tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6062424955786427474Fri, 21 Aug 2026 19:38:24 +0000MusicGuest PostsBlog LinkysLady RantsWTF?Sex TalkWriting WorkshopContestsFebruaryArtEarly YearsMiscTop TenYes I went to Art SchoolCruel SchoolHumorHusbandJim's storyMoviesVamps n' TrampsWomen are insaneDo I look fat in this?MelbourneTwitterLove HurtsBloggingRoommates from another dimensionAlcohol + Hormones = DramaBlogsHe’s totally The One...OralPoetryChristmasFlashback FridayMy family sucks.My life is overTop 5Bat crap crazyFamilyFriendsMake believePhotosToilet HumorUFFVaginasAwardsBreaking up is hard to doDouche muppetsJeremy LondonLucky MeMasturbationSad crapTVWomenAunt Flow is a bitch.AuroraBirthday presentsDildosI peed on a stick.Online DatingOrgasmsPoopReligionTravelVibratorsWeird MeAnal SexBitchesBlogHer12BullyingCancer SucksConversationsGay? Do you mean happy?GrandmaIllegal? Kinda. Sorta. Maybe.Kevin SmithKinky SexScreenplayUpdatesAbout MeAustraliaCWALFFFFashionITPRIssuesMarkMcFucksMy bullshit theoriesOh the dramaPaigePearl JamPregnancyRacismRandom crapScriptsSmokingSoap OperaStudio30PlusSummer LovinTeaching SucksVideoWYDYoung and stoopidmarketing9/11AmericaBeing PrettyColourful LifeDreamsDumb BlondesFateFirst World ProblemsFirst timesFriend FodderGerard ButlerHorrible PeopleKris is awesomeLamenessLoveMarried CrapMomOld SchoolParodyPornographyRecipesRole ModelsShoppingSue JohansonTattoosTechnical CrapThreesomesUnmarketingWhoring Myself OutWinnersbrandingmotherhoodpenissponsoredweddingsAffairsAutismAwesome stuff going onBlissdumBrandon faked itCervixensCocksDaniel ToshEwan McGregorFeminismFoodFormattingGodGuys likely won't enjoy this postHarry PotterHoardingHolidaysI am delusionalI got a pen for my AndroidI hate birdsI love blasphemyI love whipped creamI think I can write until a real writer shows me how crap I amKiltsKris loves labels so I must make her proudMagpiesMedical shitMormonsMy Smooth MovesNails on a ChalkboardNewsOCDOpen MarriagePubic hairPublishedPumpkinReferring to myself in the third person is a clear sign of insanityRemembrance DaySTDsSantaSarcasmScotlandSelf esteemSerious shitSlightly Feminist rant but only by accidentSmelly menSocial MediaSportsSteamy hotnessSwingersTalk2QThank youTongue n CheekTree pornTuesday TunesViolence Against WomenWWTFIFLFWhat I wantWhen I got bent over and edited up the assWhite trashWho's your daddyWork crapZombiesabortionannouncementsbabyboobiesdick sistersetsypoliticspostersradiosextingskanksspermtwinsvasectomyAdventures in EstrogenSometimes I want to go where everybody knows my shame.noreply@blogger.com (Lady Estrogen)Blogger413125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6062424955786427474.post-6534668683717333145Sat, 01 Feb 2014 23:17:00 +00002014-02-01T18:17:05.618-05:00BloggingBlogsThis is the end. Sorta.I've been putting off this post for over a month now (actually, more like 6 months now, but who's counting?) but it's time! There will not be anymore posts on this site and in a few months from now, I will be taking it down completely.<br />
<br />
The decision to stop my blog isn't entirely that I've ceased to enjoy writing, but rather because when I began this blog in 2010, it was meant to be a collaboration blog of various women's stories of how funny and/or horrible it was going through puberty and their early 20s. That never happened. I got a surprisingly low response of women that wanted to share their stories, even anonymously, so I just began writing all of my own stories. Although I was quite the dumb skank, even I only had so many stories to share. After inserting a variety of posts about other topics, I found that my original intent was pretty much gone.<br />
<br />
It's not that I am quitting Adventures in Estrogen, but more like it's just complete, and I am proud of what I've accomplished here in the last 4 years, as well as treasuring the friends I have made because of this.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: x-large;">I love you!</span></b><br />
<br />
The reason why I will be taking it down in a few months is another story all together. It seems as even though I still get about 1000 page views a day, 995 of those seem to be from fucking pedophiles thinking that my stories of my (very) young sexual experiences will somehow turn them on. It's so fucking horrific and never did I ever even consider this to be a possible side effect of my writings, which are 100% meant to be cautionary tales for girls and/or parents of young girls and <b>nothing fucking more than that.</b> I guess I was naive. My blog search term results used to be hilarious and a constant source of entertainment, but in the past year, it's mostly just turned my stomach & I cannot even bear to check them anymore.<br />
<br />
I want to thank all of you that have supported, laughed, cried, commented and connected with me over the last 4 years. As you are probably well aware, I'm always on <a href="; target="_blank">The Twitter</a> and my website <a href="; has its own independent website now with some of my favourite posts permanently residing there. I'll also have a <a href="; target="_blank">Tumblr</a> (yeah, I love Tumblr and I don't fucking care who knows it) where I will post things that are longer than 140 characters. I also hope to write for <a href="; target="_blank">In The Powder Room</a> again someday, but that won't be until Baby E lets me near a computer for longer than 5 minutes.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">PS. <a href="; target="_blank">Buy our book.</a> Woot! </span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<b>See you on the flip side, hookers! Muuuuuuuuah.</b><br />
<b><br /></b>
<b>Lady E, signing off.</b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b>2014/02/this-is-end-sorta.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lady Estrogen)15tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6062424955786427474.post-7470891021586029191Sun, 15 Dec 2013 04:05:00 +00002014-07-15T19:18:25.704-04:00ConversationsHumorHusbandSex TalkSavvy SuckersMy husband and I were watching TV (as usual) when one of my favourite cheesy commercials came on -- the Durex Savvy Lovers. Since according to the television people, I shave my hoo-haa, so therefore, I <b>DESERVE</b> the best sex ever. Well, doesn't that just go without saying?<br />
<br />
Ahem.<br />
<br />
Anyway, this time it aired — having been only 8 weeks since I gave birth and had my tubes tied (WOOT!) — I snorted and attempted to be funny by mocking them...<br />
<br />
"Ha! They have to use condoms like suckers!"<br />
<br />
My husband raised his eyebrows and rebutted with a tone of snark while he pointed to Little Miss Fussypants, who I was currently rocking on my chest...<br />
<br />
"<b><i>THEY</i></b> ARE THE SUCKERS? ARE YOU SURE?"<br />
<br />
Humfph.<br />
<br />
Jerk.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="; imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="; height="290" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
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<br />2013/12/savvy-suckers.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lady Estrogen)3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6062424955786427474.post-6577205198685913621Wed, 27 Nov 2013 17:26:00 +00002013-11-27T12:26:22.802-05:00ConversationsSmokingSmooth OperatorIt had been 3 weeks since I had Baby E. She already had a cold and because of her stuffed sinuses, we hadn't slept for more than 20 minutes at a time for the past 3 days. The boys were being their typical 4 year old selves in the morning, which consisted of completely forgetting what needed to be done in order to get ready for school. Boots? Hats? Jackets? Apparently, I might as well be speaking fucking Greek. No day seems to be better than any other, but they can always get worse.<br />
<br />
I had just returned back to the house after dropping the boys off at school after what I commonly describe as "Thing 1's nuclear meltdowns". And the cause this time? Who the hell knows; I can't keep track anymore.<br />
<br />
I was fucking exhausted.<br />
<br />
Baby was actually sleeping in her carrier when I took her out of the car to go into the house. I noticed my neighbor's 18 year old son across the street, sitting in his car and smoking.<br />
<br />
<b>Cigarettes.</b><br />
<br />
Now, I hadn't had a smoke for 9 months -- my last one being about 45 minutes before I peed on a stick.<br />
<br />
At least it wasn't 45 minutes <i>AFTER </i>I peed, so whatever. Shut up.<br />
<br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Ahem.</span></b><br />
<br />
Maybe it was my exhaustion that was driving my decisions, but I swallowed my pride and went over to the kid, "Can I get a smoke off you?"<br />
<br />
"Sure. They're menthol though."<br />
<br />
MENTHOL?! Things have sure changed since I was in high school, but beggars can't be snobby bitches, I guess.<br />
<br />
I lied, "That's fine." All I knew is that I wanted to hold that stick between my fingers and hold it between my lips, so a pansy-assed mint flavored cigarette would have to do.<br />
<br />
As the boy handed me the cigarette, he pleaded with me, "Don't tell my mom, okay?"<br />
<br />
I backed away from his car and just smiled, "No problem. Don't tell my husband, okay?"<br />
<br />
He nodded and laughed.<br />
<br />
As I touched a flame to the end and inhaled, despite it being a tad minty, it was so goddamn glorious.<br />
<br />
Smooth and satisfying, as if I was living inside a cigarette poster from the 40s.<br />
<br />
I haven't had one since that day, but let's not discuss the 2lbs of M&M's I've had instead...<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="; imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="; /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">That's me, can't you tell?</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />2013/11/smooth-operator.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lady Estrogen)5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6062424955786427474.post-4116395033568814775Thu, 24 Oct 2013 14:15:00 +00002014-07-13T21:51:55.821-04:00announcementsbabyBirthday presentsShe's here!<div style="text-align: center;">
Although a slightly belated announcement, I thought it was time I got my arse into gear</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
to post something about my new bundle o'joy -- Baby E (a.k.a. Hiccup, a.k.a. Squeakers).</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Born October 9th, 2013, weighing 9lbs2oz -- via c-section. </div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
No pushing was required.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Thanks so much for everyone's well wishes on The Twitter & emails.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Love and hugs to you all!<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="; imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="; /></a></div>
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<br />2013/10/shes-here.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lady Estrogen)20tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6062424955786427474.post-7808584158553194410Tue, 01 Oct 2013 13:00:00 +00002013-10-02T08:52:09.018-04:00MusicParodyPregnancyThe final countdown — it is on!<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>OK, I've officially made it to October so it's go time, baby! </b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>In honor of my last few days of pregnancy, I wrote this song. I thought I'd put forth some extra effort, especially since this might be the last post for a couple weeks. Please note my seesawing, hormonal affections towards my husband, mostly based on whether or not he's giving me food at the time, obviously. </b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br /></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>------------</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
On the final day of pregnancy, my jerk face husband gave to me an extra load of his laundry.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
On the 2nd last day of pregnancy, my high blood pressure gave to me two puffy cankles.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And an extra load of his laundry.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
On the 3rd last day of pregnancy, my doctor gave to me three Labetalols.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Two puffy cankles.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And an extra load of his laundry.
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
On the 4th last day of pregnancy, my true love gave to me four tubes of Pringles.</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Three Labetalols.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Two puffy cankles.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And an extra load of his laundry.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
On the 5th last day of pregnancy, my cravings gave to me five iced coffeeeeees.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Four tubes of Pringles.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Three Labetalols.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Two puffy cankles.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And an extra load of his laundry.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
On the 6th last day of pregnancy, my baby gave to me six extra kilos.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Five iced coffeeeeees.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Four tubes of Pringles.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Three Labetalols.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Two puffy cankles.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And an extra load of his laundry. </div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
On the 7th last day of pregnancy, my doctor gave to me seven more goddamn days.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Six extra kilos.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Five iced coffeeeeees.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Four tubes of Pringles.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Three Labetalols.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Two puffy cankles.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And an extra load of his laundry. </div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
On the 8th last day of pregnancy, my whiny husband gave to me eight panicked texts.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Seven more goddamn days.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Six extra kilos.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Five iced coffeeeeees.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Four tubes of Pringles.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Three Labetalols.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Two puffy cankles.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And an extra load of his laundry. </div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
On the 9th last day of pregnancy, my baby gave to me nine toilet trips.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Eight panicked texts.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Seven more goddamn days.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Six extra kilos.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Five iced coffeeeeees.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Four tubes of Pringles.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Three Labetalols.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Two puffy cankles.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And an extra load of his laundry. </div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
On the 10th last day of pregnancy, my inner teenager gave to me ten throbbing zits.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Nine toilet trips.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Eight panicked texts.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Seven more goddamn days.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Six extra kilos.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Five iced coffeeeeees.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Four tubes of Pringles.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Three Labetalols.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Two puffy cankles.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And an extra load of his laundry.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
On the 11th last day of pregnancy, my true love gave to me eleven bites of poutine.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Ten throbbing zits.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Nine toilet trips.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Eight panicked texts.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Seven more goddamn days.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Six extra kilos.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Five iced coffeeeeees.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Four tubes of Pringles.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Three Labetalols.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Two puffy cankles.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And an extra load of his laundry.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
On the 12th last day of pregnancy, my fucking hormones gave to me twelve creepy skin tags.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Eleven bites of poutine.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Ten throbbing zits.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Nine toilet trips.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Eight panicked texts.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Seven more goddamn days.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Six extra kilos.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Five iced coffeeeeees.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Four tubes of Pringles.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Three Labetalols.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Two puffy cankles.</div>
</div>
<div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
And an extra load of his laundry-eee-eee-eee.</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
</div>
</div>
</div>
<div align="center">
<a href="; title="A Mother Life"><img alt="A Mother Life" src="; style="border: none;" /></a></div>
2013/10/the-final-countdown-it-is-on.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lady Estrogen)13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6062424955786427474.post-5406623542138827032Mon, 09 Sep 2013 16:00:00 +00002013-09-09T12:08:41.012-04:00HumorMusicPregnancyPush it or not to push it<div style="text-align: center;">
Here's a little song I've been singing to myself ever since I was told last week there's a good chance I could deliver this baby "naturally". I'm experiencing intense mixed emotions, for sure. Eik. <a href="; target="_blank">Sing along</a>, if you like -- I'm pretty sure you all know it :)</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-size: large;">Ah, push it</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-size: large;"><b>Ah, push it</b></span></b></div>
<b><span style="font-size: large;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Oooh, baby, baby</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>A 9lb baby?!</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The vaginal abyss!</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Ow! Baby!</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The decision's here!</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>[Now wait a minute, y'all</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>This pushin’ ain't for everybody</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Only the flexi people</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>So all you fly mothers, get on out there and push</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>PUSH, I said!]</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The decision's here, and the doc</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Wants me to push it, babe</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Always thought I’d get another C, so it’s a shock</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>The recovery time’s better, that we all know</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>But I didn’t overly want my hairy vaj to be put on show</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>To push it</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Ah, push it - push it good</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Ah, push it - push it real good</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Hey! Ow!</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Drugs are good!</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Oooh, baby, baby</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>A 9lb baby?!</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Yo, yo, yo, yo, baby-pop</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Yeah, you -- don’t gimme a kiss</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Better get me the drugs or else I'm gonna get pissed</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Can't handle the thought of poopin’ too, like I know I could.</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Don’t push it…</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b>Or push it good</b></div>
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<b>P-push it real good</b></div>
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<b>Oh, shit.</b></div>
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<b>The vaginal abyss!</b></div>
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<b>Boy, you’re now gettin’ the snip</b></div>
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<b>If I have to experience my lady bits rip.</b></div>
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<b>Ah, push it.</b></div>
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</span></b>2013/09/push-it-or-not-to-push-it.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lady Estrogen)13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6062424955786427474.post-4293730402197074093Wed, 28 Aug 2013 16:00:00 +00002013-08-28T23:55:39.777-04:00Lady RantsmotherhoodMy life is overWhere life plans go to dieI have never been good with attitude of "whatever happens tomorrow, happens". Fuck that. I need to know not only where my next meal is coming from, but where my next 1000 meals are coming from, at least. And I've always been that way.<br />
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I knew in University that I'd be a salary girl. A few of my fellow artist classmates were adamant on going the freelance, suffer-for-your-art route, but the mere thought of that made me twitchy.<br />
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Even as a child, I would get stomach pangs in the middle of the night because my father was SO CHEAP and would obsess about money so frequently that I was convinced that we were going bankrupt and we'd become homeless at any moment. Turns out, we were doing just fine. THANKS FOR THAT, DAD.<br />
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It's not that I'm obsessed with money or wanting to be rich; I just want to be "stable". The last few years with the twins has been a reality check and I somehow managed to accept the fact that we'd be dipping into the red every month until the boys started full time school -- which would be this September, 2013.<br />
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Husband and I had been calling it FREEDOM 2013 pretty much since 2008. From the latter part of 2009 until <a href=" day I lost my job in November of last year</a>, we had been paying FIFTEEN HUNDRED DOLLARS a month in childcare.<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">That would have all gone away next week.</span></b><br />
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Oh my fucking god, we could finally start paying off our other debts! Perhaps pay off our mortgage a little faster. Or actually contribute to RRSPs for us, or RESPs for the kids (which is laughable at the moment). We were going to have $1500 EVERY MONTH to do whatever the hell we wanted. I had been fantasizing withdrawing that amount at the end of September and rolling around in it; I was totally going to do it too.<br />
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<b>See? That pretty much would've been me . . . except with Canadian money, obviously.</b></div>
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And I was OK with waiting for that. It was an achievable goal. There was going to be an end to this annoying clusterfuck that is "not having enough money for the Lightning McQueen underwear that the boys want". Even as I write that, I realize it's a "first world problem" but nevertheless, it was a problem for me.<br />
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My boys, at 4 years old, have already begun asking me if things are "too much moneys" for them to have, and it truly breaks my heart. I see history repeating itself, except this time it's a <i><b>real</b></i> issue.<br />
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I should be getting emotional about my babies going off to big boy school next week, but it's really being over-shadowed by all this crap, and I hate it. So, I'm trying my very hardest not to still be bitter about losing my job, but even in my worst case scenario, I didn't see myself STILL being unemployed by this time. And yet here I am.<br />
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Unsure about tomorrow and freaking right the hell out.<br />
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Oh, and baby number 3 arrives in 6 weeks...<br />
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<b><span style="font-size: large;">Tick-fucking-tock.</span></b><br />
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<br />2013/08/where-life-plans-go-to-die.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lady Estrogen)13tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6062424955786427474.post-8000330358480893240Fri, 23 Aug 2013 13:00:00 +00002014-07-15T19:25:45.012-04:00BullyingCruel SchoolFlashback FridayFlashback Friday: The Sweater<div style="text-align: right;">
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I originally published this story back when I first begun blogging in 2010, but after everything that's been happening recently with bullying, and social media being such a strong contributing factor in teen suicides, I thought I should re-visit this memory.</div>
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Even now, as I re-read and tweak the sentence structures (oh-my-god-what-was-I-thinking-putting-that-comma-there-3-years-ago), I can't help but think I dodged a HUGE bullet having this happen to me <b><i>before</i></b> the age of cyber-bullying and social media. Something as silly as this could have easily spiraled out of control (even more than it already did) and caused some serious damage.<span style="text-align: right;"> </span></div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"><br /></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;">It took me until this incident to realize that although girls are always pegged to have serious peer-pressure issues; guys aren't that different after all.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;">In grade 11, I had a briefly lived friendship with Scott, a guy in my graphics class. Of course, I would have wanted more, but even being his friend was good enough for me. He was very cute, but also a little odd, which is why I guess I was drawn to him.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;">Scott and I really got along well; we had a lot of similar interests and I just found that I was comfortable talking to him. Shortly after we first started talking, he started to wait for me every morning at the top of the hill from our school and we would continue together from there. He usually skateboarded to school, so he would either weave around me and talk or just get off and carry it when we walked together. Either way, I really enjoyed our morning chats and looked forward to them.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">During school, he didn't really acknowledge our blossoming friendship, especially when his mates were around. That part I understood and it didn't bother me too much – I was well aware that most of them were complete douchebags. </span></span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;">He was a ‘member’ of the cool guy skater boy squad at our school, although only about middle-management, meaning basically that he was a puppet to the ‘higher-ups’. </span><span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;">In order to have any kind of relationship with one of these guys, whether platonic or otherwise, the ‘higher-ups’ would have to approve, or some stupid shit like that. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"><b><span style="font-size: large;">I assume the verdict came in that I was not good enough.</span></b></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;">Our friendship had gone one step further and he invited me to his house after school a couple of times. I had met his mum and even had dinner with them. Of course, being the curious person that I was, while we were hanging out in his room, I had gone through some of his wardrobe drawers. We had a good laugh when I found a few old "nerdy" items and I also found a really nice black sweater. He said he hated it and that it was a bit "faggotty" for him, but I really liked it. He said I could take it, if I wanted to – so I did, and I wore it to school the next day.</span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;">He met me that morning as usual, and everything was cool between us... until lunchtime. I still have no idea how the ‘guy squad’ pieced together that I was wearing Scott’s sweater – it was a pretty generic all-black sweater – but they found out somehow. I guess that let the cat out of the bag, and from there on in, I could only speculate how things went down. I am <i><b>guessing</b></i> that they confronted Scott about me and they must have been extremely disapproving or made fun of him, because the next thing I knew, they were all approaching me – like a swarm of hyenas surrounding an injured gazelle. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;">Then Scott yelled at me, <b>“Hey, you stupid bitch! Are you a klepto or something? What they fuck are you doing with my top?” </b></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">I really wasn't sure what was going on, and I didn't answer for a couple seconds; I was completely stunned, confused and terrified. This guy was supposed to be my friend. I just had dinner with him and his mother the night before, for fuck's sake! </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;">Then, one of the upper-management assholes took over, <b>“Answer him, Klepto Bitch! What the fuck are you doing with his shit?”</b> </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">I didn't even think that trying to defend my honor would have served a purpose. I just kept leering at Scott, like I was telepathically begging for his help or something, and he didn't even flinch from his stare of hatred that he reciprocated back in my general direction. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">Luckily, I was wearing a T-shirt underneath that damn sweater, and I quickly pulled it off over my head and threw it back at him. The only thing I drummed up the courage to say was, “You can take your stupid fucking sweater, assholes!” And then I ran away, so as to save myself from getting my ass kicked by a bunch of guys (which I wouldn't have put past them) and also so that Scott or the others couldn't take any satisfaction in seeing my tears of pure rage that began to burn down my face. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: justify;"><span style="color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">I could hear them yelling and taunting me as I ran away, as well as them victoriously high-fiving each other.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: large; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;"><b>The next couple months felt like an excruciating eternity. </b></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">They called me ‘Klepto Bitch’ for the longest time. I tried to ignore it, but it really drove me a little insane. I couldn't sleep and was having serious stomach and digestive issues. I tried to avoid them whenever possible, and if I did see them travelling in a pack, I just cringed and got ready for the insults to be viciously hurled at me. Of course, they were fine when it was just one of them; it was "the herd" that I had to fear. As for Scott, I didn't even try to approach him about the situation. It was clear that his role as a ‘puppet’ was far more important than any scrap of friendship that we had developed. If I was forced to come within close range of him in class, he pretty much ignored my existence. It was so utterly disappointing. </span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 18px;"><b>I hated him. </b></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 18px;"><b>I missed him.</b></span></span><br />
<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: large; line-height: 18px;"><b>And I felt sorry for him, all at the same time.</b></span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px; text-align: justify;">Eventually, their herd started to ignore me in the halls — I guess the joke got old, even for them. It took about 3 months, but it did come to an end, and it was so gradual that I barely noticed when it had been weeks since any of them taunted me. Those locusts likely had moved on to someone fresh and new to devour. </span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;">I was usually out-going, the life of the party — but they paralyzed me and for once in my life, I welcomed obscurity.</span></span><br />
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, sans-serif; text-align: justify;"><span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span>2013/08/flashback-friday-sweater.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (Lady Estrogen)8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6062424955786427474.post-55792234228041088Thu, 08 Aug 2013 15:22:00 +00002013-08-08T14:38:48.425-04:00ITPRPublishedYou Have Lipsti