby Bug. We both are.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-9005624336364827844?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/9005624336364827844/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=9005624336364827844' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/9005624336364827844'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/9005624336364827844'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2008/12/woa.html' title='Woa'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-7255017803464713681</id><published>2008-11-12T01:07:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2008-12-11T19:23:10.480-08:00</updated><title type='text'>Laughing</title><content type='html'>Ever since we moved into the house (2 months ago in 3 days!) we've been eating dinner at the table, and if  Baby Bug is still awake when she eat, she sits with us. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Tonight Baby Bug wouldn't go to bed because her teeth were bothering her, so I caved rather then fight and let her stay up late. Well she was feeling very happy and victorious in her 1o month old way about her success at escaping bedtime as she hung out in her highchair.  She has this thing she's been doing for a month or two now where she hisses her breath in and out through her nose while wrinkling her nose and making faces.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Kid has MASTERED this trick let me tell ya.  She has got the evil eyes going with the eyebrows wavering and gets the best impish gleam in her eye as she hisses in and out staring you dead in the eye. She sat in that chair looking between Daddy Bug and I as she did this, getting sillier and sillier until we are both laughing,  and I made eye contact with her and boom, my little baby cracked up with mirth as she started laughing because she had made us laugh. She started to look back and forth between us and we all laughed harder and harder enjoying our little families first inside joke. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;God it was the best. That was such a fun amazing moment. My little girl is big enough to enjoy a joke. Crazy. Who said she could be 11 months old in a few days!???&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-7255017803464713681?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/7255017803464713681/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=7255017803464713681' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/7255017803464713681'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/7255017803464713681'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2008/11/laughing.html' title='Laughing'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-6397009629497601527</id><published>2008-10-24T22:24:00.001-07:00</published><updated>2008-10-24T22:36:23.449-07:00</updated><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='halloween'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='babybug'/><category scheme='http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#' term='pumpkins'/><title type='text'>Random Halloween thoughts..</title><content type='html'>Halloween is approaching and even though it is probably my favorite holiday, not a single decoration has been placed, I havn't even found my cute little black cat/pumpkin candle holder because it's buried in the disaster that is our basement. &lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Buying a house is expensive. Buying a house while in the midst of attempting to show off even a little bit of canada to my australian friend who happened to be staying with us at the same time is really hard on the cashflow.  So even though I couldnt resist buying BabyBug a halloween costume (because a 10 month old really needs one!) I've been waiting for the next payday to go and get some halloween decor. I need at least a cute scarecrow, or a ghost.. anything.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;But oh how I miss the nights of running through the streets of my town in costume begging for candy. I especially miss the year or two I did the not so nice halloween activities in the even later night. This year I get to dress up BabyBug as a Ladybug and hit up friends and family for loot she won't get to eat, and then return home to hand out candy to a new generation of little monsters and divas.  Seeing the costumes is fun, the glee and excitement on their faces is contagious, I'm not looking forward to my really annoying doorbell ringing continuously but its still worth it.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;oh and bonus; the only person I'll have to share my roasted pumpkin seeds with after carving the pumpkins is TheMan so that will be excellent!&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-6397009629497601527?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/6397009629497601527/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=6397009629497601527' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/6397009629497601527'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/6397009629497601527'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2008/10/random-halloween-thoughts.html' title='Random Halloween thoughts..'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-8567017524232327219</id><published>2008-09-24T22:35:00.000-07:00</published><updated>2008-09-24T22:42:28.980-07:00</updated><title type='text'>Wow..</title><content type='html'>So.. It's been 9 months since my last post.&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Just a little bit of a slacker. I've been so busy doing the new Mom thing, and reading other peoples blogs as well as being a facebook-a-holic that I pretty much forgot about creating this here blog. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;Oops.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;So life is good, labor/delivery went really well. As well as having &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;that &lt;/span&gt;happen to your downstairs can ever go I guess. My daughter is awsome, I can't believe that a year ago I got pregnant.. insane.&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;&lt;div&gt;My little girl just figured out how to do a sort of army crawl yesterday, we had pretty much given up on the idea of her ever crawling and figured she'd be one of those kids that just yaknow.. walked because she forces us to go for little walkies as much as she can. Which is a lot.  But her unfullfilled desires to be able to go where she wanted when she wanted without holding onto our fingers has led her to discover self propulsion, of a sort. Must babyproof soon. On the plus side we just moved into the house that we bought &lt;span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"&gt;omg i can't believe we got a new vehicle, house and a baby all in the same year &lt;/span&gt;so there is very little upstairs for her to get into. Just need to deal with the stairs. Well, that and put away all of our shit. But she moves at the speed of a wobbly carpet slobbering ant right now, so it isnt too pressing. &lt;/div&gt;&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-8567017524232327219?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/8567017524232327219/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=8567017524232327219' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/8567017524232327219'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/8567017524232327219'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2008/09/wow.html' title='Wow..'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8222547286340626702.post-4484686665758244942</id><published>2007-12-10T00:04:00.000-08:00</published><updated>2007-12-10T00:24:11.604-08:00</updated><title type='text'>I surely need a title for this</title><content type='html'>... but I can't really come up with anything pivitol to underline. First posts are never particularly interesting. Meh.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I used to be a big blogger fan, way back before google invaded, reorganized and took over. I found blogging to be especially therapeutic, wether or not anyone ever READ it didn't matter nearly as much as the writing of it. Oh sure I love the idea of notoriety and admit I have a sly little bit of angsty teenager in my head still that wants to be loved/ worshipped. Oh and bowed to. Yes indeed some groveling would be splendid.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Unlikely to the extreme, but a girl can dream.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I'm mostly kidding.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;Ah well...&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;I am the twenty something, in a live in relationship with a great guy chick who is 9months preggo with first baby, and I surely know that my days are sleeping in till noon are numbered (and so am enjoying them so very much at the moment) but thats okay, because hey hardly anyone dies of sleep deprivation.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt;So here I am testing out this much fancier version of blogger again, because I think thats its possible that in the maelstrom my life is about to become that blogging may give me the grounding I'll need in a world of diapers and gurgles. And dealing with jealous kitties, because they've been the babies of my life for &lt;em&gt;years.&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;&lt;em&gt;&lt;/em&gt;&lt;br /&gt;until next time then.&lt;div class="blogger-post-footer"&gt;&lt;img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8222547286340626702-4484686665758244942?l=nocliche.blogspot.com' alt='' /&gt;&lt;/div&gt;</content><link rel='replies' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/feeds/4484686665758244942/comments/default' title='Post Comments'/><link rel='replies' type='text/html' href='http://www.blogger.com/comment.g?blogID=8222547286340626702&amp;postID=4484686665758244942' title='0 Comments'/><link rel='edit' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/4484686665758244942'/><link rel='self' type='application/atom+xml' href='http://www.blogger.com/feeds/8222547286340626702/posts/default/4484686665758244942'/><link rel='alternate' type='text/html' href='http://nocliche.blogspot.com/2007/12/i-surely-need-title-for-this.html' title='I surely need a title for this'/><author><name>C.G</name><uri>http://www.blogger.com/profile/14499248262840628889</uri><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image rel='http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail' width='16' height='16' src='http://img2.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif'/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>
