Friday, November 28, 2008

Here's something weird...

Okay, maybe not weird but it's something I do everyday that could be considered odd.

Everytime I wear my mp3 I sing along. Not in my head but out loud. When I'm alone it's loud enough for me to hear through my noise cancelling earbuds. When I'm on the bus, say, I just move my lips. But I always sing along. And when I say "alone" I mean the times when I just can't see anyone else around. Like walking in the street. I can't tell you how many times someone has come up behind me either walking fast or on a bike and I've been caterwauling away to High School Musical 3 or Dr. Horrible. Usually when I'm in a busy place and just doing the moving lips thing, I'll turn my head so most people can't see but if one or 2 see, it still won't stop me. I absolutely cannot not do this.

Please tell me I'm not alone my bizarreness.


Thursday, November 27, 2008

I'm not a adult. Don't believe me? Just check out my mugs.

I got married on a cool rainy day in May, 16 years ago. Fun day but there are lots of things I regret. Like choosing May instead of August. Brrrr. Like not having an official photographer. Or dj. But mostly I wish I had a wedding registry. The gifts I got were lovely, don't get me wrong. Picture frames, facecloths, serving platters, the ever popular cash... But I didn't get (and still don't have) a set of dishes that didn't come out of a box from either Walmart or Zellers.

I'd love to have a china pattern that I chose myself. Something that I could unashamedly use for company. When Scott's mum died we got some of her china. It's pretty but I didn't choose it and it's incomplete and some pieces are chipped. And no mugs. Or teacups for that matter. I'd love it if when my friends come over for tea we could both use the same style of mug. Or even grown-uppier, teacups. Yes, I said "grown-uppier". Feel free to use it. Just mention where you heard it first.

What I have now is:

-3 dollar store mugs with snowmen on them (horrible to use in June),
-a politician ad mug,
-a Canadian tourist mug,
-1 plain mug,
-2 customised mugs from one of those kioks (from my brother),
-1 mug with horses on it,
-1 with a ladybug on it,
-a little blue polka dotted mug,
-a giant soup mug,
-a mug I won in a trivia contest with a radio dj (I crushed Rush!),
-a "World's Best Dad" mug,
-a Chicken Farmers of Canada mug,
-a mug that Audrey painted creatively.

I count 16 mismatched mugs. I don't know. I think it's time to grow up. So where does one shop for new classy mugs? And what do I do with the old ones?


Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Ringtone follies

So I was on the bus a couple of weeks ago and my phone rang. An ordinary occurrence on a crowded bus but it was one of the most embarrassing moments of my life. And I rarely get embarrassed. Why was it the case this time? Because I couldn't find my cell in the gaping black hole I call a purse and it was loudly, publicly and persistently proclaiming my love for High School Musical. It was vibrating and humiliatingly blaring "Together" from the first movie. Ugh.

I got home that night and scoured the internet for a cooler ringtone. One that shows how amazing I am. One that shows my individuality, my love of life, my youthful vigour, my flair for fun and fashion and my enjoyment of all things pop culture.

So what did I choose? What is the ringtone that embodies everything that is Karen? What sound is me?

I chose the sound of a medical tricorder from Star Trek. I know, I'm a complete and utter dork. Just don't call me between 9am and 3pm, 'kay?

PS: Live long and prosper.

Tuesday, November 25, 2008

Audrey? A what? A woman? Not on my watch.

What a terrifying day that was. A while ago I was doing Audrey's laundry and came across some questionable undies. Suffice it to say they looked, ummm icky. I stared at them for what seemed to be a full minute, my mind completely blank. Then it started racing. "AUDREY!", I screamed, trying (and not succeeding, I'm sure) to keep the hysteria out of my voice.

"What's this?... Sweetie?" I ask when she finally arrives. See how I tried to deflect my panicked tone by adding the term of endearment?
"What? The chocolate? Sorry mummy. I know you told me not to wipe my hands on my clothes."

It was then that I noticed the streak was not red but brown, and on the outside of her underpants. Remind me to get her to wear trousers when lounging around the house.

Anyway, the panic attack I had prompted another mother/daughter talk. We discussed what to do when her period finally comes. That she should come to me and we'd discuss the options. We talked about her being a woman when the big day happens and we'd go out for a "spa day" just us girls. We'd go out to eat and maybe even buy a piece of jewellry that she'd always keep to remind her of this very special day. That was what was going on on the outside.

This was what was going on on the inside:

"No no no NONONONONONONONONO!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Not my baby! Not now, not EVER! She's just a baby girl! An infant! You can't take her! NO! I will not discuss tampons v pads with a baby!! I will not explain that she can get pregnant now! I won't tell her it's a beautiful, grownup and natural event. I don't wanna!! I will to go to bed and stay there forever! Don't tempt me! I will take the day off work. To cry and cry and cry! Maybe a little bit of rocking! And some fetal crouching for variety! SO THERE!!!!!!!!!"

But I kept that rattling, railing kook at bay and spoke calmly and rationally to my soon-to-be-a-woman baby girl, just like any completely sane, competent mother would.

What's going to happen when she finally, actually gets her period? Stay tuned. Right now I've got a chocolate stain to get out.


Monday, November 24, 2008


I learned something new this weekend and that's what FOOSH stands for. Fall On OutStretched Hand. Yup, after over 12 years of being a mother, I finally know about FOOSH firsthand (no pun intended). Henry broke his arm.

He did it at hockey and thankfully I wasn't there. I'd have been both useless and screamy. Maybe a little nauseous. Scott and Henry spent the best part of Saturday at the children's hospital watching Shrek. Ten hours in emergency is pretty good, actually. Say what you want about the Canadian health system but all this was free. Everything but his prescription which is half paid for by Scott's insurance.

Anyway, he's got a cast from above the elbow to his hand. He's taking it pretty well except for learning he couldn't go swimming with his class Monday. I keep asking and he keeps telling me he's fine. Now onto the practical things like peeing. Looks like he's going to have to wear track pants for a while. Yay! I can get a shopping trip over this. See? In the end, everything is about me.

PS: What did I end up writing on his cast you ask?

"Hockey Lessons: $600
Hockey Equipment: $300
A broken arm to show your friends: Priceless
Love, Mummy"

Friday, November 21, 2008

Ever wonder why this blog is called Kaye Way?

Well, as you all know I'm pretty self involved. You may not have noticed since I hide it pretty well. Anyhoo, as part of that particular character flaw, I like things around me that have my name and or initials on it. My own body included: all of my 4 tattoos have something to do with me personally.

My blog on Myspace was called Karenworld. Because it's my world and you all live in it. When I moved here to Blogger, I didn't want to bring over the name so I wracked my tiny brain trying to come up with something clever. I thought of my last name and it came to me. Remember those cheesy old jackets from the 80's? Everyone had a K-Way. Mine was red. So I thought I'd be slick, change the name around and voila! The Kaye Way was born. Please enjoy your stay. And remember to keep you hands and feet inside the vehicle.


Thursday, November 20, 2008

Bus apartheid

Okay, it's not as bad as all that but I have to find a way to get these blogs read, don't I?

So yesterday on the bus I was checking out the posted ads. Riding the bus can be a humbling experience as evinced by my recent (and only ever) panic attack. Getting a seat helps as does reading the ads. It's interesting to see the adverts on the inside of the bus versus the outside where people can see them from their nice, comfy, roomy, odour free cars. See, people taking the bus aren't environmental warriors trying to save the world one carbon offset kilometre at a time or cheapies who can't afford to gas up their Hummers. Nope. Bus riders are stupid, broke, suicidal, non-English speaking, fat, pregnant people who are being abused by their spouses. Don't believe me? Check out the ads inside the bus:

Career counselling
New Canadian English/French classes
A student fee protest
Educational upgrade
Weight-loss clinic
Health care clinic
An out-of-town university
A local college
An abuse/pregnancy/teen suicide hotline

Because I was riding the bus I couldn't see my own bus' outside ads but the ads outside of others we passed today were for:

Radio stations (one even claimed something good is playing right now!)
National Arts Centre shows (they house our local symphony and any operas that happen to be kicking around)
Political messages
Fur coats (!)

This tells me that drivers (and to a lesser extent, I guess pedestrians) are smart, worldly, a little snobby and rich. Very, very, fur-wearingly, rich.

Huh. You know, being on both sides of the public transportation fence, that's pretty close to the truth. And just for the record, I'm driving to work later.


Wednesday, November 19, 2008

20 years with the same guy? Is that good or bad?

Just this past September Scott and I celebrated 20 years together. We got married in 1993 but we met in 1988 when I was 21 and he was 26. What's the secret to our longevity? What makes us last so long?

I dunno. Ummm... a mutual love of talk radio? Nah, I hate talk radio.

Seriously, I couldn't put my finger on it if I tried. I love the guy and he loves me and I trust that. We laugh. A lot. And I call him names. "Dork" is my particular fave. Beyond that, luck has a scary amount to do with it. It's horrifying, really.

So there you are boys and girls. The secret of one happy couple's long life together. Love, laughing and lotsa luck. Yeah, have fun re-creating that.


Tuesday, November 18, 2008

Six things you don't know about me

Well, here I am, flummoxed at trying to complete this task. I've been keeping a blog since 2006 and I'm a bad bad liar. If I tell a lie on here I can't keep it straight indefinitely and I get called out. The long and the short of it is I tell the truth. Which means you know all know everything about me. You can't have a conversation, however one-sided, for two years and not spill everything about yourself. But I'll try to come clean with 6 things you don't know about me:

1) I'm not the neatest person but I can't start work unless my station is completely tidy. Other people sit in my place when I'm not there and mess it up so it can take up to half an hour to get it the way I like it.

2) I physically cannot leave the house wearing jeans and a jean jacket. I own both but you'll sooner catch me wearing socks and sandals. And speaking of clothing, can I digress for a second? How does one wear a padded vest? If it's cold outside I wear a jacket. If it's not I don't. My arms get colder than my body. So what's up with the vest? Now if they invent down sleeves....

3) I like sardines right out of the can and anchovies on my pizza.

4) I have no patience for people who don't watch tv. I immediately find them unfun. Yes, that's a word. I used it so it's a word. Take that Webster.

5) I've had a breast reduction but I wish my boobs were even smaller. FF to D but I wish they were Cs.

6) My dream is to live alone. The only way to achieve that is to eliminate everyone I love. Sigh.


Monday, November 17, 2008

Skin tags? Well, this is an all new kind of nasty.

Well it looks like I've crossed over. Into the where-did-this-strand-of-hair-come-from? world of ickyness.

I found 2 skin tags on my right shoulder. They're not big (only about the size of a pinpoint) and you wouldn't see them unless I pointed them out. But I know they're there. I can feel them. My mother had tons of them all over her upper body. Hers were bigger than mine (pinhead sized) but not huge but they were all kinds of gross. Soggy, flabby, weird little blobs of skin. So is this it for me? Am I going to be the crazy old skin tag lady? At least they're not on my face like some of the ones I saw when I googled "skin tags". Brrrr.

And the home remedies are so appetising. Let's see... I can yank them off, freeze them off or tie a thread around them and suffocate them until they fall off. Sounds like three medieval ways the British government got you to pay your taxes. I'm virtually rubbing my hands together trying to choose. At least they're way too small right now to make a decision. Maybe by the time they grow there'll be some kind of Compound W type stuff I can dab on it. Please?


Friday, November 14, 2008

When she sits around the house, she site *around* the house...

I'm overweight. In fact, I'm just shy of obese. Don't believe me? Go here and punch in these numbers (height 5'3, weight 165). I'll wait....... See?

Now I know that I could stand to lose a few pounds. I'm not disputing that. But obese? Please. I wear size 10 pants. I can still shop at "normal" stores and not have to go to the plus places. Yet. But that's neither here nor there.

I heard that insurance companies may soon start to use these things to see if you qualify. Yikes!

What if they just use that chart? What if they don't hear about the triathlon you did and came in 12th place? Or the dragonboat competitions where you won 2 medals? Or that marathon you did? Or something. So unfair. And frankly, terrifying.


Thursday, November 13, 2008

Sometimes I have nothing to say

Actually it's more like I have nothing to write and yes, I know you are absolutely flummoxed by that statement but it's true.

In the past I have reprinted recipes I love, used old exerpts from my 1989 diary (horror show)or just yammered on (and on) about how I have nothing to say. Excruciating.

Well, now I have a saviour. It's called "One Minute Writer". How cool is this? There's a timer on her page, she gives you a topic and you write what you can about the subject for a solid minute. I love this. What I love most is the idea that I just get to trail off mid-sentence when I'm done. Well, I probably won't do that but you get the idea. Okay maybe I will do it. You know, just once for comedic effect.

So stay tuned for a bizarrely short blog that ends either abruptly or just trails off. It should be interesting. I wonder what kind of trouble I can get up to in a mere minute?


Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Is this wrong?

One of the many (many) things I like about Blogger is that I can add little fun things to customise my blog. My latest add is a comment thingie at the end of each blog with the choices "funny" "interesting" and "cool". I can change those at any time, too. Suggestions? Anyway, I've been waiting a couple of days for someone to use it (it's super easy... no windows open, it just registers the tick) then got impatient and decided to just go ahead and do it myself. So as you can see, I like all the posts on the front page. They're mostly funny and interesting. I'll have to work on cool. So, was that wrong?

I also like the fact that I'm writing this blog on the 10th November at about 4:40 but I can date the blog ahead in time and it'll post without me even logging on in the morning. You may have noticed that I post at around the same time almost every morning. That's because I cheat. Hee.

And while I have your attention, I have to mention that I moved my "followers" box. I called it "My Peeps". My entourage is up to 5 right now. I put it nice and high so that when you decide to become one of My Peeps, you'll see your lovely face right near mine. Provided you have a Blogger account with a photo, that is. Magic.

So now that I'm in love with Blogger, I ask that you indulge me. If you are reading this today, please scroll to the bottom of this post and show me some love. You don't have to comment (but that's super cool too so feel free) but just tick a damn box, willya? And become a Peep (sounds like a Gladys Knight backing band) while you're at it. You know you want to.

PS: To be fair, I should mention the only thing I don't like on here. I'd love to be able to keep track of how many people check out my insane ramblings every day. For instance I just checked out Myspace and I had 20 hits today (the 10th that is) and 45in all this week. Love that. Come on, Blogger, do that one. Don't be afraid to be perfect.

Monday, November 10, 2008


How much fun did we have? The six of us got along famously. We had Indian and Chinese food, shopped, drank an awful lot and even fit in a swim. We laughed and laughed. The only thing I'm disappointed about is that we didn't get to play cards. I so wanted to play Asshole. I haven't had enough adults in the same room to play in years and years.

But that was a small fly in the ointment of fun. We had such a ball. I'll definitely set it up again next year. The number of girls was perfect (we could all sleep in the same suite) so next time I'll send out the invites and the first 6 girls that pay are in for Mamapalooza 2009.

After this year I'm sure lots of mums will be clamouring to get on the bandwagon of fun. Funwagon? Who'd have thunk passing out sitting up bolt upright on a pullout couch would have been such a charge?


Friday, November 7, 2008

Why can't I earn money doing this stuff?

So the other night I'm watching Mad Men. Awesome show and part of its charm is that they play period music (late 50's/early 60's). At one point there was a jazzy 60's version of a song playing in the background of a scene. It was different than I'd ever heard it but I still knew what it was.

"Misirlou!" I shouted to no one in particular.

Scott was perplexed. Since we rarely watch tv together, he maybe thought I was having some sort of Turret's episode.

"It's the song. It's a loungier version that I amost didn't recognise but the song is called Misirlou. Isn't that neat to know?"

Scott just grunted in reply.

Why do I have this ability to only impress myself? Why can't I have the ability to cure the common cold or discover iPod earbuds that don't tangle up in your pocket?


Thursday, November 6, 2008

Just a quick one on Barack.

Nothing political, just something that's been irritating me. Barack has a black father and a white mother. Sort of the same as my kids with me as their mum and their dad who is White. We go to great pains to stress to our kids that they are neither Black nor White but "mixed". To say that they are one or the other is insulting to one parent. Of course they have Black and White backgrounds but they themselves are something else entirely, aren't they?

Yes, I'm aware that if someone has Black blood it's usually pretty obvious but minimising the other race just hurts. My kids are really fair and once when I was talking to Henry (actually, about Obama), he exclaimed holding out his arm "But I'm not Black!" as if it was a bad thing. Ouch. I tried to explain that he is both Black AND White but he didn't seem to get it.

So I know it's mostly me but if people could just remember that Barack is both races and maybe say that he has a Black background (and don't forget he's also White), that'd be great. Vent over.


Wednesday, November 5, 2008

Working mothers v. mothers who happen to work

Why must I try to fit my home life around work when all I want to do is fit work around my home life? "They" say it's easy out here for working mothers. I say HA!

Okay is this too much to ask for? Here's what I need in a job:

-It needs to be nearby. One bus (no transfers), under 15 minutes drive or a 30 minutes or less bike ride.

-I need to make double digits an hour. Here in Ottawa, minimum wage will be $10/hr in March. I absolutely will not work on comission only. I'd very much like to keep buying brand name cheese. I'd also like to not lose money everytime I drive or take public transit to work.

- It has to fit into my family. My children are away from the house from 9:00 to 3:00. Why oh why is it so difficult to find a job with these hours?! I need to be able to make dinner and help with homework at the end of the day. And weekends are out. I'm a mother first, dammit.

- I'm going to keep it real for you folks. Frankly, I don't want a whole lot of responsibility. I don't want to take paperwork home, stress out about meetings or activities the next day or worry about sales projections or the cash register being short $27 from the previous day. I just want to do a simple job and get home to my family while it's still light out.

I love the job I have now. I really do. It meets almost all the above criteria except the pay thing. I'm irked that someone who'll get newly hired in March with be earning almost exactly what I do and I'd've been there over 2 years. I work well with others and do my job well. It's not a hard job, but it's got lots of fiddly little steps that screw up the whole store if not excecuted perfectly. It's not to say that I don't make mistakes (and here again comes the joy of the job) it's not an everyday thing and we can usually fix it. No problem.

Only lately the job has become far more stressful. There are now quotas we have to keep up and the higher ups are on our backs for production production production. It used to be a family operation but now it's turned into a business. Maybe it's time for me to move on.

Unfortunately the only thing I'm qualified to do is daycare. Which I'm really tired of but will do again only if pushed. Also unfortunately I'm not willing to go back to school to get qualified for something else. So here lies my quandry. I basically want tons of cash for doing nothing.

Is that so effing hard to accommodate?


Tuesday, November 4, 2008

Wanna know what I like to listen to?

Here's something I don't really want to admit. Thank you blog gods for not blessing me with any semblance of wit today.

I was juicing up my iPod when I noticed some previously ignored numbers beside the song titles. Some had none and some had as much as 5. Neat. What's it all mean? I found out as I scrolled to the top that the numbers are how many times a specific song has been played. Bob Marley? 6. Coldplay? 2. Abba? 0. Brand New Day from Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog? 76. Huh? Oh boy. My shame has come home to roost.

Seriously, it's all I play. In fact, I have it on repeat so it loops and plays over and over. In fact, between the Dr. H soundtrack and the HSM3 soundtrack (that I downloaded Friday) on a playlist I creatively call "Over and Over", I have only 27 songs I play on an mp3 that has a capacity of over 600 songs. Shameful. Wait. You know what? I'm not ashamed. I love what I love and that's that. I'm a 41 year old woman. I'm too old to waste time on shame.

So there you have it. My *ahem* pride on a plate.


Monday, November 3, 2008

DST is for the birds

The time change truly blows. It's not so much that we are moving the clocks back and forth twice a year as the fact that I have sixteen clocks in and around my house to mess with. Yes, I counted. It's not too bad in the spring when they go forward but in the fall when they go back it's a massive pain in the ass. Because all but 4 of my clocks are digital. Three of the analogue clocks are fine since they're cheapies but one is just as much a pain as the digitals since it's a grandmother thingie that chimes every half hour. You can't just mess with the hour hand since it messes up the bongs so I usually just stop the thing until the world arrives at the time it's just waiting for. That old Chinese proverb comes to mind that "even a broken clock is right twice a day".

Why are we still doing this anyway? I was under the impression that it started because of some farmers needing daylight to do their work. Last time I checked, farming methods are pretty modern so why are city dwellers and suburbanites having to mess up their lives spending time doing this stupid task? It's like the American constitution defending modern gun owners who just want to shoot the guy who cuts them off on traffic or pick off people with a semi at their dead end job when really the allowance for guns was put there so people could defend their jobs and livelihoods from bozos who would steal from them. So why are we still messing with time?

And not even the whole world does it. So why hang onto this irritating custom? I say let's follow the lead of Saskatchewan and just forget the whole thing.