The Theatre that I work at sometimes gets me to play hostess for the night, so the others can have a chance at making tips (just kidding!) Don' get me wrong, I like the job, I getty to wear high heels and dress up in my fancy pants, boss everyone around a little bit, (a tiny little bit), and so on and so on. But there's one thing that's always kinda bugged me. A thought that's just been burrowing away in the base of my spine, the very fringe of my grey matter. Lemme explain.
We have a coat check room beside the hostess station where the busser, (and sometimes a hostess or two) get to hang up all the coats/mitts/boots/hats/dead ferrets/etc/you get my point. And on the desk of the hostess station there's a little wicker basket that people throw their change into to tip/pay coat check. Now when it's very cold outside, which it's been for a week or two now, both hostesses help out with coat check, as customers tend to appear all at once, totally ruining our calm and collected appeal, and practically turning the front door area into a war zone. okay, that may be a bit of an overstatement, but it gets pretty hectic in there. Anyways, that little wicker basket comes into play at the end of the night, as, hopefully, many people have thrown many bits of change into it, and then it gets split up between the hostess and the busser.
This is where my quandries and thoughts start a-naggling at me. When I was in grade three, we had a school dance. I really don't remember anything about it other than I wore a black 3-tiered mini skirt with neon trim in pink green and orange, and that I won a dance contest with another boy in my class. The prize was a box of icy squares. I remember going to the stage to pick up the icy squares, going over to the bench with the boy, and divvying up the squares equally, because, gosh darn it, we had both worked very hard to win that competition.
How different is a couple of people dancing around a coat check room, working very hard for the prize, then going to the back room(it's where the paying public are prohibited. most of the time,) and sorting through the change til it's in two piles, and having that slightly proud feeling of accomplishment when you get a big tip out? So this is my problem. Every time I hostess, I get swept back into grade three.

Lists!!! Get your LISTS!!! Fresh made LISTSSS!!!!!

I like to make lists. And no, this is not the first time I've noticed it, just the first time I've acknowledged it. Lists are fun. I'm not sure when they became fun, but they might have been around the time when a) I became knocked up, b) I got baby-brain while I was knocked up(which is a technical term for losing your fuckin marbles), or c) after I had baby, I had to move, take care of baby, find baby-daddy a job, and research town I was soon to be living in (which happened to be chock full of baby-daddy-relatives).
see? lists can be fun!
anyways, while I was bat shit retardo-girl, my mother gave to me a beautiful grey plastic folder, you know the ones with 57 thousand different compartments in it? and she said, 'it may get hard, but when you've lost it all, at least you'll have this.'
Actually I don't really have a clue what she said to me when she gave me the folder, if she even did, as I was bat shit, like I mentioned before. R-E-T-A-R-D-O.
But as a result of that folder, given to me by who-knows, I grew a great fondness for coming up with lists, writing them just so, and putting them in that folder so they wouldn't get lost. Of course at the time I was too stupid to actually label the compartments on the thing, so it took half an hour to find anything in there, but I always had that folder with me, so I could never say anything was actually "lost."
since then I have an acute liking for making lists, which I usually lose about half an hour after making them, but the magic and fun is still there, so I won't rain on my own parade until the day I actually make a list that has vital importance and then lose it.

another fun preggo story is when I used baby-daddy's head as a target when he decided to take the first sip of a coke I had just poured. (hint- I used the almost-full glass of coke as the dart, it's just good that I have horrible aim) well, I won't go into that one right now. save it for another time when I'm feeling reminiscent.

The potty adventures.

I remember when I was potty-training my son how long it took him to go. A really long, long, time. I mean, really how hard is it? get in, get on, get out right? well, it took me about three weeks before I learned that that was what he was doing, he just had to stop in the mirror after, and tell himself he was sexy. This was also back in the time when he'd strip down in front of people and tell them he looked sexy and then dance. I try to block this from my memory, but lack the refinement to do so. I also remember when he took his first poop in a potty. he was impressed. I was grossed out. He wanted to take a picture (just like a little man!!!) I said no, and then he replied, 'But Mom! It's soo Big!! pleasseee?' I'm proud to say that I never gave in, though I did giggle and snort like a little she-pig. And that is the reason why whenever my son takes a crap, he will tell everyone how big it is. which is just Fan-Tast-tic.

attack of the Nine foot snot ball!

So every year that I take sonny-boy out to the trick or treating, there's always sickness afoot to follow us down those dimly lit streets of mask and marshmallow goodness. Usually it's the little one with the sniffles, where at least the right sleeve of whatever costume he happens to be wearing(or not). This year however, I have been blessed with the mass sniffles, the snargles, the loogies, lung butter, quantum nose explosions, whatever you want to call it. It's okay though. I was searching for my winter coats earlier this week, and I came across at least three twelve packs of mini-kleenex, so I apparently had a little pre-cog in the realm of this 'holiday' and decided maybe I should stock up on the nose fluff for future fun with the holidays. yay for me.
Or, as I should put it more accurately, agghhaayy for Bhee.
However, My mind seems to be working properly, at least for the time being, or maybe this is all a big snot induced dream and I'm going stark raving, but I have a story for you. well, more like a tutorial. It's called, How to Wear Face Paint. or more importantly, How to Look like a Tool While Wearing Face Paint.(even though you're not even in school yet.)
This is a tradition that's passed down from generation to generation, mostly through sibling to sibling, then sibling's child then child's sibling, and so on.
Now I have vague recollections of Aunty Awesome wearing Face Paint at some point in my young life , although I'm not sure it was for Halloween, (it was the 80's after all.) But obviously, I thought it looked super-cool, and one year, either my 4th or 5th (or my 3rd or 6th, can't remember, I know I was young, and It's therefore one of my first memories) and on a particularly chilly halloween I decided I wanted to be a witch. I'm sure I wasn't really particular about what kind of witch, but I was dressed as the Wicked Witch of the West, with a lovely costume one of my Kin/clan/brood had made for me, might have even been my mother, she was a whiz with the needle. (in the most respective way!. idiots.) My memory wants me to say that my aunt was there, and that we were getting ready in her apartment, so I will. Also, I believe that it may have been my aunt smearing me with the green paint, and therefore mebbe my theory of sibling-child-sibling contact has been debunked, Mebbe I'm confused, what ever, but all in all what I really, really remember, is the texture. Now if you've ever had your face painted before, you'll know the texture I'm talking about. you might even like it. Me, however, not so much. I gag at even the sight of unnkown snot, drool, unverified liquid, let alone having it rubbed into my face and letting it dry. Not to mention the chalky/acrylic smell of a Face Paint Stick.

side note: I wasnt' even sure they made the Face Paint Sticks any more, as all I've seen are those newfangled Crayons, or pots of paint. These Sticks are basically Tongue depressors that have been dipped in the nasty non-toxic goo that then gets dried Onto the stick and packaged in a variety of Five colours for your convenience.also, the only picture I could find without actually searching was a link to a link, so whatever you do, don't press close window, cuz you'll lose the story. if you pressed it already and the window closed on you, you're a tard. just sayin. kay. back to the story.

So Here I am, in my Black dress-over-snowsuit and my cape, hat and broom, and My aunt is getting up close and personal with my face and this Glow in the dark green paint stick, and all I can do is sit quiet and not complain, because I'm sure at the time there was no reason. Now let me ask something else. Has anyone tried to give themselves a home facial? you know the Face mask that's supposed to peel off that top layer of skin and all that icky dirt in your pores? That gel-ley one that you're supposed to leave on for ten to fifteen so it can dry and then you peel off and feel refreshed? remember that feeling. That's what the paint stick feels like once it has dried. For all those that have never had a home facial before, sneeze in the crook of your elbow, let the snot dry, then try moving your arm. That's what it feels like. bleagh.
I spent quite a while outside covered from hairline to chin in that stuff, completely oblivious to the fact that it wasn't coming off very easy, not even when my face was getting sweaty from all the running and the high from the sugar-adrenaline mix. after that night, I vowed I would never, ever, EVER cover my face in that stuff again. Then I realized I was only five or six, and so probably promptly forgot about it and went back to arguing with my dad over the nibs/licorice. I remember, a few years later, My sister wanting to be a devil for hallow's eve (myself having moved on to gypsies and fairies, smart choice), and she was bedecked out in the hidious stuff, in the colour of red. I also remember her face after about half an hour and thinking, gee they don't make that stuff like they used to, as her face had either disintigrated, or bled onto her mitts and coat collar. Now, this year, My sonny-boy is going as Scooby-doo, something he is very adamant about, and I'm contemplating passing on the curse to him, but I just can't find a paint stick in even a close colour to the baby-shit-orange his costume is. Somehow I don't even think I'll be able to take him outside after I paint him. I'll be too busy rolling around on the floor, peeing my self with tears in my eyes.

Of Sweat and Snot, Of Balls and Tots

Kay, so I'm running on about 5 hours sleep, and about 9 pots worth of coffee, so if the following thingy doesn't make a whole lot-a sense, then.. whatever. I don't really care. I just feel the need to express to all of the 40+ gentlemen out there, and even some of the women, that it is NOT OKAY to have mass amounts of spare change in your pockets when wearing sweatpants. you probably shouldn't be wearing sweatpants out in public anyways, but especially not with 10 bucks in change. Small, small change. This leads to the question of why you were wearing sweatpants in public, as most people who do are, well, exercising and sweating, or just a tad to big for any other material, and therefore, probably sweating also. This leads me into the knowledge that all of that big hunk of change vicariously swinging around your nether regions has probably also been co-mingling with the inevitable sweat of your said regions ( See: why people wear sweats in public), and saying that, I have just one question for those who apply to the previous. WHY DO YOU INSIST ON PAYING FOR SOMETHING ENTIRELY IN SWEATY BALL/GUNT CHANGE!???!?!?!??? eww. This is why every store should buy stock in Purell. or any kind of sanitizing agent. I seriously do not want to be touching coins covered in unknown/unverified liquids and/or moisture and heat of some kind. makes me kinda barfy. Maybe that would stop the sweaty change-exchange. If you hand me your taint-ed coins(get it? taint-ed? heh? heh? ahh.. nevermind) and I barf on your purchase(no refunds, sorry) that'll teach you a lesson. or maybe I'll just lose business. damn. no way to win.

Coming back to why I'm on minimal sleep/maximum caffiene exposure, I have one very sick little boy.This weekend was long, tiresome and snot filled due to my kid contracting some kind of throat icky. I tell ya, even though it may be cute when your little one sounds like a mixture of Big Gay Al and Miss Piggy when talking, throat infections are not fun. Sure the 'banana' medicine is awesome! I mean who hasn't actually looked forward to that tasty concoction when diagnosed with some ear/nose/throat malady? I certainly haven't. But even with the mass advancements in making all our drugs taste like candy, no one has entirely figured out how to make acetominaphin (spelling? bah. who cares, you get the gist.) not taste like ass. First they had grape and orange (Tylenol people. still have nightmares about it myself) , then cherry and bubblegum(even in the no name brand!), even mint(didn't last long as the menthol came off on your hands and subsequently went into your eyes. stingy.), and now a 'fruit medley' and 'citrus squeeze' or something like that. And My son Still Runs screaming from the room with his hands over his mouth while blubbering and choking on his own snot any time I mention the 'chewy pills'. They made Chlortriplon taste all right, why can't they perfect this? gawd, even my Allergy pills have a candy coating, and they came out with those Halls dissolvable sheets, like the listerine thingys. silly pill makers! get it right! for all the parents of sick kids! do it for us! pleeeaaaassssseeeeee!!!!
that's it. for now.