{Almost} Wordless...um...Thursday

To give you a break from all my blogging about cake, I give you Wordless Wednesday.

On Thursday.

Presenting....The Cake

Drum roll, please.



I didn't get a good shot of a slice showing all the gooey filling, since my "birthday girl" piece was an end piece with all the icing.

So imagine all that chocolate buttercream covering yellow cake with actual fudge marbled in (not just chocolate cake--fudge, people) and two fillings: strawberry, and a chocolate custard filling.

Do you understand the importance of the countdown now?

This is why I jog, friends. Because I get this excited over food.

In other news, I did not get the one thing I asked Wiggle Man to give me for my birthday--the word "Mommy." No, his ever-growing vocabulary, which includes "cake" (he means pancakes, not the sugary goodness pictured above), and "Pop" (meaning Pop-Pop, or yogurt pop, depending on the context), still does not include Mommy.

I did get a sweet Willow Tree, though, and the faceless boy and his faceless mommy look remarkably like my Wiggle Man and me, so I'm happy.

My Button

Dudes, I made a button for my blog!

It's not the most fabulous button you'll ever see, and I'll probably change it in the next week or so when I get a little more adventurous. And skilled. But, seriously, it took me a while just to make that teeny little button you see on the right. (Note: I've already changed it once since I put it up, and may again, who knows?)

The point of the button? To take you to the post where my songs are. I've got a couple of more I'd like to add in the next month, so stay tuned!

And, it's 7 hours and 50 minutes until cake. In case you were counting.

This Is It!

This is the last full day I will spend as a twenty-something. Tomorrow, around mid-morning, I become a thirty-something.

Whoa.

I've mentioned before that I'm ok with the whole "Big 3-0" thing. I really am. I mean, Hubba Hubba passed that threshold three years ago. So, being married to a thirty-something, and being a thirty-something can't be that different, can they?

Can they?

At any rate, I get cake. Yummy, marble cake with strawberry filling and a chocolate buttercream icing. Or frosting, if you insist on calling it that. Whatever it is, it's super delicious.
And, if Hubba Hubba was smart, the cake will read something like this:

Happy Birthday to my darling wife, the most beautiful-est, special-est woman there is.

You know, if they can fit all that on the cake.

Friday Peevishness

Every once and a while, I like to list some things that drive me nuts. Like, you know, gravity. I find it very therapeutic. Maybe these aren't things that bother you. Maybe you do these things yourself. (Don't worry--I'd still be your friend. I'd just make faces at you when the need arose.)

Irregardless of where you stand, I present my Friday Peeves:

• The word irregardless. It makes no sense.
• Drivers who refuse to merge when told their lane is ending. Come on, people. If we all wait until the very last second to merge, we end up with a mile-long back up. Like last night.
• Drivers in a roundabout who yield to the people entering the roundabout. In addition to the fact that this makes no sense, there's the whole issue of the road signs.
• People who do not flush. Public washrooms or otherwise. I don't want to have to flush for you.
• Having my personal space invaded in salad bars. I'm going as fast as I can, I promise.
• Drunk screaming guys (or gals) at ball games. The likelihood of Charlie Manuel heeding your advice does not increase with the volume of your voice, of the number of offensive words you choose to use.

I feel better already. Don't you? If you'd like to get something off your chest, feel free to leave it in the comments. Unless, of course, one of your peeves is people who list their peeves.

Wordless Wednesday

Trippin'

Well, if you read my last post, you know that we spent part of last week in Virginia. Rather than share the details of our trip, I thought I'd give you more of a visual:

Ok, so we spent a lot of time at a playground. And a small carnival. But most of those pictures aren't flattering. To me. So you only get to see the one of me and Wiggle on the slide.

The combination of our top-secret, confidential purposes there (insert evil laugh) and Wiggle Man's nap schedule meant we didn't do a lot of tourist-y things, but we still had an amazing time.

Plus, we learned what "cloth bologna" is. It's bologna. But it tastes less bologna-y than regular bologna. Don't ask me why.

Potty Break

What a day, what a day.

If you happened to be walking around a certain town in a certain part of Virginia today, you may have seen a woman walking hand in hand with a young boy, not quite two years old yet. You may have stopped the woman to tell her that her son was adorable--that he had beautiful eyes, beautiful hair. You would have been right.

You may have noticed the woman's hair was, perhaps, slightly less beautiful. You would have been right again. You wouldn't have known that the reason for that was she forgot her straightener. And her running shoes. Which has no effect on her hair whatsoever. But still.

(Fear not. I have it on good authority that the woman in question hit the local Wal-Mart to buy replacements.)

However adorable this mother-son picture may have seemed to you, walking around the picturesque town you may or may not have been walking around this morning, you would have had quite a different impression if you were in the vicinity of a certain coffee shop.

Had you been outside the ladies room of a certain coffee shop in a certain town in a certain part of Virginia, you may have heard the following conversation:

(If that was you, my deepest apologies.)

Mother: Wiggle Man, come here please. Come here, honey. Mommy has to change your bum.

Wiggle Man: EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

M: Please, honey, don't scream like that. This is a very small room. Now come here, please.

WM: EEEEEEEEEEEEAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!

M: Now. Come here NOW.

WM: (Shakes his head no.)

M: Stop touching that garbage can. Get up off the floor and come here so I can change your bum.

***It should be noted at this point that there was no actual change table in this washroom, nor was there even a counter to do in a pinch, so Wiggle Man ended up back on the floor, where his bum was promptly, and with wet paper towels--guess who forgot wipes?--changed anyway.***

M: Ok, Wiggle Man. All done. Mommy needs to use the toilet now, and then we can go.

WM: Uh-uh. (More head shaking, followed by whimpering and tiny hands being held over tiny ears. Whatever you may think, this is actually about the noise of the toilet flushing. It's Wiggle Man's newest fear.)

M: Wiggle Man, come back here. Stop running around. No honey, it won't be scary. Please stop whining. PLEASE. Stop making that sound. Seriously. Stop.

The conversation continued in much the same vein throughout the fearsome toilet flush, hand washing, and purse-gathering that followed.

And then, of course, came my apology to the kind woman waiting outside, who I can only hope was entertained while she waited for her own potty break.

Crying Over Spilled Milk

I'm not sure why gravity hates me. I've posted about this before, but gravity's onslaught continues.

Yesterday I was quite proud of myself for having cleaned my floors, and having cleaned them with vinegar instead of a harsh, yucky chemical. (I know, I know--some of you do this on a much more regular basis, and so my self-congratulating here seems trite. Just let me have this.)

Anyway, there I was, admiring my gleaming floors. Less than 24 hours later, I had spilled milk, a lot of milk, all over the kitchen floor. Twice.

I can't even blame this on Wiggle Man, or complain about Hubba Hubba tracking mud all over my clean floors--both of the men in my life are perfectly innocent of the defiling of my clean floors.

It was me. All me. Both times.

Well, me and my evil nemesis gravity.

Being BH

In my ever-growing list of blogs I enjoy, you'll find Suburban Turmoil. Lindsay is not afraid to tell it like it is, and tell it in a way that makes you laugh so hard you may or may not just pee a little. Last month she linked to a column she wrote about Brag Hags.



The Brag Hag, a term Lindsay coined, is that mom who insists on sharing with you each and every one of her child's many, many accomplishments.



Well, just this once, just this once, you understand, I am going full on BH.



See this?

If you spend any amount of time in our house at all, you've probably seen Wiggle Man doing one of two things: eating a peanut butter sandwich, or asking for one. Now, Wiggle Man's vocabulary may not be as extensive as your child's. I'll give you that. But is your child bilingual?

I thought not.

Remember, Wiggle Man is half Canadian, and there's some French Canadian in that Canadian part of him. You may not realize what he's saying at first when he comes up to you and says "Brrr. BRRR!"

Is he cold? Is he mimicking a car? But if you grew up in the TNSAF (True North Strong And Free) and remember any of your high school french, or if you always read the french side of your food packages, you know that what he's actually saying is this: "Beurre." As in "beurre d'arachide", or peanut butter.

Yes indeed folks, my kid is spontaneously speaking french.

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

D-Day

It's coming.

It's only 25 days away.

My 30th birthday fast approaches. And I'm ok with that. I'm actually looking forward to it.

For one thing, there's the cake. In Hubba Hubba's family, we do cake and ice cream for every one's birthday, big or small. Last year, Hubba Hubba got me a cake from my favourite local bakery, where their marble cake is yellow cake with actual fudge (not just chocolate cake) marbled in. And can I tell you about their butter cream icing? My mouth is watering just typing about it. I'm not kidding. This cake is so good, I refused to let any go to waste. I froze the leftovers in individual servings, and had birthday cake for the next six months.

And of course, I'm debating what I want for my birthday present. I need a new flat iron, but I've been watching infomercials for the InStyler. It looks pretty cool, and I know someone who has one, and she loves it. But then again, I a shopping spree at Target is always a great gift.

But as 30 approaches, I'm starting to understand why wisdom comes with age. I know, I know--most people don't equate wisdom with the ripe old age of 30. But when I look back on myself at 20, I can see a big change.

I'd like to think I've got more discernment. I hope I've got a better vision for my life, a more balanced vision. I make better decisions, and have more realistic expectations. (Except when it comes to gravity. I still expect the laws of gravity to suspend themselves when I'm having a clumsy day.)

So, all in all, I'm ready. Ready for the big 3-0. And all that comes with it.

Besides, no matter what--Hubba Hubba will always be older than me.

It May Be Late, But It's Still...

Wordless Wednesday! (Happy Canada Day!)