“That’s what your house is, a place to keep your stuff while you go out and get … more stuff!”

- George Carlin

My fingers have not been doing much blogging lately and I’m fairly bursting at the seams. Summer seems to get in the way of all things industrious and easily gives way to watching trash TV and lounging in all different forms. Summer to us also means lots of socializing - a chance to reconnect with family and friends.

We recently went to visit my in-laws who are of the “don’t-you-dare- throw-anything-out-that’s-still-good, and-that-means-basically -everything-you’ve-ever-owned” generation. They remind me of my mom’s parents, who kept every piece of styrofoam meat tray and washed-out plastic bag that ever entered their home.

I wrestle with both the genetic and environmental influences in my constant war against clutter. I admit it. I love stuff. But I hate, I mean I don’t care for, (the word hate is banned at our house) the feelings I get from excess stuff. It’s oppressing, and draining, and an incredible time waster. Purging, organizing, donating, and de-cluttering is now almost as fun as shopping for new stuff. The kids (the real stuff magnets in the family) are even getting good at sorting through their own stuff and deciding which stuff hasta go.

Now if only I could get them to talk to their grandparents about purging their stuff. I imagine something like this … “Grandma, about that old toilet in the playhouse…”

My older daughter loves dancing and performing. When she was a toddler my parents bought her a playhouse, which my dad and my husband built for her in our backyard. They decided to add some cement squares to the front of it, which made a “front patio.” When my daughter and I came home and saw it, the first thing she said was “oh daddy, thank you for building me a stage!”

It’s hard to believe, but Wednesday June 20, 2007 marks my first anniversary of blogging.

To celebrate the 90 some-odd posts on my life (in general and specific), my family, my friends, my diabetes, my obsession with food and all things tasty, and my overall conviction to have some laughs while still upright, I’d like to invite you all, dear readers, to post some comments.

I know, I know, you don’t really want to post anything because you’re enjoying your anonymity while being a voyeur into my life. But what about if I promise you a chance for some nifty prizes? Or at least an opportunity to be read by tens of people (who can resist that?) Or you could see it as a chance to use up that vast resource of puns you have at your ready disposal. Or just an avenue for congratulating me on sticking to something for a whole year (did I mention I get bored easily?)

The reasons are countless and my gratitude would be fathomless. So please, take a moment to post a nifty little comment. I so want to hear from you.

My hair could probably be classified as a lethal weapon. I’m not kidding.

Today, when I was driving home, I felt pins and needles poking into the back of my arm. I looked at the car seat and saw nothing. Yet every time my arm touched the seat it was like a needle sticking into me.

Upon closer inspection I saw a tiny piece of my hair sticking out of the seat. I got my hair cut yesterday and a few little clippings fell off and got stuck in the front seat of the car. My hair is very coarse (strong, is the nice way my hairdresser puts it), and it can poke my husband’s eyes out if I’m not careful.

I’m sure it could be used to make some sort of medieval torture device - perhaps a hairshirt of the most heinous kind.

So keep your distance - a stray hair may be deadly.

While we were driving to dinner the other night, I saw the sign:

Used Adult Magazines.

You do the math.

They say it is better to be poor and happy than rich and miserable, but how about a compromise like moderately rich and just moody?

- Princess Diana

I usually like to dispense advice in terms of what TO do instead of what NOT to do, but in this case I feel the DON’Ts are warranted. This is a work in progress, and open to suggestions and comments from all.

Things NOT to buy women as gifts:

- cleaning supplies

- weight loss books

- wrinkle cream (or should I say anti-wrinkle cream)

- cellulite treatments

- bikinis

- live animals

- dead animals

- wounded animals

- anything to do with farting

While certainly not exhaustive, it’ll be a fun list to update!

I think I gain the most insight when I see myself reflected back to me in someone else.

This can be especially true when I don’t like what I see. Take today for instance. I was listening to someone complain. And complain. And complain.

Complaining is not attractive. It makes you look old and stressed. And it makes you hard to be around.

Oh sure, we all have beefs. And we all need to hash out our beefs with a few friends. I have no problem with that. Nothing like a few hours of free friendship therapy every day. But there’s a fine line between that and the numbing drone of a whiner who is constantly looking for the bad in everything and everyone.

That is draining and literally repellent.

So I made a pact today with myself. To continue looking for the good in people. To continue to be grateful for the amazing-ness that is my life. And to enjoy every moment, even the ones spent with whiners.

Okay, I admit it. I used to suffer from extreme potty mouth. I liked all those four letter words, but especially the f-bomb. It’s just so versatile (as my hubby says).

After my first daughter was born, my husband decided it was time to put the kibosh on all the swearing. He didn’t want his precious daughter showing up at preschool swearing a blue streak. Thus, the “swear kitty” was born. This ingenious device was meant to hold all the money I had to pay each time I used a bad word (with half-price swearing during Canucks’ games). Well, after I filled the thing many times over in the first day or two, I decided to punt it and take matters into my own hands.

I stopped swearing. Well, at least under most normal circumstances and within earshot of my daughter.

But now I fear it has turned me into a swearing-prude. I really don’t like to hear curse words much anymore. Especially shouted out windows in fits of road rage, and used casually in everyday conversation in front of my kids, by oblivious teenagers. (Aren’t teenagers just 6 foot tall 2-year-olds?)

So that got me thinkin’ about other ways in which prudishness has sneaked up on me. I don’t particularly think people should live together before they get married (I lived with my husband for 5 years before we got married). I shocked myself when I realized that one. We did what? Good gracious.

Is it age, or just that my memory is failing? Who knows. But by the time my own kids are teenagers, I’m sure they’ll think I’ve completely forgotten that I was once very young and very foolish.

I’d much rather be a woman than a man. Women can cry, they can wear cute clothes, and they’re the first to be rescued off sinking ships.

- Gilda Radner

For me, the advantage to being a woman has more to do with choices. Women can work, or not. We can have babies, or not. We can stay home with the kids, or not. We can work full time, or part time, or not. We can look outside of our jobs for our identities, or not. We can lean on our men, or not. We can be independent, or not. We are allowed to share our feelings, or not. We are allowed to express ourselves, or not.

I’m not saying it’s easy to be a woman, or a person for that matter. And I know my ability to make choices is the product of my upbringing, my education, my social status, my family, my husband, my environment, my health, and so on. But I feel so lucky to be a woman.

And even luckier to be a mom. Happy Mother’s Day everyone.