Put on some pants, I beg you

Consider this a public service announcement.  It is not a discussion and is not open for such, it is more of a reiteration of the rules of human decency.

I work in the mall.  My desk sits with a direct view of the stairs, so it happens that I get to see, not only the people who walk in front of the clinic, but also the people walking up the stairs and partially across the upstairs “hallway”.  This allows for my day dreaming during slow moments at work to be cut short rapidly by the visions of the general public that pass into my view.

So, here is comes.  The part that is not open for discussion.  Jogging pants. STOP wearing jogging pants.

I dislike all jogging pants.  This includes the infamous pyjama pants that were all the rage in the 90’s.  Don’t get me wrong, there is a time and a place for these “comfy” pants, but the general public is not it.

No, I’m not done.  Yes, we are going to delve into this a little deeper.

Mens, light grey, elastic bottoms.  Those are the worst.  They almost bring out an anger from the pit of my stomach, it could also be nausea, but for now, let’s say it’s anger.  I could never figure it out, what about them bothered me so much.  Until one day a friend of mine at work said “it’s like a bag of baby mice”.  That’s it!  If it doesn’t dawn on you what that might be referring to, just stop thinking about it, it’s for the better.  Let’s leave a little to the imagination boys, even if it is “a little”.

So, where are jogging pants acceptable, you ask?  In your own home.  When you are sick and leaving the house to go to a) the hospital b) the clinic c) the drugstore.  I’ll even accept when skating, or walking in the woods, camping, summer cottage evenings.  You get the point right?

“But Natalie, what about people who can’t afford other pants and have those pants donated to them?”  I have a soul, I understand, but for the most part I think the general public should be able to put on pants, actual pants, before leaving the house.  Have no mirror?  Don’t know that you look like you have given up on life?  I don’t accept that as an excuse, for no makeup, or for your makeup looking like you put it on in the dark, sure, maybe.  You have no mirrors or reflective surfaces in your dwelling and are still trying to look like a functioning member of society, I congratulate you on your effort.  But no mirror is no excuse for no pants.  You can look down and see that you have a sorry excuse for pants on.

In short.  The way you dress and present yourself shows the world the level of respect you have for yourself.  I am all for being casual, but I think some of you have taken it a little too far.

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Everybody does it

Poop.  We all do it, there is even a children’s book about it, but most people don’t talk about it.

Now, before we start, let’s make it very clear that I have never really shied away from the topic.  I get some of my best thinking/pinteresting/facebooking/texting done while on the throne.  My friends are all parents, once that happens, it’s amazing how much you talk about something that you would have never mentioned before.  And I mean, full conversations.  I have also had my fair run ins with doctors, who always seem to be overly interested in what happens in your bowel.  Then I should probably mention  my favourite Southern Belle.  She’s a pooper, but she makes it classy, and has no qualms about letting you know when it’s happening.

In my family, poop has been the topic of most conversations for a couple of months now.  Why?  Is someone sick? No.  Have we made new friends with a GI specialist or nutritionist? No, although those people love to ask you about your poop, so be careful.  The short answer is, we have Rory.

Rory is my almost, three year old niece.  She is a spunky little girl, that has the memory of an elephant and loves to sing and dance.  Like most almost three year olds, she has the ability to brighten your day with just a smile, and comes out with the craziest sayings at the most random times.  Needless to say, from the moment she was born, she rapidly became my favourite human.

Rory is now potty training, and I’m not sure any of us knew what we were in for with this one.

First Rory was almost afraid of poop.  She pooped in the tub once and screamed so loud and frantically you would be sure someone was trying to kill her.  Then, possibly thanks to a little boy at daycare, she was obsessed with poop.  I mean obsessed.  “Rory, what would you like for dinner?”  “POOP!”  “Rory, what’s your favourite colour?” “POOP!” Everything was poop with her, everything, except what she was willing to do in the potty.  Then she would actually have to call people and tell them about her poops.  “Rory, how are you today?  Did you and mommy do anything fun?” “I pooped!  It was a big mushy one.”  Seriously.

Now that we are over that, and Rory having massive potty successes, if find that we are still talking about poop as part of regular dinner conversation, even when Rory isn’t there to bring it up.  Last night, I was at dinner and my parents tell me that now, Miss Rory reads the flyers on the toilet.  Yup, she likes the Farm Boy one the best.  She sits on her potty, and opens that big ol’ flyer, and tells you all about all the fruits and veggies on sale.  Oh, and her doggie (Gertie) has to be there too.  The kid who used to be afraid of poop, now makes it a family event.

All in all, yes, everybody poops.  But only Rory can make it an event.

 

 

Natalie VS the Ball

I don’t have kids.  I have a dog.  Her name is Tallulah (Lu for short) and she has literally saved my life.  She is amazing and I love her.  She’s quiet, I could count on one hand how many times I have heard her bark.  She’s got a LOAD of personality, and I think she’s adorable.

I have friends with kids, in fact, being days away from 34 years old, most of my friends are parents.  I have bought toy after toy for their children, believing in karma, I NEVER buy those annoying noisy toys that make parents want to drop their children off at WalMart and never look back.  Merely for the reason that, if I ever have children, I don’t want the payback.

Enter the ball.

My parents take my dog to the park for me sometimes during the day, so she gets some extra play time and is out of the crate a little more often. I appreciate the help, and it makes me feel not so bad about Lu being alone while I am at work.

One fine day, I come home and there is an orange ball in my house.  It’s a chuckit ball.  Chuckit is a great toy, helps you hurtle a ball a million times for your dog to chase and even picks the ball up for you so you don’t have to touch it when it gets slimy.  Genius.

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Apparently Lu picked up the ball at the park, played with it, then carried it home.  Dad asked around, no one claimed the ball, so Lu did.  Fine, whatever, I’m happy she has a toy that she loves this much.  For days all she would do is play with the ball.  She is obsessed with it.  This ball has become the equivalent of every noisy, annoying toy I never bought the kids in my life.  Karma, you are sorely mistaken.

Lu will pounce on the ball and throw it for herself.  She will chew on it until her spit has filled the ball and it makes gurgling squishing noises.  She especially likes to chew it in the middle of the night.  Her favourite chewing spot?  Directly beside the sofa.  So most of my days home are spent pulling the stupid ball out from under the sofa, only to have her launch it there five seconds later.

“Just stop getting the ball” you say?  Come on, I’m not that stupid.  I’ve tried just leaving it there.  This action results in Lu laying on the floor, her face jammed under the sofa, crying and talking until I get the ball out.

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Taking the ball away just seems cruel, like removing the soother from your child before they are ready to give it up, or throwing away their favourite toy.  Heck, I’ve even replaced the stupid ball when it got to be over chewed and had a hole in it.

My parents, who started this whole ball business in the first place, have even requested for the ball not to accompany LU out for stays at their house anymore.  Apparently it makes Dad crazy… go figure.

Ball: 200, Natalie: 0

Mother Nature, You are a *bad word*.

It’s not a secret;  I am not a winter person.

I doubt that I have ever complained about the heat in summer, or the rain in spring.  I am the first one to say how beautiful snow is when it starts to fall in December and Christmas just isn’t right without a light, fluffy blanket of sparkling snow on the ground.  Tiny lights shining up through and everything glistening and peaceful.  But, now it’s March and winter can eff right off.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love cozy sweaters, mittens, hot chocolate and curling up with a good book in front of a fire while a blanket of snow silently falls outside the window.  It’s cozy and comfortable and beautiful.  But only for a month, at most.

I think winter is just too long.  This winter especially.  Ice coated in snow on the side walks makes it a near death experience every time I walk Tallulah.  I’m tired of no colour, dreary white/grey days.

In short.  Winter sucks.  I long for the days of sweating on the dock at the cottage, swimming, fishing, even apple picking or pumpkin patches, easter egg hunts and tulips.

Dear Mother Nature,  I’m not sure why you seemingly love winter so much, but at this point, I think you are the only one.  On to Spring please.