Le Chat, Redux

I believe that you may be retarded.

Yes, I am aware that I am a bit of a literal pussy when it comes to being brushed. In fact, I recall some lovely deep scratches that I left as I clawed my way up and over your back a few weeks back. You did deserve it bitch, admit it.

So, lets recreate this fuck fest, shall we? There I was - My full winter coat in all of it's glory. My occasional hairball pukes found about the house were my gifts to you. I had decided to spray my love juice on your couches and to remind the male of the house who really ran things around here by pissing directly on his white dress shirt. You know - just to shake him up a bit.

Because honestly, bitch - you know I am not going anywhere. He might get all irate and storm around at nine o clock at night, running out to the local grocery store to rent a loud ass upholstery cleaner and insist that you help with the full fledged cleaning of all couch and chairs in the house - but he isn't getting rid of me. Why? Cause I cuddled up to the spawn, stupid. Did you see how I ran into her room and jumped up in her bed, looking all "Who, me?" when he found the piss?


I do not find you amusing. I should have known when you were all "Who is a good girl? WHO is a GOOD girl?" that morning. Aside from sounding like you left part of your brain in a jar somewhere, this phrase generally bode no good for me. The last time you pulled that shit, I got plunged into the bathtub. Are the scars still there from that little blood letting? Good.

But this time, you and the loud spastic child put me into the car and drove me to the "groomers". I use that term loosely cause we both know she is as much of a stupid whore as you. I heard you, by the way. You wanted to shave me entirely again. I know that you think it is funny. You know what I think is funny? The shit I plan on taking in your little collection of Matt and Nat purses in your closet.


After the Nazi you call a groomer got done yelling at you for letting my coat get into this state AGAIN, you LEFT. Did you enjoy the cup of coffee you went to get? Didja? Good - cause I want you to ENJOY yourself. I want you to be lulled into a sense that I am perfectly happy looking like this AGAIN.


Keep smiling at me. Go ahead. Know you what might be HYSTERICAL? My pissing on that silver box you are constantly tapping on. Bye Bye Dissertation work. Bye Bye all professional and academic writing. Now who's a good girl?

Yeah. I'm a good girl, you stupid bitch. And forget about those stupid fucking sweaters. I mean it.

Enrage your mother - a how to

1. Take one nine-almost-ten-year-old-girl-who-thinks-she-is-22.

2. Take one 37 year old mother with Severe PMS.

3. Take one cell phone purchased for daughter at Christmas by overly indulgent father.

Mix together on a Sunday morning when the girl attempts to wake the mother at 8 a.m. to request a hot breakfast.

Have mother rebuff daughters attempts at hot breakfast. Daughter will then go into the other room ( where her Daddy sleeps since the girl must still sleep with her mother) to wake father who does get up and get her a hot homemade breakfast.

Mother Gets up. Gets Coffee. Demands to be left alone to watch the political shows in same bed with father. Daughter dances about the room, continually peeking in to say "hi" or "did you call me?".

At 11:30 a.m., have daughter dissolve into hysterical tears. The reason? Mother sent daughter back into bathroom to brush her teeth again due to the large crust of visible plaque on her top row of chompers. Daughter sent to room after she slams the bathroom door.

PMS mother is not to be trifled with today.

Daughter goes to room where she stares at mother from under her blanket cave. (please note: This works best when daughter flips out if door is closed to her room EVER - leading to more screaming and crying.) Daughter briefly naps, maintaining disgusted angry face throughout 20 minute nap.

Father exits house to go smoke cigars with his friend.

Daughters comes into Mothers room and begins her homework. Mother attempts to explain directions to homework. Daughter ignores her mother, and does the homework in the way she wants to do it leading to completely messed up homework which she has now glued - wrongly - to the paper. Mother attempts to explain again, and offers suggestions as to how she can repair this math lesson.

Daughter ignores mother completely and begins to rip the paper, crying, yelling that she is stupid.

Mother attempts with the last little ounce of calmness and humanity left in her body to warn the daughter to stop this. This is not helping anyone.

Daughter continues fit.

Mother considers spanking child. DEEPLY considers this. Can feel, in fact, the satisfying thwack of hand on ass in her minds eye. Instead - tells daughter to go to room immediately.

Daughter storms out. Muttering behind her. Mother yells "AND SHUT YOUR DOOR!"

Momentary silence.

Mother is breathing. Calming herself down.

Bedroom door of child flies open. Child comes storming back into Mothers room.

"Daddy wants to talk to you....", she says as she thrusts HER cell phone at her mother.

Have mothers rage factor go through the ROOF. Snatch cell phone from daughters hand and say in deadly calm voice ....... "Yes."

Hear father's voice say timidly, "Are you OK?" He has heard the tone in mothers voice. He is familiar with this tone and it bodes no good.

"Did your daughter just phone you to tell you I had sent her to her room?"

Those of you familiar with the sound of Enrageous Mothercana will know that this is the sound she makes before she delivers the death blow. It is quiet and controlled. It is a deceptively calm voice, designed to lull her victims into a false sense of victory.

"Did your daughter just attempt to "tattle" on me for disciplining her?"

The father is quiet. "Yes...."

"And what exactly did she expect you to do Terrance? Over rule me? Because clearly she has lost her mind. I don't know who she thinks SHE is, but I will not have a child of mine deciding that she doesn't need to listen to me and can call you to fix it for her. WE are not those kinds of parents, Terrance. I will not have this...."

"I know, honey. I just wanted to make sure you were OK - do you need me to come home now? Are you angry with me? Are we OK? Should I bring dinner home?"

The daughter has been skulking next to the door way. She has heard her mother and has realized that she severely miscalculated her strategy.

"Yes - bring home dinner - no you don't have to come home yet and Yes WE are Ok. Tell your daughter that she needs to stay in her room until you come home, as I am through with speaking to her for the moment...."

The mother holds the phone out for the daughter who shuffles from the doorway.
"I'm sorry, Mama", she murmurs as she takes the cell phone.

"I'm sure you are.", replies the mother.

Tales from the Slumber Party

So a few weeks ago, I hosted the sleep over, right? The one with the little girl who took my kid to the Christian youth group and revealed the mysteries of Leper touching?

I failed to describe the side journey I took with Em and her friend. The one I needed after being in the grocery store with them for an hour, and withstanding double barreled pleading for all variety of chips, soda and various vaguely identifiable food stuffs. I also said this phrase to them:

"Please stop rubbing your butts on the refrigerator case."

We ALL know where I was headed after this little sojourn into hell, right?

Yessirreee. The Liquor store. Which in Montreal is conveniently located RIGHT NEXT DOOR to the grocery store. I am living among a people who enjoy their booze.

We get the groceries into the car and I announce they are coming with me into the liquor store. If I could have left them in the car, I would - but it is very cold here and it is generally frowned upon to abandon two children into an unheated car while their designated adult browses the wine aisle. I suppose the other option would have been to put two spastic nine year olds in the car with the ignition running, but that seems equally unsavory.

After stern warnings NOT TO TOUCH ANYTHING, I usher the girls into the sanctity of the SAQ. Ah sweet, sweet SAQ. There are many lovely Shiraz's here, calling to me. What's that Italian table wine? Yes. I think you could also come home with me.

And Mme Baileys Irish Cream? I think I may enjoy you a bit later in the evening, when the bambinos are asleep, or at the very least locked in their bedroom.

I get to the register. I smile weakly at the cashier.

Emily and her friend run over to the ledge, where they proceed to stuff their pockets with every wine and liquor related pamphlet they can find. I continue to smile weakly at the cashier. He is looking at the whirlwinds of petty thievery I have brought into the temple.

"Slumber party", I offer as explanation.

"With a trip to the liquor store?", he replies.

"Whatever it takes", I murmured.

It wasn't until the following day that I wondered what the born again parents thought about their kid coming home with her pockets stuffed with booze related literature.

Ah well. If they can touch my kid with lepers, I suppose I can touch their kid with some alcohol.

Read the Instructions

Yes - this may be too much information, but I am concerned for you all and want this to serve as a cautionary tale.


Last weekend, I purchased a lovely little vibrator.



My sexual health aside, I thought this was a lovely little addition to my collection of toys. Small, easily portable and made my one of my favorite adult toy companies, the Fun Factory. Those Germans! They make great sex toys!

Last Sunday, I decided to give it test run. I was alone ( super bowl) and thought
"Hey, a nice hot shower and my new potential friend could be lovely!"

With child firmly asleep, I headed off to my shower with toy in hand. Woo Hoo!

I get in and switch it on. Ooooooh. Nice.

But... having a little trouble with the top part - where the batteries go in. Doesn't want to stay firmly on.

Now, normally this would not cause me concern. However, when using any electrically driven appliance, even those that are waterproof and approved for shower use, one naturally is cautious about exposing the inner parts to the shower spray.

I step out of the shower, dry and re-attach the top.

Back in I go, with toy in hand. I begin to relax. Ah yes. I see a long and happy relationship with you Layaspot vibe.

And then it happens. The top pops off again and to my horror, my wet lady parts come into contact with the batteries.

Jesus Fucking Christ.

I will spare you the language which was uttered as the vibe was thrown out of the shower. It was salty. I had just mini-electrocuted myself. Perhaps God was giving me a little "self abuse" lesson?

When I had composed myself and exited the shower, I returned to the box to figure out what the hell had gone horribly, horribly wrong. I had, in fact, failed to read the instructions prior to attempting to use my new toy. I mean - I ASSUMED that I understood the basic function of the device. Did I really need to read the directions?

Yes, I did. For you see, in my haste, I was attempting to use the wrong end. Which was clearly pointed out to me in the diagram in the box. Which I read. Thoroughly.

Vocabulary building

This morning, I took Emily to school.

I had to go into work, so I figured I would drive her to school and head off to my day. Sounds easy? Sounds typical?

Oh ho! The universe thinks NOT!

It wasn't anything that she did, by any means. She was more than helpful and chipper, as she had a field trip today and was excited to get going.

It wasn't even me. I was well rested and had already packed my bag for work.

Nope.

My arch nemesis(es) today? The other parents at school.

Parent number one decided to park her Mercedes SUV in the MIDDLE of the street. This blocked traffic BOTH ways. As it occurred to me what was happening, I rolled down my window to address the mother.

"Greetings fellow breeder! Perchance to explain why you have left your horseless chariot unattended here in the thorough way?"

And then she apologized for inconveniencing me and offered a hearty cup of coffee for my troubles as she moved her vehicle.

Let me wipe the tear of laughter from my eye.

What I really said was "HEY! Did you just parked your car in the middle of the street and LEAVE it?"

to which she responded, "Yes. I was trying to get through but that man down there won't move, so what do you want me to do? I waited for 15 minutes and he wouldn't move so ..." ( at which point she made a hand gesture which I associate with the Quebecois which means that some higher power is forcing them to be rude)

She continued to walk. I assessed her size 0 body and her Dolce and Gabanna sunglasses propped atop her overly streaked hair. I looked at her impractical boots as she stumbled through the snow. I could totally take her if she stopped and headed back towards me.

Then I said, "I expect you to not be so rude and thoughtless, you stupid bitch!"

The other overly polite Anglo-Canadian parents looked both shocked and inwardly pleased at this. Leave it to the American chick to shout out what we are all thinking.

At which point, the Mercedes which is now trapped between the parked car and me begins to beep AT ME. She wants me to back out into the intersection. Apparently, I am not illegally driving quickly enough for HER. I see her gesturing in the aforementioned Quebecois manner.

What the hell, I think. "And what is the matter with YOU, you stupid bitch? I know you aren't waving at ME!", I shout.

Emily sits in the passenger seat, completely nonplussed.

"Should I get out and walk the rest of the way?", she inquires.

"Yeah baby - sorry about all of this. Mama can't help the vast amount of stupid bitches this morning. Have a great time on your field trip and I'll see you tonight."