Ski Princess, NOT

I spoke with my fabulous cousins yesterday and in the course of our conversation, they mentioned our upcoming holiday together, which will be spent at a ski resort in Vermont.

I am looking forward to the vacation because I love them. I love their kids. We are totally comfortable together and my South African cousin has made cursing an art form.

I am not looking forward to skiing, snow, slush and winter jackets that won't zip up over my bust. Nobody looks good in ski gear. We all resemble the Michelin Man. I used to live in British Columbia, where some of the greatest ski resorts can be found but I never enjoyed it. Oh sure, I'd go with all of my friends and they would talk moguls and black diamonds. I'd wave to them and labour over to the bunny hills where four year olds with green snot would glide past me and make perfect snowplow stops. Not me. If I needed to stop, I

a)fell

b)purposely sat down (not recommended as it really hacks people off who are behind you)

c)or came in contact with a stationary object which usually meant that I laid a fellow skiier out. As I mentioned before, the "other skiier" was usually fresh out of diapers so parents hated me. I was the bunny hill menace.

"Take lessons." Um, yup. Nothing like stating the obvious.

And then there is the gear. It takes half the stinking morning to get the stuff on and there is something about being locked into the ski that gives me pause. I know that if there is great force, the boot will disengage itself from the ski but think about that for a minute. Great force. Bone-breaking, ankle-shattering, ACL-tearing, leg-up-over-your-ears (involuntarily) force. In spite of the fact that I have given birth to two children, I do not have a high pain tolerance. I am also pretty partial to breathing without the aid of a ventilator. From what I understand of the sport, trees do not yield the right of way. So...

Skiing scares me.

There is hope, however. Sistah cousin recently informed me that there are short skis now that behave in much the same manner as hockey skates. (cue heavens parting and angels singing)
I asked her if they came with poles and she said, "Have you no shame?"

Okay, so no poles but I know that I can skate. I used to skate really well. Of course, back then, I had a hockey stick for balance. Nevermind. If these ski skates turn out to be real, I may never have to roll down another bunny hill again.

Note to self: check Victoria's Secret for long underwear to offset Michelin effect.

Date update

Well, it's good thing that my children were with their father this weekend.

I met my date (we'll call him Harley) on Friday evening and we hit it off immediately. For over two hours, we chatted about everything from exes to expectations and I am happy to report that he is articulate, funny and he has loads of hair. Then, I invited him back to my place to see my etchings. He left on Sunday just before the kids got back home.

I need to give my family a minute to digest that information. Could someone please get to my mum and see if she might like a glass of water and help getting the lid off of the Xanax.

Okay, better?

KIDDING!!! I didn't invite him back but if I was Madonna, I would have.

Harley appears to be normal. He is straight, has an ordinary relationship with his mum and I'm not getting a Ted Bundy vibe from him at all. He was born and raised in a different country and thus, he possesses this accent which made me want to run to Victoria's Secret for provisions.

Our coffee meeting was quite good except for the fact that we were so obviously on a first date and I picked the WORST seat in the place. Instead of being nestled away in a corner with a bit of privacy, I plunked down at a table in the dead center and thus, as other people seated themselves, our conversation became the entertainment.

After a couple of hours, we decided to part ways and walked outside where we continued to talk for another 30 minutes. We exchanged numbers and this turned out to be a tense moment of the night. I gave him my cell number and he said, "Let me call the number to make sure that I put it into my phone correctly."

Well, he dialed it and my phone did nothing.

It lay in the palm of my hands like a dead fish and I was positively dying because I knew he was thinking that I had given him a false number. I could feel little beads of perspiration break out at my hairline and suddenly, I looked like someone who is hooked up to a lie detector being asked if they masturbate. Talk about awkward. I stared at the phone in utter disbelief, willing the damn thing to ring. I was chewing on the panic when all of the sudden, we figured out the problem and my phone starts to vibrate and belt out the blues.

Then came time for the goodbye and we looked like we might have been directing traffic. I stuck out my hand at the same time that he might have been going for a hug and we both sort of take a step back and then he sticks out his hand and I go in for the hug and then I'm thinking, "ROCK, PAPER, SCISSORS!"

I had parked my car on the far side of the building in case I needed to make an emergency exit which was good planning for a bad date but not so smart for a good date because I found myself having to turn my back on him to walk to my car. I gave him the view of my broad shoulders that, while useful for laying an opponent out on the boards in hockey are not my most flattering asset. And then there is my Grandmother's bum which has afflicted several women in my family, deserves it's own post and has somehow firmly planted itself on the top of my legs. Let it just suffice to say that IT'S NOT MY GOOD SIDE!

Apparently, it didn't bother Harley. We went out again on Saturday....

Coffee and a Chat

Tonight, I'm throwing caution to the wind and going out on a date. Actually, it's coffee and a chat. I think there is a difference.

I am hoping that this feeling in the pit of my stomach is just the flutterings of nervous anticipation and not some intestinal disorder because my luck seems to run along those lines.

I met this man online through a popular dating service. Look, I know what you are thinking because I've already been down that road and there shall big no big "L" branded on my forehead tomorrow. Apparently, online dating has come into its own and I am hip.

So there.

Okay. The truth is that the whole process feels so unnatural and forced but how else does the late thirty/forty something crowd meet new people. Bars? Not a chance. Besides the risk of being referred to as a coug, I feel a little sad watching my generation dance enthusiastically to the strains of "YMCA" (with the accompanying arm gestures) and "You Shook Me All Night Long". It was one thing to be young, a little tipsy and looking for nothing more than a shag. It's quite another to witness my tribe shaking their ample behinds, a little tipsy and looking for a SPOUSE.

IN A BAR.

So we resort to the world wide web, which has some significant pluses. They make you spend hours filling out questionnaires and personality profiles and from this lunacy, certain facts are discernable.

Is he a smoker or not? I can't have a smoker because I am still too new at the non-smoker thing.

Is he deluded a Republican? I can't relate to Republicans. I look at George "terrah" Bush and Michael "I feel it in my gut" Chertoff and I find myself wondering if they would appear less bizzare if they conducted their press conferences sporting big doobies and dreadlocks. Mon.

Has he ever been married? Any man who reaches the age of 40 something without walking down the aisle at least once has issues:

a)gay
b)unnatural relationship with Mom (close or conflicted)
c)serial killer

In any case, I think it's wise to steer clear.

Besides this pertinent info, a big plus is that the dating profiles come with pictures. People can talk all they want about getting to know a person's soul through meaningful dialogue...blah, blah, blah (and I bet they read these)but there is no polite way to say, "You're fugly". Click on a profile and don't like the shot? Delete. Clean, simple and nobody spends time on a shrink's couch.

I have to admit that I was totally freaked at trying this method. But, since I've clearly established that trolling the local pub is not an option and finding my true love in the produce section of the Piggly Wiggly is soap opera fodder, I'm going to give it a shot.

My son has asked me to find a boyfriend who likes to do guy stuff and who has a ten year old son. My daughter has put her request in for a boyfriend who will buy her a pony.

I'm just happy to meet with someone who wants absolutely nothing from me except coffee and a chat.

My first meme

I am about two months new to the blogging phenomena and so, I haven't had that much exposure to this freaky language and the inside jokes about Html and RSS. I have a list of folks on my Google reader and I've often seen the terms like "tag" and "meme" and "linkback". I have just found it all very confusing so I made like an ostrich and chose to ignore (until I found the time to query the urban dictionary, that is).

Well, I can't ignore it anymore because Maggie, a fellow neo non-smoker, tagged me and invited me to participate in my first ever meme.

So the theme of the meme (do they rhyme?) is Blogging Tips. Again, being so new to this, my tip is likely to be about as useful as Cox Cable's customer service. So here it goes. My comments are below each tip.

1. Look, read, and learn.
NeonScent

Has not helped me to glean the meaning of meme. Note to self: must find bifocals.

2. Be, EXCELLENT to each other.
Bushmackel

Of course. Spam and hatemail are evil.

3. Don’t let money change ya!
The Random Forest

WTF?!! Gosh, I don't know where to spend the dollar I've made so far. Coin laundry? Nope, too expensive. Vending machine? Ditto. Tooth fairy payments? Nope, inflation. I've got it! Quarter candy machine for 5 candies that taste like soap! Yeah!

4. Always reply to your comments.
Chattiekat

This has stumped me. Do you reply on your own blog or head over to theirs or email? How, I ask you, how?

5. Blog about what you know & love.
Sugar Queens Dream

Same advice for novelists and so far, I suck in that area.

6. Alt tag your images for added search engine exposure.
Fracas

I do not speak Greek. I'll add "alt tag" to that elusive research I've got to do.

7. Blogging is supposed to be fun, Don’t let it stress you!
WherewasI

Okay. I would be lying if I didn't admit that there is some self-imposed pressure to blog every day.

8. Don’t be afraid to comment on other bloggers sites!
Not Your Typical Granny

Comments good. Lurkers just one step shy of stalkers (kidding).

9. Post at least once a day!
Basenji Mom

Agree but who the hell can be interesting EVERY day. Except, of course for my blog roll. They rock. And Maggie's "quit meter" just tickles me every time I see it.

10. Have an informative About Me page
Marcus at willifordblog

But not that informative because the world is full of fucking CRAZY people and all I need is some guy showing up on my doorstep calling me a man-hating feminazi and asking me if I like to be spanked.

11. Blog it because it's too interesting/amusing not to share.
maggies mind

I will say that I'm always surprised at the email that I get on posts that I think are crappy.

And, here is my tip:

12. Keep a pen in your purse, car, pocket protector, whatever because blog material happens every single day and you need to write it down so you don't forget. Then take those scraps of paper and throw them in a bowl. When you are stuck for an original idea, pull one out.

I sound so brainy, don't I? Truth is, Steph gave me the tip. She doesn't blog (she is lurking goddess) but if she did, she'd be invitd to speak at BlogHer,(my secret dream...right up there getting a chance to say, "I want to thank the Academy....").

So there you have it. My first meme. I'm supposed to "tag" several others and show some "link love" but I don't know precisely what either of those terms mean so
Blog on!

Oh iPhone, I have coveted thee

I bought an iPhone.

I didn't mean to get one.

Really.

And yes, I know how insane that sounds.

But I have coveted the idea of this phone since last March when I attended CeBit in Germany and people were talking about it like it was really going to be manufactured.

It's like that with all the cool gadgets that Apple makes. I can remember salivating over the iPod when it debuted. It was $400, though. My budget at the time did not allow for fun stuff beyond a piece of Double Bubble. I was pregnant, nesting and trying to figure out how to smother my husband in his sleep.

So, I waited and I coveted.

There are 4 iPods of various sizes and capabilities in my household, now. My kids and I have all of the accessories for car and home. I can't believe that I went to the gym with a huge portable CD player around my waist like those ridiculous fanny packs you see on tourists in Europe. Remember the Walkman? My children don't even know what that is. And to think that I personally experienced the 8 track tape, 45's and LP's.

Holy sidetrack batman.....back to the iPhone acquition...

I was determined not to jump on the hype bandwagon even though the phone looked awesome. Touch screen, user friendly (imagine that), with every feature one could possibly imagine. Yes, there were some known limitations and the price was enough to give anyone pause. So, I told myself that I would wait for the price to drop and for all of the bugs to be worked out before I bought one. My BlackBerry would have to do.

Then, my daughter gave my BlackBerry an impromptu bath in a melted McDonald's McFlurry. It's a long story but I want you to picture keys that stay down when you press them and never come back up again. Sugar is an amazing glue. And my phone started to smell a bit sour.

I will say that the BlackBerry is an unusually durable item. Mine was dropped several hundred times with no problem and even after the run in with the ice cream, it still worked but it began to develop a host of issues. I'm still amazed that it ever powered on again after the trauma.

Of course, all of this meant that I had to get a new phone. Sam's had a great deal on BlackBerrys but by the time I made the decision to get a new one, they had sold out and my particular club would not be getting the 8800 in again. Ever.

I went home the night of the Sam's visit, logged on to eBay and placed a bid for an iPhone. The auction was to end in one and a half minutes so I knew that I probably wouldn't get the opportunity to counter bid. I did not expect to win.

But, I did.

Oh shit!

OH SHIT!

I was stunned. I tried to get my mind around the amount of money that I had just spent on a phone.

I had terrible, racking buyer's remorse..

...for about 15 seconds.

It arrived this past Monday and I love it. I really, REALLY love it. I haven't been this excited about anything since the ink dried on my divorce decree.

And here's the icing on the cake. I activated the phone and my new data plan costs $20 a month. It used to cost me $64.99. I just knew that couldn't be right so I called AT&T. They confirmed that my savings would be $47 a month with tax AND I get a bunch of text messages in my new plan. My iPhone will have paid for itself in less than a year. Makes me a tad verklempt.

Now, I'm eyeballing the MacBook Pro. Coveting, actually.

Lions and tigers and BEARS, oh my.

My sister is younger than I am.

She completed her university degree in a reasonable amount of time.

She has a good job, minutes from home (big plus since she lives in a city where rush hour is an all day event).

She did not marry a gay man and she has managed to avoid divorce.

She has been flipping real estate since she was in her mid twenties and now, she and her family reside in this fabulous, professionally decorated home on the side of a mountain in a posh British Columbia suburb called Anmore.

She is quite firmly a Type A personality.

She has two adorable children.

Her eldest will either be a rich and famous Hollywood actor, a rich and famous Broadway star or a rich and famous rocket scientist. Prodigal is inadequate in describing this child.

His brother will be a rich and famous sports star. He doesn't play organized sports yet because he's 2 but the child is massive with nary a lick of our family's fat genes. He has to play sports. Or become a bouncer.

In short, life is good for my sister and there aren't a lot of wrinkles in her Home and Garden existence.

Of course, being in the mountains, you sometimes get a few unwelcomed visitors in your back yard. I will admit that looking at the photos below made the hair raise on the back of my neck. Two little boys could be mistaken for an appetizer.

Of course, my mum was her rational, logical self when she saw the pictures.

"You'll have to move."

Harry Potter Mania- No Spoilers

I was one of those who piled into the local big box bookseller on Friday night to eagerly await the release of the final installment of the Harry Potter series.

I began reading the series in 1999. I was working in a Sam's Club and The Prisoner of Azkaban was about to be released. People were manic. We nearly sold all of the books on the release date and ended up being out of stock within a couple of days. I had never seen anything like it. So, I jumped on the word of mouth bandwagon and I've been hooked ever since.

When the first movie adaptation came out, I was prepared to hate it because I'm kind of a book dork and I just couldn't imagine Rowling's work translating well up on the big screen. I was completely wrong. I've loved the movies and they have served to provide faces for the characters. Now, it's impossible for me to read about Harry and not conjure up the face of Daniel Radcliffe.

This time was going to be different from the other releases. I was going to go slowly and savour every word knowing that this was the last book. I was determined to pace myself. I would not, not, not devour this book.

Uh huh.

At 10:22 am Sunday morning, I finished the book. Gorged on it. In 34 hours, I had polished off 759 pages. No self control. Story of my life..just ask my mother.

I think I remember throwing my children a loaf of bread sometime Saturday but I can't be sure. It's all a blur. At one point, my daughter found me crying, fully clothed, in my bathtub and became somewhat alarmed. I was warmed by her concern but profoundly pissed with the enhanced acoustics of my bathroom. My jacuzzi tub is usually a good hiding spot.

So now it's over. My son, who was a baby when these came out, is now reading the series. He's been badgering me since I finished the book, looking for hints as to how it all ends. I am hoping that my daughter will take an interest some day. Stephen King said the series, "will indeed stand time's test and wind up on a shelf where only the best are kept; I think Harry will take his place with Alice, Huck, Frodo, and Dorothy and this is one series not just for the decade, but for the ages."

I agree. Jo Rowling's contribution to child literacy over the past eleven years is impressive. For millions of kids in 65 languages, the Potter books have been the nudge they needed to begin reading.

Late 2009, Univeral Studios in Orlando will be opening "The Wizarding World of Harry Potter" theme park. My kids and I will be among the first visitors.

I can't wait.

Nostalgia and Nausea

It's Friday and it's been a long, long week. So today, Steph and I are talking about business and somehow, we get onto the topic of the 80's,
which leads to chatter about Michael Jackson,
which moves us onto the debut of the Thriller video,
which parlays into other favourites we experienced as kids,
which naturally takes any woman between the ages of 35 and 45 back to the movie Grease,
which causes said women to think about blue eyes, cleft chin, impossible hair and Greased Lightnin'.

Oh, John Travolta we haved loved you. I have loved you. Grease, Saturday Night Fever, Welcome Back Kotter, Urban Cowboy, Pulp Fiction. Dance for us, baby.

...And then Stephanie showed me this. These images are now horribly seared in my brain. I had almost forgotten that there was a time when Daisy Dukes were acceptable attire for men. Damn you Steph. I HAD ALMOST FORGOTTEN!!!!


**The real horror starts after about a minute and a half***

Really Bad Date Part 1

I have recently begun exploring my dating options again. My marriage has been over for nearly four years and woman cannot exist on golf, TIVO and kids alone. My South African cousin tells me to go to a bar, pick someone up and take care of business. Guys are so practical like that.

But the truth is, I've never been a terribly good judge of character where men are concerned so me and some nameless stranger would probably end up more like the shower scene from Psycho than the tub scene in Pretty Woman.

Knowing this, I have welcomed the opportunity to have friends set me up on blind dates. I figured that if I went missing, they'd be able to point the police in the right direction.

A few years ago, a friend of mine asked me if I would entertain going out with a newly divorced guy that her sister knew. Did he have all of his teeth? Yes. Was he employed? Yes. Collecting social security? No. Well sign me up!

I was very careful in the pre-date preparation. I won't go into detail because every woman out there knows exactly what this entails. Let it suffice to say that razors, tweezers, exfoliants, lotions, expensive hair products, tricky panties and valium were involved.

We agreed to meet at a local restaurant after an email exchange of pictures.
So he shows up in this dingy windbreaker that at one time may have been white but had clearly seen better days. It was gray, dirty and fraying at the cuffs. His jeans had a faded grass stain on the left knee and a dried rim of mud circling the hems. Which brings me to his moon boots. They were quite possibly the largest, ugliest hiking boots I'd ever seen. I am talking KISS in the late 70's with their platforms big.
I will reserve judgement. I will reserve judgement. Oh Christ! Is that an afro comb sticking out of his back pocket?

So we sit and get a bit of the small talk out of the way. Actually he talked, I listened. I heard about the ex-wife and how she cheated on him and how she could NEVER be satisfied. Oh yes, and he hoped that she had finally found what she was looking for because he'd never take her back.

"Oh. Has she tried to reconcile?"

"No. I'm just saying that if she ever did...." Uh huh. Did she see your afro comb?

So, we get to the business of ordering and he starts talking about money as in, "She took half of all MY money". He then announces that he is only going to have a salad (in a fusion Mexican place) to try to keep the costs of the meal in line because HAVE I SEEN THE PRICES AT THIS JOINT? I silently wonder if I would be in less pain if I pulled my eyelids up over my head.

The conversation somehow works its way around to hobbies and I take the time to mention the aforementioned boots. Like I said, they were enormous and I asked him if they were heavy.

"Huh?"

"Your boots. They're huge. I don't think I have ever seen hiking boots with soles that big. Is there a special purpose for them?"

"Well, you know what they say about the size of a man's boot...." said with a distinctly creepy smile and an exaggerated wink of someone who has spent entirely too much time in front of a mirror practicing faces.

I did my best to appear as though I had no idea what he was talking about. It was easy. I had had ten years of experiencing the real thing with my ex husband.

Awkward silence...on to the next topic:

Alex, I'll take museums and art for $500.

So he tells me about a friend of his who is a curator for a museum and had recently hosted an Egyptian show. He says his favourite part was looking at the esophagus of a mummy because it was carved and painted with great detail. Wow. How exactly is that done?

"Oh really? Was each one of the mummies accompanied by its own sarcophagus?" (Steady, steady)

"I don't remember if each one had an esophagus but it was a really important show." Yes, I'm sure it was a fucking anatomical wonder.

The food comes and I pray that he either orders another bottle of wine (unlikely) or I wake up. He had saved the very best part of the date for dinner. Being a sharing kind of guy and completely emotionally available (his words, not mine), he offered up a view of his partially chewed food every few seconds. I had to turn away as the gaps in his teeth filled with green goober. He then suggested that we might like to end the evening with nightcap at his place and perhaps, a movie. Then he winked, AGAIN. The slurp, smack and sucking saliva through his teeth sound (probably to dislodge some of that green charm) became deafening.

I politely excused myself to the ladies' room which was parked next to the double doors that led into the kitchen. I spied a busboy at one of those decorated coffee stations and sidled in beside him.

"Is there a way out of here except through the front door?"

"No. Except for the kitchen door, ma'am."

"I need you to show me that door."

"I can't. We aren't allowed to have customers in the back."

"Please. You see that guy over there picking his teeth with his fingernails?"

The busboy nods and I am not kidding when I tell you that even he cringed a bit at the dental mining going on at the table.

"That is my blind date. I am in hell. YOU MUST HELP ME!!!"

After clearing it with the manager, I was wisked through the kitchen and out to the back lot. It was like highschool all over again. All of the cool kids were out there having a smoke. The manager explained my situation. We all laughed, I lit a cigarette and then I walked to the side of the wall and stared at my vehicle. Bad date would be able to see me if he was looking out the window. Not good. So, one of the cooks volunteers to drive my car around back and the problem was solved.

I called my friend and told her that her sister must be on drugs because that was the worst date I had ever had. What in the world did the little matchmaker think we had in common?

"Well, you were both single." Oh that's rich.

So, three weeks later, I am doing my expenses and see this cell number that I don't recognize. I call it. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Bad date answers and obviously has caller ID.

"So, I lost you that night."

"Um..sorry to bother you. I didn't recognize the number. Doing expenses. Have.To.Go."

"Well, if you'd ever like to go out again, feel free to give me a call."


Yeah, I'll be sure to do that right after I have my brain sucked out through my nose.

MRI and Grateful Pie

Very early yesterday morning, exhausted and uncaffeinated, I drove to the hospital for my MRI. They have you arrive forty five minutes before your appointment so that you can fill out several hundred forms and formally have an admissions officer rape your bank account.

I sat down with the mountain of paperwork and the lady asked me if I would be paying the full $537 now or would I need some sort of payment plan. I answered that I would like to see how we got to $537 first. Well, you would have thought that I had asked for her cup size or something equally inappropriate. She huffed and pointed her fake fingernail (painted blood red) at one of the documents in her possession and said they had spoken with my insurance company and they had already calculated the EXACT figure. Excellent! Now would she mind sharing that with me.

The answer was no.

Ummm...why not?

Privacy laws prevent us from disclosing that information.

I turned and looked behind me because I was convinced that Alan Fudd was going to round the corner at any minute and tell me to smile for the candid camera. In the past, I have not picked my battles effectively. In this case, lacking sleep and coffee, I just didn't see a happy outcome so I smiled politely and asked what a cervical spine MRI costs these days.

$3700.00

Wow.

A really good MRI machine costs upwards of a cool million but at $3700 a scan, any hospital could have that baby paid off after a few months of regular use. Now, I know that they don't collect near that amount on most of the tests they perform because insurance companies negotiate a much more reasonable cost but there are those that have to pay the big bucks.

The uninsured. The working poor.

Regardless on what side of the political fence you sit, doesn't it seem screwed up that the people who can least afford it are the ones who are charged the most?

Even though the $537 gave me pause, (I could have bought a tankful of gas instead), I was grateful to have a good, affordable insurance plan.

Heaven on Earth

There are things on this earth that I am convinced have been put here to give us a little preview of heaven. Now I could wax poetic about the fabulous scenery surrounding some ocean bluff or get all saccharine and sentimental about my daughter's silky eyelashes but what I'm talking about are consumer goods, baby.
Just an FYI: I'm not being paid to endorse any of this stuff.


Dove dark chocolate is inexpensive, widely available and lick your fingers good. Useful to chew like Tums during the monthly hormonal week and quite effective as a bribe for sweet toothed children.



This is a Schick Intuition Razor. It will make you weep with gratitude. Wet the razor, wet the hairy site and begin. No burn, no blood and no rust spot because you can toss out that can of smelly raspberry scented shaving cream. It is perfection.


This weekend, I went to my local Sam's Club and for $150, I turned my bed into a sleep wonderland. People had raved to me about memory foam mattresses and toppers so I thought I'd give it a try. This 3" piece of foam is a miracle. I have not slept this soundly since my freshman year philosophy class.


I love having satellite TV and not just because it enabled me to flip the bird to Cox Cable. I love it because it came with a DVR which makes my life so much easier. I spend two seconds telling the box what I want to watch and it goes out every day, finds it, records it and has it waiting for me like a dry martini after work. If the box could take out the garbage, I'd consider marriage. On a really catty note, a high definition signal on a high def TV is completely unforgiving. Be prepared to see stretch marks, wrinkles, acne scars, zits and CELLULITE on your favourite celebrities. It is oddly comforting. Meow.


Ingenious. Fast. Effective. Bonus: the kids want to help with dusting. Helloooo!!

And my personal favourite:


What did we do before these were available? They are right up there with fire, wheels and dishwashers as the greatest inventions EVER!!! I no longer stress when someone says they will be right over. The wipes make it easy to give the appearance of a clean bathroom. One wipe for the counter and sink, one to get the hair off the floor and one for the toilet seat and rim. Pull the shower curtain across and voila, presentable. Don't even get me started on the kitchen.

So there you have it. Sleep, chocolate, cleaning supplies and the Discovery Channel on demand. It's official. I have become my mother.

Stop Crying..and other useless commands

The other day, I was on the phone with my best friend. It was just before dinner and it was full on chaos in my house. We lovingly refer to this time as "The Witching Hour" because many days between 4:30 and 5:30 pm, all hell breaks loose.

It usually starts with a low key gesture by one child that just happens to rub the other child in the wrong way. From there, it escalates to a verbal tango with familiar nuggets like:

"Give it back!"

"It's mine."

"No it isn't."

"Yes, it is."

"No!"

"Uh huh."

At this point, I will issue my first useless command, "STOP FIGHTING THIS INSTANT!"

Even though this is said through clenched teeth in the most menacing manner possible, it is not effective. However, they do stop for about two seconds to get a quick read on me. Is she hot enough to go to scary parent place or can we push this just a tiny bit farther? In their defense, they haven't quite grasped that the threshold has been significantly lowered since I gave up the cigs.

The fighting resumes and I try to go to my happy place where I was young, thin and living at the beach. Hmmmm...I can almost taste the salt air....and then it happens.

My daughter somehow loses her ability to articulate with words and instead, chooses to communicate with her brother through a series of glass shattering screeches or equally ear piercing grunts. Regardless of which method she employs, I watch my composure disintegrate.

"I.SAID.KNOCK.IT.OFF!" I now sound like Regan from The Exorcist.

This is the second useless command because although my daughter ceases immediately, she experiences some sort of psychic break and presto! We have tears. Which segues nicely into useless command number three:

"Stop Crying".

I might as well tell her to stop breathing. At this point any hope of a rational exchange is long gone. I spend the next several minutes trying to have a logical discussion with a five year old which is kind of like reasoning with Ann Coulter.

I am not certain what causes my kids to get all bent out of shape but I suspect it has something to do with having to be on their best behaviour all day while in the care of others. By late afternoon, they must reach their threshold. You know how you feel after Thanksgiving dinner when you waddle into your closet in search of "fat pants"? Well, I believe that when my children enter our home at the end of the day, it cues their emotional version of elastic waistbands and they let it all hang out.

At 5:31pm, we usually step out of the Twilight Zone and back into our routine. While the kids finish up their dinner, I wander from room to room scooping up the grey matter that leaked out of my ears and try to find out where they've hidden their brooms.

Letter to the Father of My Children

Dear Ex,

I know that we haven't spoken much lately and that it my fault. I cannot seem to control the desire to beat you until you bleed so I thought it would be best to write a little note. Do you have a minute?

I am thrilled that you have a new girlfriend because we both know that you are much happier and far more productive when you have a fresh new soul to abuse. I also know that you are probably exhausted from the effort that it has taken to control your temper around her. You don't want to tip that hand too early, do ya'? We both know that your brand of criticism and negativity has to be dripped on your subject over a period of months so that one day, she will wake up and have no idea who she is. Only then can you unleash your famously irrational personality and by that time, she will be a mere shell of her former self.

I am a bit concerned that she has said she wants nothing to do with your children. I mean, where do you go from there? I am not upset with her. At least she was honest with you right up front. But I'm not sure how you are going to reconcile her position and your obligation as a dad. Oh, duh! When you said that the kids "cramp your lifestyle", you were referring to the four days of the month when you have visitation! Gosh, what an idiot I am. I shouldn't have assumed that the OTHER 313 DAYS IN THE YEAR to do as you bloody well please would be enough.

You might want to rethink that whole idea of "babysitting" your own kids because (if we are going to be clinical about the whole thing), who do you think will be "babysitting" you in your old age? Since your idea of a retirement plan is to take your inheritance and a second mortgage and dump them into a casino, maybe it would be wise to pretend that you enjoy spending time with your children. I think it will pay off in spades later on as they debate the pros and cons of a DNR order.

In any case, can we at least agree on a few rules when the kids stay with you? I know that you want to be their friend but what they really need is a father and most of the time, these two things do not have to be mutually exclusive. However, letting them stay up until the wee hours of the morning is being neither their friend nor their father. Do you understand that when they operate on less than 6 hours of sleep, they WILL GROW HORNS?

I think that most people would agree that children should be bathed and underwear changed at least once during a weekend. Swimming in your filthy pool, while a fun game of bacteria roulette, does not constitute bathing. Oh yes, another hygiene note: I know that you are not friendly with your toothbrush but would you mind asking the kids to brush when you are actually able to see fur on their teeth? No big deal..I'm just slightly concerned that they may slice their tongues open on all of that plaque.

Perhaps there might be a better breakfast choice than Oreo cookies. Gosh, I don't know. Maybe you could feed them sticks of butter or something like that. Also, I understand the need to whip through Wendy's or McD's every now and again but junk food for every meal will put them into spandex and heart failure faster than you can say gastric bypass surgery.

I realize that you consider yourself generous and while this is a lovely trait, maybe it would be best if you didn't share your nicotine, tar and arsenic with the kids. I know that I am an old Scrooge but I think they are getting plenty of pollutants in the normal air that they breathe. So go ahead, save that cigarette until after they get out of the car. I promise they won't be upset with you.

I'm sure that you will drop the kids home early even though you were close to an hour late picking them up. It's okay, though. I appreciate you giving me that extra time to speak with our ten year old son about making sure that his sister is buckled into a car seat and about confirming that there is an adult outside with them while they swim. Isn't it great that he is so responsible so young?

Anyway, thanks for the chat. I hope that the big karma boomerang doesn't realize what a complete waste of carbon you are and circle back to punt your sorry ass into the next life because inexplicably, your children would miss you. They love you, unconditionally. It's a pity that you can't see what a gift you've been given.

Inappropriate Self-Adjustment

I am sure that at one point or another all of us have had the need to scratch or move various anatomical parts to make ourselves more comfortable. I understand inopportune itch. I have also had my head snap up and my eyes fill with moisture because one stray follicle found its way UNDER the elastic of my undergarments. However, I have suffered silently until I could remove myself to the ladies' bathroom to take care of business.

Unfortunately, this is not the preferred course of action for some. I hate to say it because I sound completely sexist but the "some" to which I refer are generally men.

Do you realize that every time you reach down there to adjust the equipment, WE CAN SEE YOU! And, we don't know where to look since you insist on doing this unconscious thing while you are carrying on a conversation. It takes every bit of willpower not to follow your hand because if we did we would end up staring at your package..
and you would know we were staring..
and then we would share this uncomfortable moment where your mind would involuntarily flash to the thought of us having sex..
and we would know that you were thinking this..
and then one or both of us would lose our train of thought..
and then you would go back to your office or whatever and say to yourself, "She was looking at my package"..
and then you would wonder how long she had thought of you that way because YOU ARE COMPLETELY UNAWARE THAT YOU GAVE HARVEY A TUG!!!

So please, if the tightie whities aren't working for you, perhaps you and the boys might be more comfortable in boxers or heck, throw caution to the wind and let the troops go commando.

And by the way, did you realize that you are in a vehicle with windows? We can see you. Your window tint is not that dark. When you stick your finger up your nose and stroke your brain, that is considered a pick and not a scratch. A pick requires a tissue and privacy. Sticking your arm out the car window pretending to feel the air while you are rolling that booger is not fooling anyone.

Accessorize this!

I have never been able to accessorize. Don't misunderstand me. I have a walk in closet devoted to shoes and handbags and I am disturbingly comfortable spending gobs of money on yet another pair of black shoes but talk to me about make up, jewelry or accent pillows and you'll see my eyes glaze over.

Take make up. I wear it but my collection of cosmetics could fit into a thimble. I see women open their bags and out spill foundation, concealer, powder to set, blusher, brow wax, eye liner, lip liner, at least three different shades of shadow, lipstick, gloss and bronzer. Oh yes, I forgot those fake eyelashes which come in individual (are you freaking kidding me?!!) or row pieces. I can barely see to get the sleep jam out of my eyes and someone thinks glue-the-lash-on-the-bifocal-babe is realistic? I now fully understand what happened to Tammy Faye.

So today, my friend Steph shows up to work in white pants with tiny, pink polka dot accents. Hot pink. Her shirt perfectly matched the pink polka dots. She had on a fabulous necklace and a bracelet that might have been a set but probably wasn't because Steph effortlessly throws this stuff together. Her pointed kitten heel slides finished the look. She was the picture of breezy, summer elegance and I wanted to hurt her. She buys jewelry like one might pick up evaporated milk...hmmm, don't need it now but I just know it will come in handy in the future.

Jewelry intimidates me. It's hard to spell. It's hard to say. Let's face it, you could weally, weally sound like Elmer Fudd the Nazi if you say it too qwickwee.
I have managed a pair of simple gold hoops and a gold necklace for many years, convincing myself that this look was "classic" and not just hopelessly dated. My office mates, led by Steph the Sophisticate have helped to broaden those horizons for me and just recently, I had to purchase a real jewelry box!

Home decoration is the final frontier and I am paralyzed with fear. All of my walls are painted the same colour. The builder called it Crisp Khaki Satin. Whatever. It's a warm beige and it looks really clean with the blinding white trim but it is on EVERY wall of my house. Hello. Welcome to Vanilla land. Would you like to come into my monochromatic nightmare and have a glass of homogenized milk?

My sister tells me to stop stressing and hire a decorator but the last time I checked, my last name was not Rockefeller. So, I will be forced to go to Lowes or Home Depot and look at paint chips. Would somebody please kill me now? The last time I had to make major decisions of this nature was when I bought the house.

"Hurry and buy! You can pick your colours!" Oh goody. It was awful. I had to choose fixtures, appliances, granite, tile and carpet, oh my. I chewed Tums like Lifesavers for two months because I DID NOT GET THE GIRLIE GIRL GENE!!!

Anyway, I know that I have to start somewhere. Perhaps the upstairs bathroom that nobody sees would be a good test spot. You know, it is times like this that I wish I had paid more attention to my first husband when he decorated wedding cakes and nattered on about complimentary colours. A gay man would be a handy accessory right about now.

I am a non-smoker

I have not smoked for seven weeks.

I know that seven weeks is not especially long, particularly when you compare it to a pregnancy or the remaining time that Bush has in office but it feels long to me. My family is really excited that I have quit and I want to bathe in all of that "atta girl" pride but the truth is, it was one of the easiest things that I've ever done.

For years, my reasons for remaining a smoker were shed one by one until I was left with the "ass through the door" excuse as in, "I'm worried that I will gain so much weight that my ass won't fit through the door". One day, my daughter was playing dress up with my heels, a ballet tutu and her brother's batman cape. She grabbed a crayon, stuck it between her fingers and said, "Look mummy. I look like you." Then, she proceeded to pretend to smoke the crayon. I want to go on record by swearing that I have NEVER worn a tutu or a cape (in public). Apparently, I wasn't fooling anyone by hiding outside to light up. The time had come.

There were times that I really enjoyed smoking. I have wonderfully relaxed memories of the house being clean, the laundry done, the kids at their father's and absolutely nothing for me to do but kick back with a glass of vino, a great movie and two whole days of peace! I would walk outside with a perfectly chilled glass of Pinot Grigio, sit on my bench, light up and watch the sun set. The memories are all similar. It is just the location changes:
-back of a sailboat in Mission Bay, California with the smell of the hibachi;
-dead of night Jaipur, India watching the festivities of a wedding from my hotel balcony;
-driving five hours back from a successful sales call with the tunes jacked, no traffic...

Then, there are the times that I have hated it. I have stayed, repeatedly, at the Hilton LAX (which is a dive of biblical proportions) because they have sliding doors that lead outside. This way, I could get a non smoking room and still get my fix. You see, even smokers don't want to stay in smoking rooms. They stink. They make all of your clothes stink and it is not healthy to smoke a million cigarettes in a 150 square foot hermetically sealed enclosure and then sleep in it. I have done it, though. I have also flown into Taipei and elbowed people out of the way in my quest to get to get to the second floor and the smoking room after 12.5 hours of smoke free torture.

When people find out you smoke, something changes. There is a subtle attitude shift. I've actually had people say to me, "But you don't look like a smoker." Huh?

I'm not sure what that means. What exactly, does a smoker look like? Wrinkled? Hard? Less Intelligent? Jennifer Aniston is a smoker. So are Cameron Diaz, Nicole Kidman and Catherine Zeta Jones. Do they look like smokers?

I think what those people were really trying to say is, "I'm surprised that you are so weak/flawed/stupid. First impression is that you don't seem that way", because really, who can tell if another person smokes if you don't smell it on them?

So, I got tired of the self-flagellation that accompanies any bad habit and I called my doctor. I had tried Zyban in the past with success but blew it by not recognizing that I was an addict. "Oh, I'll just have a puff since I have been off it for nearly six months and I can take it or leave it". Wrong. The second time I tried Zyban, it didn't take quite the same way. This time, I tried Chantix.

Chantix deserves a blog of its own but suffice it to say that it worked and if the manufacturers could isolate the drug's vivid dream inducing quality without the other side effects, well...let's just say I would be retiring for the night at five o'clock in the afternoon.

Cool, unexpected benefits of not smoking:
-sleep later because I don't have to go outside for two or three before shower
-save money on dry cleaning-clothes don't have to go as often
-don't have to wash hair every day because it doesn't smell like smoke
-better breath
-no tar stains on the back of teeth
-tooth sensitivity REALLY improved...go figure
-no special travel arrangements- goodbye Hilton LAX, good bye DFW security line!!!
-chance of my children smoking has been greatly reduced

In any case, I'm off the fags and I promise not to be one of those militant, crazy ex-smokers (hello, Norma).

And, as of this morning, my booty still fits through the door.

The doctor, nerves and a bit of drool

Today, I met with an orthopedic doctor about my numb left hand. It has been like this for 12 days, 4 hours and 13 minutes. After two massage appointments, two chiropractic appointments, 24,000 mgs of ibuprofen, cold compresses and an improvised sling made from a ratty old towel and a tensor bandage, I was ready for someone to tell me that everything was going to be fine and that my golf club and I would meet again.

My doctor came into the examining room and promptly turned me in to a woman who could not form complete sentences. I'm not sure what the deal is with me and certain men but sometimes, without warning, I am rendered beyond dumb blonde. The trouble is, I never know when it is going to strike.

For instance, we outsource our IT to a local company. One of the employees of this company tends to handle a lot of our business. He is pleasant, ordinary and just...normal. But, his voice is remarkable. It is the depths of the ocean deep with a slight gravely edge that melts my spine and makes me stutter like a schoolgirl. I have to write talking points out before calling him. He is also very, very happily married and still, I cannot control the goose pimples when I have to discuss FTP logons and password resets. Ridiculous, I know.

So today, in walks Dr. Mc Make My Heart Skip a Beat, and once again, it's the deer in the headlights show. I am not sure what specific quality it was. Maybe it was his hands. They were man hands, with nails of the proper length and get this...a golf tan! Or maybe, it was his outrageously expensive Italian black leather shoes. They looked custom made and soft enough to wear to bed. Maybe it was the perfectly trimmed stash and goatee and the good haircut or perhaps it was the stylish glasses. Who knows? Whatever it was, it made it much easier to hear the news that my numbness was likely caused by a ruptured disc at C8. That means surgery.

So, until I get the MRI to confirm the suspicion, we agreed to treat it like cubital tunnel syndrome, which resulted in this:


It is removable, thank god. My memories are still fresh concerning the last time I had to wear a cast and I vividly remember an incident with the cast, me and a bunch of Texas fire ants. I'll save that story for another day.

I think the reason Dr.Sexy Metro Boy had such an effect was nicely summed up in his parting comments to me. He reassured me that everything would be fine one way or the other very soon. Then he said,

"You know, it's no fun getting older, is it? The day after my fortieth birthday, I got my first set of bifocals. That same year, I suffered through compressed ulnar nerves in BOTH arms. It will get better. I promise."

I might be a little bit in love.

Cable? I Don't Need Your Stinkin' Cable!

A few months ago, I made a phone call to Cox Cable and asked them why it was that I still had an unburied cable line sticking up out of my yard like an orange banner. It had been there for months and every day that I pulled into the driveway, I felt a little bit like the neighbour with the plastic pink flamingos or the car on cement blocks or the beat up couch on the front porch.

I had called the cable company no less than eight times in a four month period about this problem. I didn't even get a call back. Finally, I had one jackass customer service agent tell me that he didn't think it was unreasonable to wait several months for service. That just sent me over the edge. I wanted to tell him to take his cable television and shove it up his impersonal, geek arse but since the Patriot Act has a loose, poorly articulated definition of terrorist threats, I felt I ran the risk of ending up in the pokey. So, I formulated a plan.

I had received three flyers in the mail that week which nattered on about the virtues of satellite television. My friends had just gotten DISH installed at their place and loved it! Driving through my neighborhood, every third house had satellite. Was I that far behind the times?!! My brother couldn't believe that I owned a hi-def TV and still received an analog feed. (huh?) So, I made the call and had a very patient person walk me through the whole thing. Blah, blah, blah, how many televisions in the home, blah, blah, blah, receivers, blah, blah, FREE DVR, blah, blah, blah. Seriously, it was easy and I had been coveting a DVR thingy for a long time. The installers were out to my house TWO DAYS AFTER I MADE THE CALL!!!!! They had me hooked up just in time to view the Sopranos finale in high definition.

And then I called Cox.

This time, I got this really great woman on the phone who totally understood my frustration. We chatted, I complained, she sympathized. I hated to do it but I told her to cancel my account. She asked politely if there was anything that they could do and I said no. She got it. We ended the call on very friendly terms.

The very next morning, Cox had someone at my house to turn off the cable. He left the unburied line in all of its orange glory.

Unsolicited advice to my pregnant friend

The girl who does my hair is pregnant. She is one of those sweet, adorable pregnants with normal ankles and glowing skin. She is young and hopeful and the spelling of her new daughter's name will baffle many.

She had been trying for a couple of years to conceive without any luck and finally had to turn to the medical community for help. Still, it wasn't happening. The doctors told her not to panic. It might take some time. Then, she got pregnant only to suffer a miscarriage. Several more months went by.

This past Christmas, her mum died unexpectedly of carbon monoxide poisoning. It was terrible. She was very close to her mum. After the funeral and still raw with grief, she found out she was pregnant and this one stuck. The timing has obviously sparked many existential conversations.

So now, every six weeks, I get to see my friend and her ever expanding belly. As we get closer to her October due date, I feel a strange maternal compulsion to take her aside and tell her everything that I have learned over the last ten years as a parent. At the very least, I want to tell her all those things surrounding the "day" that she might not know.

-Going into labour is not like being struck by lightning. Sometimes, the signs may not be clear. You may go to the hospital several times as the due date gets close thinking that those contractions are the real deal. Don't be embarrassed. They feel real and by the end, you want so badly to see your feet again that even though they are irregular and 10 minutes apart, you are having this baby TONIGHT!

-Epidural is your friend. Trust me.

-You may be worried that baby won't be the only thing coming out of you that day. Let me tell you..by the time you are in active labour, you won't care if you are laying eggs.

-Take all of the stuff from your hospital room. Don't be shy. That nasal aspirator..take it. Diapers? Take them. Even if you plan to breastfeed, take the formula. That ugly, bunny covered insulated bag? Take it. I am still using mine as a lunch sack for work.

-Stay your full two days in the hospital. You are going to want to take baby home and be with your husband but stay. These are the last two days that you will sleep well for the rest of your life.

-Record everything. Take pictures, film, write...whatever. Just record every detail. When she gets older, she will ask you specifics and even though you think that you will never forget this time, you will. I promise.

-Baby books are guilt factories. You start off doing really well because you are so excited and baby's birth is the most monumental event you've ever experienced. Then, time passes and you will open up that book and realize that you did not record tooth #6 coming in. So, you will make up dates and stuff to fill in the blanks. We all do this.

I guess the most important thing to share is how this new creature will teach you about love. Of course we have all experienced love but when you have a child, love takes on a whole new meaning. You are filled, almost bursting with this new emotion. I used to hear mothers say that they would gladly give up their life if it meant saving their children. I thought that was a bunch of bunk. It isn't. You will watch her sleep with her damp hair, cupid lips and rosy cheeks and your breath will catch in your throat. You will kiss her until she protests. You will do the goofiest things to hear her giggle.

And it all goes by very, very quickly. So many people told me to really savour every minute when my kids were babies because those moments are fleeting. I wish I had paid more attention to that advice.

Something tells me that my friend is keenly aware of the gift that is this child and I know that she's going to do just fine.

The Whistler

I have a great job. I really do. I experience stress like everyone else but I know that the grass doesn't get any greener. However, there are times when I find myself less tolerant of the idiosyncratic behaviour of other people. It has nothing to do with them. They are just being normal people. It is me. I am anal, impatient, high strung and shamefully judgmental. I know this.

For several months, I endured the daily whistling of one of my coworkers. It drove me nuts. He would come in to the office in the morning whistling one of three tunes:

Hi Ho, Hi Ho (from Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs)

I Wish I Was an Oscar Meyer Weiner

On Top of Old Smokey

I used to sit in my office, hear the first couple of notes and instantaneously want to do him great physical harm. That whistle was like an ice pick being driven right to the center of my brain. A friend at work told me that she thought it was a happy sound and that it didn't bother her at all. Of course, her office was located on the other side of the building so I surmised that her attitude was a result of geography and not mental stability.

Occasionally, when my home life gets overwhelming and I feel myself getting to that scary parent place(the one where I entertain the possibility of sending my kids to live with their father)I will wander out to my garage for some relief. I get into the car, wait for the courtesy light to go off and scream like a banshee. My children are aware of this practice and they know enough to avoid me at these times.

Unfortunately, I do not have a similar outlet at the office so when I got to scary employee place (envisioning my whistling coworker with no lips), I would have to close my door, turn on my iPod and go to my happy place. After several months of this, I would just have to catch a glimpse of him out of my eye and immediately, my blood pressure would rise. He didn't even have to whistle. He hacked me off just by showing up.

Then, the whistler got sick- really sick. He was given pretty crappy odds. He had a couple of surgeries, followed by weeks of chemo and radiation treatments. He would try to come into the office and work for a few hours. He didn't whistle once, not even a small chirp, the entire time he was sick. He had a great attitude and whenever you spoke to him about the whole ordeal, he was very upbeat and optimistic. But he didn't whistle, ever.

He came back to work full time a few months ago and he looked so different. He had lost a lot of weight and you could tell that he was recovering from a significant illness. The doctors wanted to put him through more chemotherapy as extra insurance but he declined. It had been an extremely difficult time and he felt the need for a rest.

I haven't heard much about his health lately but I think that everything must be okay.

Today, he was whistling.

And it made me smile.

Tricky panties and DNA

My daughter calls them "tricky panties". She is referring to undergarments that do not have the tag sewn into the back. Instead, the crafty folks in China or Pakistan choose to attach that little white flag on the side seam. This poses an issue for my girl.

She is very bright but I have to admit that spacial skills are not her forte. She is the child who daily, forces her left foot into her right shoe. So what? Well, under normal circumstances, this would not be of any concern. However, my ex husband possesses a very strong pigeon-toed gene and thus, shoes on the wrong feet mean my daughter's face will meet with the ground at some point during her day.

Usually, I will look down, see the opposable feet and ask her if she might be more comfortable making a switch. Notice that I did not tell her to do it. I merely suggested an alternate course of action because once a girl hits 18 months old, she must be made to believe that she is actually navigating the ship and not just hitching a ride. Otherwise, that sweet little girl turns into Satan. But, I digress...

So back to the panties. Tricky panties get put on backwards. This means that my daughter will spend the entire day picking her gitch out of crack of her bum. I think that after a while, she must get used to the bottom flossing because she never corrects the situation. Instead, at tubby time, I see her walk to the laundry basket with her darling little cheeks completely on display.

While I was picking her up from daycare this week, her teacher took me aside. Apparently, she had pulled down the pants of a boy in her class.

"All the way down?" I asked.

"All the way." Oh dear God.

I assured the teacher that I would handle the situation and that it would never happen again. While we were driving home, I asked about the incident.

"Did you pull Logan's pants down?" (hate asking this question)

"Uh huh." (completely flippant response)

"Why did you do that, sweetie?" (unconsciously holding breath)

"Because I wanted to see if he had tricky panties, too." (biting the inside of my cheek hard, hard, hard so I don't laugh)

"Hmmm. That wasn't a good choice, was it?" (points for take charge attitude, though)

"No." (still completely flippant)

"You won't ever do that again to anyone, right?" (find myself inexplicably holding breath again)

"No mama." (that's my good girl)

"By the way, did he have tricky panties?"

"No. Logan said only girls have panties. Boys have underwear, not panties and their underwear is not tricky." (not even going there)

You know what? She's right. I can't think of a pair of male underpants that have the tag on the side. It's not like they even need a marker in the back because they've got so many distinguishing things going on in the front.

I relayed the story to my ex and he tells me that it must be my genes running through our daughter that caused her to behave in such a way. I (stupidly) ask him how he came to that conclusion and he guffawed (think Don Knotts on Andy Griffith) that I was the one who chased him.

*insert dead silence here*

*insert familiar urge to retort something unkind using words he doesn't understand*

So, I am formally asking all makers of tricky panties to please keep the limitations of their 5 year old consumers in mind when making tag placement decisions. If you really want to go that extra mile, please talk to your pantyhose-making neighbors. A tag would be nice because the only thing worse than tricky panties are twisty pantyhose.

Fireworks, history and a short political rant

Today is the fourth of July. We celebrate the time when our forefathers sent the British and their poor dental hygiene back to the cold, wet shores of Europe. We knew how to tax people all by ourselves and we were damn sure not going to hand over any more of the booty to the king, especially since he was such a despot.



In any case, the Declaration of Independence was adopted by congress on July 4, 1776 and soon thereafter, the thirteen colonies decided to form a more perfect union.



This past week, with the approaching holiday, my email was deluged with quasi-patriotic propoganda because apparently, this occasion now belongs to the military. Under normal circumstances, I would avoid any political talk but I just felt compelled to comment. This holiday commemorates a nation's basic right to self-determination from an occupying force. Hmmm...



When you look back on our history, we have a few blemishes:

• We didn't get into WWII until the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and to retaliate, we dropped not one, but two H bombs on a country the size of Montana. Talk about overkill.


• Korean War: The US and the Soviet Union, as occupation forces, carve up a country into two halves after WWII and then proceed to fight each other for control of the Korean Peninsula. Essentially, it became a civil war that we helped to engineer. We called it a "police action". China got involved, the UN got involved and everyone built underground bunkers in anticipation of the coming nuclear war. How was it that this conflict helped to secure my freedom at home?


• Vietnam: Civil war and the communist ideology were seen as a big enough domestic threat that thousands of men and women were sent over to this jungle to die. This one was also officially called a police action. Again, I wonder how it is that this conflict helped to secure my freedom at home.

I have no problem with soldiers fighting any type of force that would try to invade and occupy America. Heck, I'd be out there on the front lines with everyone else. I love this country. What bothers me is when we send the men and women of our military to far flung places to fight ideological wars. They die over there. They are somebody's son or daughter, someone's husband, wife, mother, father, friend...and they die. They also kill. It is their job.

Now I just have to wonder what happens to the emotional fabric of a young boy or girl who is a native in one of those far flung places and who loses everything to the war. How do they view us? What is their opinion of us as they grow and mature and attend school? Will they hate us? If they do, it won't be because they "hate what we stand for". This is a completely ignorant soundbite that has shamefully been used to summarize the Arab/American issues. It ranks right up there with speaking about the invasion of Iraq and the tragedy of 9/11 in the same sentence.

I think about this because I wonder if my kids will be okay in the future as they travel on their American passports. Will they ever be safe outside of Canada or the US? Will the sons and daughters of the "collateral damage" in Afganistan and Iraq seek revenge? Have we already unwittingly planted the seeds that will bloom into future terrorists?

I know many of you will suck air through your teeth, shake your head and want tell my liberal, pinko, commie, Canadian ass to head back north. I understand those feelings. Remember, though, that I am the mother of two American children and just this once, I'd like to teach them about the principles upon which this country was founded without the polluted rhetoric of the new breed of spin doctor. I think that as they navigate their lives, they will need to recall that there was a time when America was the under dog. I hope it humbles them, tempers their opinions and helps them to be tolerant and respectful. If not, I will force them to drink tea and watch hours upon hours of Monty Python.

Rain, rain, go away

Oh the rain.

It's incessant. I suppose that we don't have much to complain about when we compare ourselves with Texas or Kansas but if the sun doesn't come out soon, the crime rate is going to shoot up. Really. One can only go so long without that dose of vitamin D. You slowly lose that common sense compass, you know? I eyeballed my neighbor's paper this morning and seriously thought about making it my own. Sunshine people! We need sunshine!

Of course, it messes with tee times, which under normal circumstances would send me over the edge. But right now, it doesn't matter one hairy bit. I'm over that cliff. I did a big swan dive into mental instability when I woke up this morning and it was STILL effing raining AND my effing ulnar nerve was still compressed.

Then, there are the phone calls from my sweet boy. They go something like this:

"Hi Mum." ..said very softly with a big sigh.

"Hi sweetie. Did you have a good sleep?" I'm deliberately over the top cheerful in an attempt to purposely ignore the tone of his greeting.

"Yeah." ..and then another big sigh. I REFUSE to ask him what might be bothering him.

"Great! Have you had breakfast?" ...can you visualize me on the other end of the phone, staring into a mirror and smiling to make sure that I am projecting just the right level of insanely happy and well-balanced mom?

"Yes. Mom?"

Oh no. Here it comes.

"I'm bored."

It is at this point that my head detaches from my body in a blinding explosion because for the life of me, I cannot understand how a child with:
1000 channels of television
a Playstation (bazillion games)
a Nintendo DS (another bazillion games)
sketch pads, blank journals, crayons
markers, pencil crayons
enough Leggo to build a life size house
a bicycle
a scooter
golf clubs with foam balls and an enormous back yard
books and
neighbors HIS AGE

possibly cannot find something to keep him occupied.

When I was growing up (just after running water and electricity became available), we were like mini McGuyvers. All we needed for hours of unsupervised play was a stick, some sand or dirt and a few stones. We begged to stay out just ten minutes longer. On rainy days, we would gather at someone's house and send some lovely Stepford mother (not mine..she was too busy burning her bra) into the Koolaid and grilled cheese abyss.

So, being the excellent mother that I am, I tell my son that if he finds something to occupy himself for the next little while, I promise to take him and his sister to Canada for Christmas.

"We will have lots of family time and it will be really great. Okay sweetie? You can think about the trip when you are bored and it will cheer you up."

I hang up and wonder what the hell just happened.

Ah yes, the rain.

Well, now it is official. The commons sense compass has definitively gone south.

Canada Day

To all of my relatives in the north, Happy Canada Day.

I know that there are many people out there that think that this is the day that we gave the British the boot and declared ourselves an independent country. Nope. This holiday is the celebration of when the three colonies, New Brunswick, Nova Scotia and the Province of Canada (Quebec and Ontario) entered into Confederation. The Hudson's Bay company owned some land which they ceded to the confederation in 1870. Then, two more colonies decided to join and presto, you have a nation. (Newfoundland was the last to join in 1949 but we will just ignore that little fact)

In 1868, the Governor General, seeing that July did not have at least one statutory holiday, decided that we should celebrate our one year anniversary as a nation. It was officially called, "Dominion Day". Does anyone remember the old Dominion grocery stores?

Anyway, it seems that nobody cared a lick about being a country, probably because we were still a British colony and the holiday was not officially observed by the government until 1958.
In 1982, "Dominion Day" was changed to "Canada Day" and there you have it.

One of the things that I really miss, since I live in the US, is Canada's handling of statutory holidays. If the holiday falls on the weekend, either the Friday before or the Monday after is observed as the day off. As a matter of fact, July 2nd is considered Canada Day if July 1st falls on a Sunday!!! Thanksgiving, Victoria Day and Labour Day are always on Mondays, thereby making the long weekend a staple feature of Canadian working life.

I love that Thanksgiving is in October because there is enough time between it and Christmas to serve turkey twice. By the time Christmas day comes around, Thanksgiving is a distant memory and seeing Aunt Betty smashed or Uncle Joe unzip his pants after dinner, well, it's like experiencing it for the first time.

I have been living in the US for 14 years now and one thing I can't seem to get used to is the fact that Good Friday and Easter Monday are not holidays down here. It is so strange that in a nation dominated by a Christian belief system, the day of crucifixion and the day of ressurection are not observed. Equally weird is that Veteran's Day (like the Canadian Remembrance Day) is marked with official ceremonies but not recognized as a national holiday. Looking back on American history since the turn of the century, it is hard to find a decade in which the military were not engaged. Where is the disconnect, here?

This year, the American Independence Day falls on a Wednesday...largely worthless from an employee's point of view. You see, the fireworks don't start until nightfall, which is after 9pm so the kids are up late, they are tired and cranky in the morning and .....you get the picture.

Anyhoo....Happy Canada Day! Enjoy the fireworks and your long weekend.