Today: Take the kids to Safeway to pick up some OTC meds for the non-winning kid (who is presently experiencing a delightful GI affliction.) Let the winning kid pick out her chocolate bar. Insist she share with her sister. Go through the line up with the SLOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWEST cashier on earth. Pregnant snails in the Mojave move faster. Get the free bar, meds. Cashier hands the kids the pull tabs. Greedy little ingrates rip them open. The same kid that won the chocolate bar yesterday starts screaming:

“OH! I WON! I WON!” and starts jumping around like a contestant on the Price is Right.
“I WON! I WON! WHAAAAAA? NO! AW….. THAT SUCKS!”

She won a can of Thick and Chunky Soup.

Mmm, mmm, good.

In a new and “improved” twist to appeal to a new generation of bleeders and breeders, Always has stepped outside their traditional domain of jewel toned plastic packaging, and created a line of maxi pad products in a shimmering paper box.

IT SHIMMERS, PEOPLE. CLEARLY THIS IS REVOLUTIONARY!

Christened by some men geniuses at Proctor and Gamble as “RADIANT INFINITY PADS” (I guess “environmentally irresponsible blood diapers” wasn’t a focus group favourite) they are slightly more expensive than competitive products encased in plastic, or fewer shimmers on the packaging. I bought a box of the Radiant Infinity it see if there was a) any reason why this product was more expensive than everything else and b) to study the product positioning/marketing on and in the packaging itself (which I can’t really do in a store, because that would be weird.)

Oooh! Shiny!

On the one side panel of the box that doesn’t scream “Shine ON! Shop the collection!”  and “Artfully Designed” there are instructions. Not the standard underwear placement schematics (which, after 22 years continue to confuse me because it’s so hard to stick a slab of plasticated cotton in my gitch*facepalm*)  but  rather, step by step instructions for a crafting project.

Crafting.

No. Really.

More puzzling than Proctor and Gamble deciding to induce hemmorhaging women into craft making (which is of Satan) through the medium of maxi pads, is that the art project on the box isn’t some sort of pithy use of feminine hygiene products. It’s not a tampon ghost or overnight pad Barbie Doll bed.

Instead? Instructions for fabricating your very own “edgy rosette pin.”

“Let your style shine!”
Grumpy Cat’s human familiar says “NO.”

I don’t know about you ladies, but when my uterus is attempting to murder me, what I really want is to make an edgy rosette pin out of a zipper. When I’m staggering to the bathroom in a vain attempt to strategize the invasion of the crimson tide on the beaches of Whormandy, I’m not thinking “Gee, performing a DIY hysterectomy in the bathroom sounds like less of a hassle right now than five days of this bullshit” or “If you loved me, you’d feed me a Midol and whiskey smoothie.” No. I’m thinking of dicking with my sewing machine while squinting at craft instructions on a SHINY MAXI PAD BOX.

Because I feel it is my duty to share the joy with you, and because the blinding glare of the box makes it hard to read, here are the instructions for the pin that I’m never going to make:

HOW TO MAKE AN EDGY ROSETTE PIN by ALWAYS RADIANT INFINITY

• Coil a metallic zipper, or more than one, to create a rosette shape.
• Secure it with a few stitches, then pin it on and GLOW ALL OUT!

Oh, right.
I’d hate for my Quebecois sisters to miss out on this awesome project. En francais, aussi!

COMMENT CREER UNE ROSETTE RENDANCE par ALWAYS INFINITY RADIANT

• Enroulez une ou plusieurs fermetures a glissiere metalliques pour creer a forme d’un rose.
• Cousez-la a l’aide de quelques points pour la faire tenir puis epinglez-la ou vous voulex pour epater la galerie!

Now that the hernia I had developed from laughing so hard after reading the box has subsided, I have one more bonus shot of Wymyn’s Prydyct Myrkyting gone wrong:

You’re right, Rexall Drugs. These tampons really ARE for any time! Thanks!

Rexall Drugs has branded their bargain basement budget generic tampons as “Anytime.”
Are you kidding me? These horrible instruments of torture are for a very, very specific time, and unless you are fabricating the aforementioned tampon ghosts for your Hallowe’en decor, or to stem the flow of blood from a body part, YOU ARE DOING IT WRONG. (Also, the entire reason I bought these instead of Playtex or OB is because of the pastel butterflies. Pastel butterflies make everything better. Even tubes of cotton for shoving up your cooter.)

Go home, marketing departments. You’re drunk.

When they start the “Mom? MOM? MOM! MOM! MOOOOOOM” chant because they’re fighting/whining/want something?

I don’t answer them.

I simply look at the children, dead-pan, and make one of the random “Goats Yelling Like Humans” sounds from my mental catalog of YouTube videos. If you haven’t been blessed with seeing the magic of yelling goats yet, you are in for a treat:

Big Kid: MOM! MOM! MAKE HER STOP HITTING ME WITH A STUFFED MEERKAT!

Little Kid: SHE HIT ME FIRST…WITH A HEDGEHOG!

Me: *stares, blinks, channels goat* MAHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Children: *stare*

Me: *stares, blinks* , channels goat again* MAHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

Children: *leave, silent*

Problem solved.

Paprika lyoner, one of those peculiar German delights that Canadians don’t seem to flock to, was very on sale at the deli recently.

Being me, I bought a package of it, and brought it home.

Kid 1: WHAT IS THAT?

Me: Santa Meat.

Kid 1: Santa…meat?

Me: Yes. The reason there is no more Santa is because they ground him up into sausages. He was real, but now he’s a sandwich meat. Look at the red and green!

Kid 1: *makes face* 

Me: I’m going to put Santa Meat in your lunch tomorrow.

Kid 2: GROSS. EW!

Kid 1: *grabs slices, stuffs in her face* Om, nom, nom. Santa Meat is delicious! I can’t wait to take this to school!

[Waiting in line behind 20-something couple blowing $76 on dog toys for their dog, and having each. one. wrapped. individually.]

Clerk at PetBarn: Would you like this deer chew wrapped?

Me: No.

Clerk: We can wrap it!

Me: No. I’ll put it in my purse.

Clerk: How about a bow?

Me: No.

Clerk: Green and red bows are festive. I can tie it on real quick.

Me: My dog self identifies as Jehovah’s Witness.

Clerk: Oh. Are you JW?

Me: No. Just the dog.

Clerk: *stares* 

Seriously? My 7 lb, inbred pomeranian lacks the opposable thumbs necessary to undo a fancy bow.

Nor does she get some sort of thrill from unwrapping the bone-motif paper just-so. She is a dog, and not a very bright one at that.

The dog has no fucks to give. None. Not one.

=============================================================

Scene 2: At a grocery store in Grant Park Festival, around 3 pm on 24 December, 2012. 

[Groceries are being rung through the till by a teenage boy who is a poster boy for a "before" Clearasil ad.]

Clerk: Are you ready for Christmas?

Me: Yep, and I can’t wait for it to be over so we can get back to normal.

Clerk: *gasp* BUT WHY? CHRISTMAS IS FUN!

Me: *eyebrow raise* Fun?

Clerk: It’s only one day a year! Come on! All the presents!

Me: One day? It has been going on since Hallowe’en ended. It’s a two month long consumeristic orgy borne of obligation.

Clerk:  I guess you’re right. I never thought of it that way. Man. That’s kind of depressing.

Me: You’re welcome.

=========================================

Scene 3: Pet food store in Grant Park. 
[standing in line, waiting for other people to have their Humvee sized dog crate wrapped]

Clerk:  Did you find everything you were looking for?

Me:  Yes.

Clerk: I see you looking at that rawhide. Would you like me to ring that up for you?

Me: No. It looks like a festive colon.

Clerk: *looks at rawhide* A what?

Me:  A festive colon. A Yule Intestine.

Clerk: *says nothing* *makes face* 

Me: Right?

Clerk: I can’t unsee that.

Me: I told you.

Every so often, a book comes home in the bag that forces me to pause, ponder and evaluate exactly how it managed (not only to get in the bag) to make it into print at all.
I’m not even talking about books that are utterly worthless content-wise. Those books exist. Aplenty.

I’m talking about books so heavy on the “WTF?” that it’s hard to believe that nobody, at any level, questioned their existence.
Not a single person, from publisher to educator. Someone spent money on the development, promotion and procurement of this dreck.

Disclaimer:  I have spent much of my life hunting for double entendre in all things, so it’s not much of a stretch that I would find my mind lying in the gutter the minute I read the title. Having me find a hidden subtext in something is akin to Charlie Sheen finding a whorehouse in Amsterdam. It’s going to happen.

Today, my kid was getting ready for school, and drags out the bag o’ books and pulls some cartoon dog festooned kiddy paperback out of the bag. Something pinged my radar. Defuq did that cover say?

Welcome to Chubby Town! Chubby Town?

Instantly my poor diseased mind went for a dive into the sewer. Worse, the repeating purple motif on the back cover is of some seriously phallic looking bones. No, really.

You see, in my hometown (back in the day) “chubby” was not a weight reference. It was a very obvious dick reference.  As in “Hey! Look at Dave! He’s getting a chubby over you grabbing him like that, Steve!”

Okay.

Next, my mind decided that Chubby Town sounded like a lame pickup bar for very large people, and the people who fetishize them. Chubby Chasers.

…and then? I thought of  Chub Packs. Nothing is more relevant to 5 year olds than stories about hamburger meat squished into a tube of plastic!

Shaking it off, I decided that this was likely a case of me being a sick freak, and that I’d have to figure out how to not laugh my ass off when reading the book to the kid later.

I went about my day.

Lunch time rolled around, and I went for a mosey into the kitchen to make some food and tidy up the counter. There was Chubby Town. Sitting there. Staring at me. I picked it up.

Ook.

Read that shizz:

You know who wants to show pre-school kids a chubby hug? A fun chubby hug?

This guy:

Also? Sophie is a liar. I remember my first chubby hug, and it hurt the first time.

*Groan*

At this point, despite the intense desire to mock the book ruthlessly with all of my sarcastic and equally gutter minded friends, my inner Tipper Gore alarm started to go off.

Visions of myself marching into the school office to demand why the school and Scholastic were promoting pedophilia danced in my head!

Imagining  the faces of administration as they tried to talk me off of Batshit Leap!

The potential witch-hunt through the school for other creepy Chubby Town books! Oh! Oh!

Yes! Yes! The power is mine! Muahahahah.

Or…I could just mock it ruthlessly online.

Chubby Town. Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot?

After 27 months of living in Winnipeg, I’d assumed that the assimilation/deep integration had more or less concluded, and people would have little cause to pinpoint me as an Outsider everywhere I went.
I no longer need to profess surprise and disgust at the lack of synchronized street lights, absent crosswalks or over-abundance of traffic cameras. I know to make fun of people from Transcona, and avoid Point Douglas like the plague. I have been ritually sacrificed to canker worms/mosquitos/hornets. I band my elms. I know of the Schmoo of which they speak. I do not require GPS to get around.
And yet…

I still get outed as being an import when I open my fool mouth and talk about streets and locations.

The Problem With Pembina

Me: Hey! There’s a great place right off of Pembina for that!
Pegger: What did you say?
Me: There’s a great place right off of Pembina.
Pegger: You’re not from here.
Me: No. I’m from Vancouver.
Pegger: Ha! Nobody here says “PEM-BY-NUH.”
Me: What do they say?
Pegger: “PEM-BIN-A”  You’re so funny! “PEMBYNUH.” HA! HA!
Me: Oh.

Kee-Whatdefuq?

Me: Speed traps! Blah blah blah! Got me on Keewatin doing 61 in a 50 zone one morning…blah blah blah!
Pegger: What did you say? Say it again.
Me: Speed traps?
Pegger: No. The other thing. Say the street again!
Me: KEEWATIN.
Pegger: Did you just say  *smirk* “KEE-WATT-IN”?
Me: Erm, yes.
Pegger: You’re not from here, are you?
Me: No. Vancouver. Why?
Pegger: I could tell. NOBODY calls it “KEWATTIN”
Me: Oh.
Pegger: Try “KEY-WAY-TIN”
Me: Oh.
Pegger: *cracks up, laughing hysterically* That’s too funny. Ha!

ProVOCation

Me:  *Giving presentation* Blah, blah, blah mill rate increase to accomodate school board needs because the provincial government will not be kicking in extra in order to maintain the funding for 2013, and the Board of Trustees is requesting that we send a panel of delegates to a meeting on the 29th at 7 pm at Tec Voc on Wall Street. Blah, blah, blah…. *answers questions* *sits down*
Pegger: *smirk* Did you say “TEC VOC”?
Me:  Yes. The Trustee meeting is at Tec Voc.
Pegger: You’re not from around here.
Me: Goddamnit. No. I’m from Vancouver.
Pegger: Protip? Next time say TEC VAWK. We say TEC VAWK.
Me: That’s stupid. What’s wrong with you people? It’s VOCATIONAL not VAWKATIONAL.
Pegger: Tec Vawk. Remember that next time. Otherwise everyone will know you’re from The Outside.
Me: How would I know that?
Pegger: Now you do.

Tec VAWK? WTF, Winnipeg?

• Yo Mama Is A Geek When….
• Disillusioning 7 Year Olds for Fun and Profit
• Submarines: They’ll Kill You

————–

8:00PM

————-

{Tia is tucking The Goose into bed. Gives The Goose a kiss. Says goodnight. Flicks off the lights and starts escaping to sit on Facebook for hours}

Goose: Mom?

Tia: Yes, Goosepotato?

Goose: Is Opa from Kitimat?

Tia: No. Opa is from POWELL RIVER. He moved to Kitimat to work when he was a young man.

Goose: Powell River?

Tia: Yes. My second favorite place in the world. The beaches are so beautiful. I spent my summers there as a kid. *Sigh*

Goose: I wish I could go there.

Tia: You were there for my cousin’s wedding when you were little.

Goose: I don’t remember.

Tia: You were a toddler. It was before BabyDuck was born.

Goose: I wish I could remember.

Tia: Maybe there are videos on YouTube!

Goose: Yes! We can watch videos!

Tia: I will get the computer!

{Tia and The Goose sit in bed and start watching tourism videos about Powell River.}

Topic transitions from Powell River to Texada Island quarries.

From the quarries to the Sooke Potholes.

The Potholes to the Hirsch Creek Jumping bridge in Kitimat.

To watching footage of snow clearance in Kitimat last year.

Tia: THOSE WINNIPEG PEOPLE THINK THEY KNOW WHAT SNOW IS? THEY DON’T KNOW WHAT SNOW IS. LOOK AT THAT SNOW.

Goose: I know! Stupid Winnipeg people. This isn’t snow!

Somehow this becomes a transition point to discussing the following:

- Kemano
- Cassiar
- Amchitka bombing
- Aleutian Islands
- Bering Straight
- The migration of early first nations people from Asia
- Watching Warren Miller ski videos in Alaska
- Looking at maps of Alaska’s proximity to Russia
- Watching ice breakers near Nome
- And a 45 minute National Geographic documentary on nuclear powered submarines and the US Navy.

{Battery dies}

The Goose: That is so cool! I’m going to design a submarine for those Americans tomorrow when I wake up. It will be better than that stupid thing. It will be powered by AIR!

Tia: Good night Goose.

———————

Time: 10:00 PM

——————–

I’m pleased to note that we had no human v. hornet issues this summer/fall, and lived a peaceful and harmonious coexistence in the Winnipeg sun. We grew fond of them, even.

Winter arrived early, and brought with it excessive and perverse snow before Hallowe’en. One morning I awoke to find the wind decimated remains of the now abandoned insect casbah lying atop a bed of freshly fallen snow. Me, being the freak that I am, saw this as a fantastic opportunity for the kids to learn about the innards of the nest.

Naturally, I picked it up, and brought it in the house.

Me: Look kids! The hornet nest! Check out the inside. Look at the engineering! It looks so similar to how bees make their homes…

Goose: EW. GROSS. DEAD BUGS.

BabyDuck: *shriek* Yuck.  The hornets awe dead in there!

Me: I am going to save it for your show and tell!

*****A month passes. The nest sits in a plastic bag on the deck****

Old Man: What are you doing with that thing? GET RID OF IT. Gross.

Me: It’s not gross. It’s so cool! The kids are going to take it for show and tell!

Old Man: When? It has been sitting there forever. Get RID of it.

***Two more weeks pass***

Me: BabyDuck! Today is your day for show and tell! Do you want to take the hornet’s nest?

BabyDuck: No. I want to bwing my piggy bank and show my money!

Me: No. You are not bringing money to school. HORNET NEST. I will put it in this Rubbermaid bin for you. SO COOL.

Duck: *sigh* Oh…alwight.

{Lug the kids, the dog, the backpacks, the sled, the Rubbermaid bin to the school on foot in the snow}

Teacher: Bonjour, BabyDuck! Comment ça vas? Qu’est-ce qui est dans la boîte? Puis-je voir?

BabyDuck:  Beaucoup des insectes morts!

Teacher: *confused look* *peeks in bin* Oh…ah…tres amusement…er…

Me: Hornet nest. I thought it would be better than her bringing in a stuffed animal or something of little educational value.

Teacher: Ah. C’est…bon? Er. Ha. Mmm. BabyDuck, le temps pour aller à la classe!

*****7 hours later******

{Hornet nest is outside, in the bin, in the school yard}

Me: Defuq?

{open box}

Me: *GAG* Oh sweet mother of CRAP. What a STENCH!

Teacher: It was one of the most engaging show and tells we’ve had all year, but the STINK!

BabyDucks: Puant!

Me: ERMAHGERD.

Teacher: Yeah. It HAD to go outside. The whole class reeked.

Me: I’ve had it sitting in a plastic bag for nearly two months. It must have started decomposing…

Teacher: Well…that explains it.

The moral of the story: If you are going to save hornet nests for your kids to take to school, have them take it SOONER than later, and don’t store it in a plastic bag.