Shawn Macdonald's Blog, page 2
March 27, 2012
The Grandpets
So I am 48 years old, the proud mother of three daughters, and the grandmother of zero grandchildren. Grandpets, on the other hand, I have coming out the wazoo.
Brittany, my oldest, is the proud mother of two cats, Amos and Brady. Brady is named after Tom Brady. He’s a cute cat, but not that cute. And he’s the size of a small shed. When Brady jumps onto your lap for a little lovin’, you know it.
Amos is a female. Her ‘daddy’, Brittany’s boyfriend, is named Andy. ‘Amos and Andy’. And I know that you younger readers won’t get that reference, but trust me … it’s cute. I like Amos. She’s a pretty chill cat.
Daughter number two, otherwise known as Sam, is the proud mother of a cat and a dog. Sam is currently living with us, and therefore, so are her pets. I have two cats of my own. This house is a freakin’ zoo.
Sam’s cat is named ‘Cake’. Why ‘Cake’? Sam likes to eat cake, and she loves the band ‘Cake’ … so why not? As cats go, Cake is spoiled rotten. There is no doubt in her little feline mind that she is the ruler of all the earth, and that whatever house she resides in is her castle. That would make the rest of the members of this household her peasants, and that includes my two cats. My cats take umbrage to her unsubstantiated claim of royalty. The end result? Incessant cat fights. And, as my boyfriend points out, not the good kind.
Sam’s dog is a 70 pound Plott Hound by the name of Barkley. Sam adopted Barkley when he was about two-years-old, and he is an absolute sweetheart. Loves everyone and everything. He also loves to eat. He’s never eaten a living thing, but as for inanimate objects … nothing is sacred. I could go on and on about the things he’s eaten, but one story stands above the rest. One day I took my pal Barkley out to do his business. He had recently eaten two pies (see picture above) and half a dozen pencils, so I was carefully watching his poo to make sure that everything was coming out all right. So he squats, does his thing, and then goes about his business. I’m checking out the poo, and it’s very strange. There is a lump of something white in there. What the hell is that? Now I’m poking it with a stick, wondering if it is some sort of obese worm that I should be worried about. And then I see the string. Yup. Barkley ate a box of tampons. For the next few days there were tampon-poos all over the yard.
Daughter number three is Danielle. Danielle has only one pet, a six-pound Maltese named ‘Kenny’. Kenny is the epitome of cute. White and fluffy and slightly cross-eyed. Unfortunately, Kenny also has a bad case of ‘little man syndrome’. He barks at and attacks anyone and everyone. He simply cannot be convinced that even a small child could simply step on him and squash him like a bug. But Kenny, as is the case with all of my grandpets, loves his Grammy. That would be me. And I, as is the case with all of my grandpets, love him.
I find that in my eyes, my grandpets can do no wrong. They are all highly intelligent, extremely attractive, and their misdeeds are simply misguided attempts to gain attention. Their every wish is granted. Punishment is frowned upon. When their parents are cruel enough to try to convince them to behave, they know they can come to Grammy and she will set their parents straight.
Oh, I cannot wait to have grandchildren!
Brittany, my oldest, is the proud mother of two cats, Amos and Brady. Brady is named after Tom Brady. He’s a cute cat, but not that cute. And he’s the size of a small shed. When Brady jumps onto your lap for a little lovin’, you know it.
Amos is a female. Her ‘daddy’, Brittany’s boyfriend, is named Andy. ‘Amos and Andy’. And I know that you younger readers won’t get that reference, but trust me … it’s cute. I like Amos. She’s a pretty chill cat.
Daughter number two, otherwise known as Sam, is the proud mother of a cat and a dog. Sam is currently living with us, and therefore, so are her pets. I have two cats of my own. This house is a freakin’ zoo.
Sam’s cat is named ‘Cake’. Why ‘Cake’? Sam likes to eat cake, and she loves the band ‘Cake’ … so why not? As cats go, Cake is spoiled rotten. There is no doubt in her little feline mind that she is the ruler of all the earth, and that whatever house she resides in is her castle. That would make the rest of the members of this household her peasants, and that includes my two cats. My cats take umbrage to her unsubstantiated claim of royalty. The end result? Incessant cat fights. And, as my boyfriend points out, not the good kind.
Sam’s dog is a 70 pound Plott Hound by the name of Barkley. Sam adopted Barkley when he was about two-years-old, and he is an absolute sweetheart. Loves everyone and everything. He also loves to eat. He’s never eaten a living thing, but as for inanimate objects … nothing is sacred. I could go on and on about the things he’s eaten, but one story stands above the rest. One day I took my pal Barkley out to do his business. He had recently eaten two pies (see picture above) and half a dozen pencils, so I was carefully watching his poo to make sure that everything was coming out all right. So he squats, does his thing, and then goes about his business. I’m checking out the poo, and it’s very strange. There is a lump of something white in there. What the hell is that? Now I’m poking it with a stick, wondering if it is some sort of obese worm that I should be worried about. And then I see the string. Yup. Barkley ate a box of tampons. For the next few days there were tampon-poos all over the yard.
Daughter number three is Danielle. Danielle has only one pet, a six-pound Maltese named ‘Kenny’. Kenny is the epitome of cute. White and fluffy and slightly cross-eyed. Unfortunately, Kenny also has a bad case of ‘little man syndrome’. He barks at and attacks anyone and everyone. He simply cannot be convinced that even a small child could simply step on him and squash him like a bug. But Kenny, as is the case with all of my grandpets, loves his Grammy. That would be me. And I, as is the case with all of my grandpets, love him.
I find that in my eyes, my grandpets can do no wrong. They are all highly intelligent, extremely attractive, and their misdeeds are simply misguided attempts to gain attention. Their every wish is granted. Punishment is frowned upon. When their parents are cruel enough to try to convince them to behave, they know they can come to Grammy and she will set their parents straight.
Oh, I cannot wait to have grandchildren!
Stick Chick
Until last year, I considered hockey to be a sport that was supported by only the most primitive of Neanderthals. What kind of civilized, intelligent person would enjoy watching ten men skate around the ice, batting a little piece of rubber around with a wooden stick, and just looking for an excuse to fight?
And then, last spring, the Boston Bruins were in the Stanley Cup playoffs. The love of my life really, really, really wanted to watch them play. I heaved an extremely put-upon sigh - just to make certain that he understood what a sacrifice that I was making in his honor - and allowed him to turn the channel to the hockey game. I would, I thought, just read a book if I got too bored with the event. In the meantime, I would try to be supportive. Go Bruins. Yawn.
So we watched the game. Of course, I understood nothing about how the game was played. I figured out that each team played with five men and a goalie on the ice. Simple enough. I’ve always enjoyed ice skating, and I quickly realized that these huge, burly men had some serious skills on blades. So that was kind of cool. And one of the Boston Bruins, Zdeno Chara, was freakin’ huge! Hard to imagine how a man that big could be so graceful on skates. Vaguely interesting.
It turned out that several of these men that were taking such a beating on the ice were in their mid to late thirties. Wow. And on the flip side, some of them were still in their teens. Again, the disparity of age was vaguely interesting.
The entire Boston team was wearing beards. It was May, and they had to be hot and uncomfortable with all of that facial hair, despite playing on ice. Turned out that during the playoffs, they didn’t shave. Superstitious lot, those hockey players.
Then the first fight broke out. Knowing what I know now, I suspect that Shawn Thorton was involved, but I don’t remember for sure. I do remember is snorting with contempt at the posturing and throwing of fists. My sweetheart was cheering, and I remember thinking that only a man would enjoy such a barbaric display of supposed manhood.
Fast forward to a few games later. I’m not sure what exactly happened, or even when it happened, but something had changed. This was a sport played by the manliest of men! When the gloves came off, and Thorton-the-enforcer put up his fists to take on another player, I was off the couch, screaming like a lunatic. That was my Shawn Thorton, and he was fighting to protect his teammate! “Pound that lousy Canuck!”
It was the beginning of the end. My wardrobe now contains more black and gold than should be found in any self-respecting woman’s closet. There is a Boston Bruins pillow-pet lying on the end of my couch. And my DVR is constantly at the ready for those games that they inconsiderately schedule for when I’m at work.
Am I proud of my new status as a rabid hockey fan? Not particularly. Am I ashamed? Not a chance.
So what can I say?
Go Bruins!!
And then, last spring, the Boston Bruins were in the Stanley Cup playoffs. The love of my life really, really, really wanted to watch them play. I heaved an extremely put-upon sigh - just to make certain that he understood what a sacrifice that I was making in his honor - and allowed him to turn the channel to the hockey game. I would, I thought, just read a book if I got too bored with the event. In the meantime, I would try to be supportive. Go Bruins. Yawn.
So we watched the game. Of course, I understood nothing about how the game was played. I figured out that each team played with five men and a goalie on the ice. Simple enough. I’ve always enjoyed ice skating, and I quickly realized that these huge, burly men had some serious skills on blades. So that was kind of cool. And one of the Boston Bruins, Zdeno Chara, was freakin’ huge! Hard to imagine how a man that big could be so graceful on skates. Vaguely interesting.
It turned out that several of these men that were taking such a beating on the ice were in their mid to late thirties. Wow. And on the flip side, some of them were still in their teens. Again, the disparity of age was vaguely interesting.
The entire Boston team was wearing beards. It was May, and they had to be hot and uncomfortable with all of that facial hair, despite playing on ice. Turned out that during the playoffs, they didn’t shave. Superstitious lot, those hockey players.
Then the first fight broke out. Knowing what I know now, I suspect that Shawn Thorton was involved, but I don’t remember for sure. I do remember is snorting with contempt at the posturing and throwing of fists. My sweetheart was cheering, and I remember thinking that only a man would enjoy such a barbaric display of supposed manhood.
Fast forward to a few games later. I’m not sure what exactly happened, or even when it happened, but something had changed. This was a sport played by the manliest of men! When the gloves came off, and Thorton-the-enforcer put up his fists to take on another player, I was off the couch, screaming like a lunatic. That was my Shawn Thorton, and he was fighting to protect his teammate! “Pound that lousy Canuck!”
It was the beginning of the end. My wardrobe now contains more black and gold than should be found in any self-respecting woman’s closet. There is a Boston Bruins pillow-pet lying on the end of my couch. And my DVR is constantly at the ready for those games that they inconsiderately schedule for when I’m at work.
Am I proud of my new status as a rabid hockey fan? Not particularly. Am I ashamed? Not a chance.
So what can I say?
Go Bruins!!
March 22, 2012
Where Did all the REM Sleep Go>
I blame my children.
There was a period of my life during which I could sleep at any time, in any place. I could sleep in the car, on the couch, lying on top of a pool table in the middle of a busy bar. I was even known to occasionally catch a brief, drunken nap on the blissfully cool floor of my bathroom.
Giving birth to my first child signaled the beginning of the end of my ability to sleep for any sort of extended period of time. We all know the routine of getting up fourteen times in the middle of the night to take care of the baby, and praying for two consecutive hours of shut-eye. To make matters worse, my oldest daughter had colic for the first six months of her life. I went from being a lean, mean, sleeping machine to being so sleep deprived that I could barely function. But I was young then. When the opportunity to sleep did arise, I was able to attack it with gusto. I could put the baby in her mechanical swing, wind it up, and fall to sleep almost immediately. Despite being sound asleep, I could actually sense when the swing was winding down, wake up to rewind it, and fall right back into a delicious slumber.
Then daughter number two came along, followed quickly by daughter number three. If the ability to sleep was a habit, I had officially broken it.
The day finally arrived when all three girls slept through the night. That day should have been a momentous occasion. A choir of angels should have heralded the event, or at very least Bon Jovi could have thrown a small concert in honor of the occasion. Sadly, while my three little cherubs were now able to sleep, uninterrupted, for eight solid hours each and every night, I had no such luck. Oh, sure, every once in a while I would awake at five am and realize, to my surprise, that I had been asleep since ten pm, but that was a rare occasion.
I couldn’t get to sleep. I couldn’t stay asleep. I awoke, ready to face the day, at three o’clock in the morning. Or I would dream, busy dreams, that left me feeling as exhausted as if I had been hard at work all night.
My daughters are now all in their mid to late twenties, and the problem has not improved. I am beginning to suspect that it is no longer fair to blame them for my insomnia. It’s only a suspicion, though. Nothing can be proven.
So yes … I blame my children.
There was a period of my life during which I could sleep at any time, in any place. I could sleep in the car, on the couch, lying on top of a pool table in the middle of a busy bar. I was even known to occasionally catch a brief, drunken nap on the blissfully cool floor of my bathroom.
Giving birth to my first child signaled the beginning of the end of my ability to sleep for any sort of extended period of time. We all know the routine of getting up fourteen times in the middle of the night to take care of the baby, and praying for two consecutive hours of shut-eye. To make matters worse, my oldest daughter had colic for the first six months of her life. I went from being a lean, mean, sleeping machine to being so sleep deprived that I could barely function. But I was young then. When the opportunity to sleep did arise, I was able to attack it with gusto. I could put the baby in her mechanical swing, wind it up, and fall to sleep almost immediately. Despite being sound asleep, I could actually sense when the swing was winding down, wake up to rewind it, and fall right back into a delicious slumber.
Then daughter number two came along, followed quickly by daughter number three. If the ability to sleep was a habit, I had officially broken it.
The day finally arrived when all three girls slept through the night. That day should have been a momentous occasion. A choir of angels should have heralded the event, or at very least Bon Jovi could have thrown a small concert in honor of the occasion. Sadly, while my three little cherubs were now able to sleep, uninterrupted, for eight solid hours each and every night, I had no such luck. Oh, sure, every once in a while I would awake at five am and realize, to my surprise, that I had been asleep since ten pm, but that was a rare occasion.
I couldn’t get to sleep. I couldn’t stay asleep. I awoke, ready to face the day, at three o’clock in the morning. Or I would dream, busy dreams, that left me feeling as exhausted as if I had been hard at work all night.
My daughters are now all in their mid to late twenties, and the problem has not improved. I am beginning to suspect that it is no longer fair to blame them for my insomnia. It’s only a suspicion, though. Nothing can be proven.
So yes … I blame my children.
Peeing in the Kitchen
One day at work, I told one of my coworkers that I needed to ‘whip myself into a frenzy of ambition’. She thought I said that I needed to ‘pee in the kitchen’. Naturally, I asked why on earth she thought I would say such a ridiculous thing. She simply shrugged and said that those wouldn’t have been the strangest words that had ever come out of my mouth. Have I mentioned that this particular coworker is a bit of a bitch?
The point that I was originally going to make was that it is a whole lot easier to imagine myself being a whirling dynamo of ambition that it is to actually become a whirling dynamo of ambition. In fact, for the past few years, it has been easier to imagine myself ‘peeing in the kitchen’ than it is to imagine myself having a few hours of pure ambition.
There was a time in my life that it was second nature to do ten things at once. I could talk on the phone, change a diaper, and mentally write a grocery list, all at the same time. Okay, so that’s actually only accomplishing three things at once. But that’s accomplishing two more things at one time than I can now.
Those were the days.
These days, any little excuse will justify taking a nap rather than getting something useful accomplished. Usually the excuse that I use for taking a nap is that I’m resting up so that when I awake I will be mentally and physically refreshed. I will have all kinds of energy and get all sorts of things done.
Another good excuse for a nap is that since I haven’t gotten around to making the bed yet, I may as well get a little more mileage out of it. I plan, of course, to make the bed when I wake up. Perhaps I will even wash all of the bedding! And I’ll vacuum the carpet! Yes, that’s what I’ll do!
But then I wake up and it’s really only a few hours until I’m going to bed for the night, so why waste the time and energy making the bed? And if I’m not going to bother making it, why wash the bedding? As for vacuuming? I’m just going to walk on it again, so I should save that chore for another day, like a day when I’m not planning to walk on the carpet. That leads to my bed. Where I like to nap. The last time I vacuumed my bedroom? What year is it?
It wasn’t easy to come to terms with the fact that I’ve become lazy. One day I finally had to say to myself, “Self, you’ve gotten lazy”. I would have argued against such a harsh condemnation of my character, but that would have cut into my nap time.
Speaking of which …
The point that I was originally going to make was that it is a whole lot easier to imagine myself being a whirling dynamo of ambition that it is to actually become a whirling dynamo of ambition. In fact, for the past few years, it has been easier to imagine myself ‘peeing in the kitchen’ than it is to imagine myself having a few hours of pure ambition.
There was a time in my life that it was second nature to do ten things at once. I could talk on the phone, change a diaper, and mentally write a grocery list, all at the same time. Okay, so that’s actually only accomplishing three things at once. But that’s accomplishing two more things at one time than I can now.
Those were the days.
These days, any little excuse will justify taking a nap rather than getting something useful accomplished. Usually the excuse that I use for taking a nap is that I’m resting up so that when I awake I will be mentally and physically refreshed. I will have all kinds of energy and get all sorts of things done.
Another good excuse for a nap is that since I haven’t gotten around to making the bed yet, I may as well get a little more mileage out of it. I plan, of course, to make the bed when I wake up. Perhaps I will even wash all of the bedding! And I’ll vacuum the carpet! Yes, that’s what I’ll do!
But then I wake up and it’s really only a few hours until I’m going to bed for the night, so why waste the time and energy making the bed? And if I’m not going to bother making it, why wash the bedding? As for vacuuming? I’m just going to walk on it again, so I should save that chore for another day, like a day when I’m not planning to walk on the carpet. That leads to my bed. Where I like to nap. The last time I vacuumed my bedroom? What year is it?
It wasn’t easy to come to terms with the fact that I’ve become lazy. One day I finally had to say to myself, “Self, you’ve gotten lazy”. I would have argued against such a harsh condemnation of my character, but that would have cut into my nap time.
Speaking of which …
The Blog Slut
I am no longer a blog-virgin, but I don’t want anyone to think that means that I’m easy. It’s not as if I meant to write this blog. It only started out as a little light typing. Then things got out of hand. You know how it is. I certainly don’t want to become known as a blog-tease.
It’s not as if I’m going to blog every day, or blog just anyone who happens to be wearing a particularly attractive pair of reading glasses. I’m not that kind of girl. It’s possible that, from time to time, I might indulge in a little afternoon-blog-delight. But that doesn’t make me a blog-slut! There’s nothing wrong with a little casual blogging!
You’re probably wondering if I’d stoop so low as to blog for money. How dare you! The nerve! I’d never blog for money. Unless, of course, one of my children needed a kidney. Then I’d blog for money. Or if my house was under risk of foreclosure. Then I might blog for money. Or if that awesome orange crocodile Hermes Birkin bag became available … Then I’d have to blog for money.
Or if someone offered me money to blog.
Okay, so I am a blog-slut.
It’s not as if I’m going to blog every day, or blog just anyone who happens to be wearing a particularly attractive pair of reading glasses. I’m not that kind of girl. It’s possible that, from time to time, I might indulge in a little afternoon-blog-delight. But that doesn’t make me a blog-slut! There’s nothing wrong with a little casual blogging!
You’re probably wondering if I’d stoop so low as to blog for money. How dare you! The nerve! I’d never blog for money. Unless, of course, one of my children needed a kidney. Then I’d blog for money. Or if my house was under risk of foreclosure. Then I might blog for money. Or if that awesome orange crocodile Hermes Birkin bag became available … Then I’d have to blog for money.
Or if someone offered me money to blog.
Okay, so I am a blog-slut.
