Christmas Happened All Of A Sudden

Ohhhhh Hi!

Right. Christmas. Christmas was good. Busy, fun, tiring, my daughter and husband were sick but that seems par for the course. If one’s family can get by with only 50% of the household being sick then they are doing well. Admit it – half of you guys had someone hacking away too. The Canadian Christmas!

In truth I may sound a bit cynical but the fact remains that we are blessed. As I count out our blessings for my son’s benefit – health, a warm home, food, love, family and security I have to remind myself of my blessings too. A happy marriage, a healthy son and daughter, and a fulfilling career. I might grumble occasionally but they are just daily grumbles of the regular stuff.

Henry and I were watching TV and a commercial came on for a relief agency in Africa. I was going to switch the channel but thought it might do him good to see what others lack. Henry was struck so much and asked if children didn’t really have clean water, medicine and food. He immediately said, well what are WE going to do? This isn’t right. I told him about Foster Parents Plan and other agencies and how when I was a child we sponsored one boy in Korea and another in Sierra Leone. He was very adamant about doing something, now, immediately. I realized another blessing then. That as challenging Henry can be, as sometimes he seems a lot more work than other kids and much more highly strung, that as long has he feels empathy and compassion that in the long run he will be just fine and hopefully he can help others along the way.

Happy New Years! 2008 – My kids are going to freak when they are older and find out I was born in 1968. I guess we must have rode horses to school. Excuse me while I go muck out the stables.

Christmas Thievery!

Christmas is such a wonderful time of the year. The get togethers, the classics on T.V., the food, and this year lets add theft. Dammit what a drag. Thomas was out at a Christmas lunch with his boss and other co-workers at the KEG yesterday. (The Keg – yum.) A server came to their table and asked if one of them was Thomas. Turns out two cars had windows broken in a smash and grab. The police had been called and ran my husbands plates through their system and came up with his name.

The thieves made off with his laptop computer, his contact book, our GPS system and a very large amount of gift certificates from The Future Shop. Also in his contact book was some bank info re credit and debit cards. Lovely! Doesn’t that make you want to curl up by the fire?

Quickly he called the bank and shut down his cards. That’s always fun when Christmas shopping has to get done. I had to hightail it from my office Christmas get together so he could jump in my van (yes, a van. Very soccer momish, I know but I like my van). He had to go to Future shop in person with the numbers from the gift cards – they can’t shut them down over the phone. I think that’s pretty ridiculous. It turns out that the certificates were cashed. Wily thieves. I only hope they used the money to buy some poor kid an X-box.

Thomas spent the night on the phone and the police are checking surveillance for the time the thieves cashed the cards. No doubt it will be a kid wearing a hoody or a hat of some sort. We hold no real hope of them being found.

Well we won’t let this get us down. Yet the inconvenience of getting a new window (and not using insurance because it only hurts to use the insurance you PAY for) and Thomas getting a new computer up and going isn’t a lot of fun.

On a totally unrelated matter (and much lighter!) I had a conversation the other night with Thomas about the things you find yourself saying when you have children that you never thought you would ever say. Invariably these sayings are always prefaced with a “please don’t”. Here are some examples:

“Please don’t sit on Alex’s head”
“Please don’t lick my ankles”
“Please don’t kiss your sister’s nudie butt” (Now that’s a good one to use to embarrass my son at a later date.)
“Please don’t dance on the fireplace”
“Please don’t use your fingers to eat rice”
And the one I REALLY never thought I would say,
“Please don’t press your bacon against my wine glass”. Really - it’s a whole new world sometimes.

Enjoy your X-Box whoever you are!!!!! Merry Christmas !

The Dreaded MAN COLD

This morning as I was getting ready for work, Thomas came into our bedroom with a loud sniff and moan. I asked what was wrong and he sort of whined that he had a cold. Except it sounded more like, “I hab a code.” I commiserated with him for a bit and then he said, “You don’t get it. I’m a MAN! I’ve got a MAN cold!”

He then re-enacted the whole latest Youtube video about the man cold.

Imagine this in a hoarse whisper, “I called for you! I called Steeeeephaaaanie! Steeeeephaaanie! And you never came. So I called 911.” “Go and get me a bell. Get me a bell and whenever I ring it come to me immediately and rub my head and say, “poor little bunny. Poooooor little bunny.”

I offered to get him some cold medicine and he scoffed at me, “Cold medicine doesn’t work! I’m dying here. I’m dying here and no one understands, not even the makers of Nyquil.”

I reminded him of last Christmas when I had pneumonia. Once again he scoffed, “Woman pneumonia is NOTHING like the MAN COLD.” “Get it through your head woman!” “This is truly awful!”

I then suggested that if he was so sick then he wouldn’t be up for any “romance” this weekend. He replied, “I SAID I was sick – Not Dead!”

Heh.

Hard Times In the Holy Land

It’s almost Christmas now so we are kicking into high gear. Henry’s school is also revving it up as he goes to Catholic school so they are all over the Nativity. Last night Henry and I watched a Christmas video he got from the library that was about the birth story of Jesus. It was very strange in that Vincent Price was the voice of King Herod and I kept thinking about Michael Jackson’s Thriller – the best music video of all time. So we snuggled up on the couch and watched the wise men, the shepherds, the star etc. Henry had a running commentary throughout the whole video that was hilarious. In no particular order here are some things he said: “Jeez, you think the son of God would have been born somewhere better than a lousey barn.” “That Herod guy was so bad. I bet he got tons of time-outs as a kid.” “Imagine having to run away to Egypt so your baby wouldn’t be killed. I guess they lived in a pyramid till Herod died” My favourite line of all was, “Wow, poor Jesus had a tough life eh?”

Henry became very concerned about Jesus last Easter. When the class was told about the Passion he totally got into it. “Mom, can you believe that bad soldiers put a crown of thorns on Jesus’s head and then they LAUGHED at him?” He didn’t mind so much about the crucifixion as much as he did about the whole laughing thing. I guess as a Kindergartener, one of the worst things to happen is to be laughed at. This is closely followed by being called a “baby”. I also find it interesting how we don’t let him watch Power Rangers or Mutant Teenage Ninja Turtles yet his school is very down with the detailed blood and violence of the murder of our saviour. Good times!

Chloe was looking at our manger the other day and I thought I would get a head start on her religious instruction. She kept pointing to Jesus so I said, “Say baby!” She happily yelled “baaaabeee!” I said, “Say Jesus!” She yelled, “CHEEESE!” I said, “No, no, Baby Jesus.” She really got into it and kept yelling, “BABY CHEESE! BABY CHEESE!”

Dear god. Now Henry has decided that this is quite funny and is singing Christmas carols about the little lord Cheese asleep on the hay. Gah. Yesterday at breakfast I cut up some cheddar for Chloe and she muttered under her breath, “Yummy, yummy, Baby Cheese.”

Sorry Jesus – Hopefully things will be better next year.

Stealth Shopping

Just to be clear I must tell you that I hate shopping. Yes. I HATE SHOPPING. I know this is quite different from most women but I think I suffer from shopping dyslexia or something. Don’t get me wrong, I love new things. If I could have someone go to the stores and bring me the new things I would happily pay for them. I cannot stand malls, stores, salespeople and polyester. I am sure that I am a huge disappointment to my entire sex. Sorry Ladies. I am deficient.

My girlfriend Ollie is my go to girl for shopping. Just the other week I told her I needed a nice top for a Christmas party. She was very specific and detailed. “Go to Danier as they have really nice v-necked chenille mixed sweaters on sale for $45.00. They will look great on you and will wash up really nicely.” Guess what I did. I went to the mall and walked directly into Danier. I tried on the sweater and bought it and was back in my car in under 15 minutes.

Christmas exacerbates the whole shopping phobia thing. Thank GOD for the online shopping or I would lose a nut. Last night I HAD to go to a mall because my husband’s company Christmas party is this Friday and I had nothing to wear. I don’t mean this in a sort of “oh everything in my closet is tired and worn” sort of way but in a, “I’m a size 4 and all of my clothes are a 9 or 10 sort of way”. I was totally pissed. I tried on dress after dress hoping something, anything would fit so I wouldn’t have to go to the dreaded mall of death. Alas, no.

So I girded my loins (who really does this nowadays – sumo wrestlers?) and headed to Sherway Gardens. I was on a mission and there was to be no dilly dallying. I had to get a Christmas dress for my daughter and one for myself and I wanted to hit two stores and two stores only. No browsing (again I hate to browse) just in and out like a finely tuned rescue mission. I first hit the baby gap and instantly found Chloe a dress. Black velvet, empire waisted with a grosgrain bow at the front and a taffeta skirt. Please don’t start on me with the whole, little girls shouldn’t black shenanigans because my daughter has reddish hair so pink or red looks crappy on her. The black will be great. Found the right size, checked out and it took less then ten minutes. Rock on.

I next hit Laura Petite’s because I am not the tallest girl in the world. Okay I’m 5’4” in the morning and 5’3” by the evening. Sue me. The saleslady copped on to the fact that I was focused and determined to get “the” dress. I grabbed about 4 dresses in my size and went to the fitting room. Why why why do fitting room lights always make you look like shit? If I ever had a store I would get all Barbara Walters with the lighting to make everyone look fantastic. I put on the first dress and zipped it up and walked out to get the saleslady’s opinion because I am a fashion retard. She said it looked great and I sort of thought so too. Okay DONE! She was shocked – “don’t you want to try on the others?” Nope, like this, looks good, I can go home – done deal. In hindsight I also bought the first wedding dress I tried on. I’m highly decisive. Need a decision? Give me a call.

I checked my watch and was pleased. Both dresses bought in under 23 minutes. Woo. I know I should have stayed and done some Christmas shopping but I HAD to leave. This is an interesting phenomenon. I’ve heard of Agoraphobe’s who won’t leave their houses but I’ve increasingly become a Mallophobe who hates malls and stores. It’s funny because I go to tons of other places with lots of people and have no problems but ask me to shop and I freeze up. Most of my grocery shopping is now done through grocery gateway now as I hate going to the supermarket. As I mentioned earlier, 90% of my Christmas shopping will be done online. This is all rather alarming.

As George Bush would say, “thank you for the internets.”

Roughing It.

It was a rough weekend. Okay that’s a lie, a big fat lie. The weekend was a lot of work but let me tell you when work is done in such lovely surroundings it really isn’t that tough. Especially when you find yourself sleeping on million thread count sheets. I’ve been spoiled for life now. Once you’ve been to the "city" in terms of sheets it’s very hard to go back to the farm. Now I know what Oprah is going on about when she won’t stop talking about sheets. I’m thinking of giving up eating for a month so I might have a set of sheets like these.

I won’t go on about the weekend because it wouldn’t be of much interest but old Montreal certainly is beautiful in a way that Toronto is not. The dining experience is different also. We had a dinner that began at 7:30 pm and did not end till almost 11:30. Five small courses plus coffee served in a way that makes food the main event – not something to have before going to a movie. Even though all of this sounds lovely, I cannot tell you how much I missed my husband and little chicken pox children. I felt like such a heel leaving when they were clingy and whiny and under the weather. I mean the children, not my husband. Ahem.

The good news is that I did not die in a plane crash as we flew in a six seater turbo prop to and from Montreal. I was mildly concerned that something might go wrong as we flew through a snow storm in Montreal and on the way home flew through that freezing rain. It was quite an experience and I would do it again in a heartbeat. My husband did want to inquire if it was possible for me to get extra life insurance for two days. Nice eh? I told him if I died he could marry a curvy 27 year old. He was mortified. "God no! She'd want to have more kids!". Hee.

Another good thing is that the kidlets were well on the mend by Sunday night and Henry reported that he was crusty now so he could go back to school on Monday. YAY! Also Monday is our parent teacher interview. BOO! I KNOW he has trouble concentrating. I KNOW. Yet I must hear it again. It’s so hard because you know this is all done out of concern for the well being of your child but what I tend to hear is , “You are a shit parent!” “This is ALL your fault!” “You have screwed him up for LIFE!” “Why don’t you DO something to FIX this?” I swear to god I will never get all Judgey McJudgerson on another parent again (okay that’s a lie – only sometimes if the parent is really truly crap.) Sometimes you do ALL the right things and try everything yet it doesn’t affect the type of change you want to make.

Am I alone here? God!

Chicken Pox and The Art of War

Oh for the love of Pete. So this morning I thought Henry had a couple of pimples on his face. Most would agree this is rather unusual for a five year old. This evening during bath time upon further inspection – you guessed it – chicken pox! Rats. He has about thirty lesions on his trunk and on his legs and a new one on his forehead. Chloe also has two on her face and four on her tummy. Yay! Good times.

They were both vaccinated so they will only get it mildly according to our pediatrician. Henry was slighted devastated as they have a P.D. day on Friday and he was planning on having a huge playdate at our house with Christmas crafts etc. He kept on with the mantra: I hope they get chicken pox, I hope they get chicken pox. Nice eh? Good news I just discovered that his two good friends have already had the chicken pox so they are still coming. Woo – yet another crisis narrowly avoided. Unfortunately my children have yet again screwed me over for a nice Christmas picture for our Christmas cards because they are spotty. I give up.

On a totally unrelated matter I have decided to come back in my next life as a French Canadian woman from Montreal. I kid you not, these women are as chic as it gets and are total forces of nature. They get what they want by sheer will and cojones of steel.

I have been in high level, Middle East type of negotiations with a woman at a very high end Montreal restaurant. As I mentioned before we are having our board meeting there and I am arranging a number of social events besides the whole meeting because I am the ONLY staff. We are having a 5 course meal for eleven people so we were hammering out menu details. This seems like a simple thing doesn’t it? Well no. I spent a half hour with Manon arguing about risotto. “Roasted piglet risotto with shavings of fois gras” to be exact. We decided it might be too heavy so my mission was to request alternatives. She was like a wall. “I do not understand. It eees not so very heveeey! I myself am a smaaaal personne and it is not tres filling. It is inconceivable to moi that you should not enjoy this lovleeeely offering. After all eet eees the best that old Montreal has to offer! The only other alternateeeves are tings that a large groupe would not find as enticing, such as the sweetbreads and the slab of fois gras!” She. Was. Killing. Me. Somehow she even managed to throw in the words, ridiculous and insupportable. She was a master.

So I switched my ploy and mentioned that we did not want the chestnut dessert she was offering as the chair of the board did not enjoy chestnuts. It started again. “eeee does not like the nut? But eet ees lovely! Is eeet all nuts eee does not enjoy? I told her, “no we would be happy with any other nut just not the chestnut.” She mumbled something about speaking to the pastry chef about an alternative and then said “ but really about the Risotto, I must insist!” AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

I was done. I said, “FINE. I’ll give you the risotto if you can give me a different dessert. She turned sweet as pie. “Lovleeee, we look forward to ‘aaaving you on Friday!”

I was totally defeated. I had to explain to the President that I was no match for Manon. Being a Classics and Philosophy Major I am not altogether ignorant of “Sun Tzu and The Art of War” but believe me when I say that Manon must have studied at the feet of a Buddhist master because dammit she had me at every turn.

Quick Newsflash Update

Both my children have the Chicken Pox. Really! I'm going to Montreal for a board meeting this weekend. Really! My husband is bereft. No kidding!

Details to follow - and maybe some pictures of my spotty faced spawn.

The Busy-ness! It's Crazy making!

Hola,

It is simply unconscionable how I have ignored this here blog thing. I'm telling you though, when one gets overloaded and overwhelmed it quickly fell to the bottom of the pile. There were a number of days there when I felt like a rag being wrung dry. I wanted to please my husband, my boss, my grandmother, my sister, my two children, my daytime nanny and my friends. I was running on the spot, almost to the point where I was so distracted that I felt paralyzed. As I mentioned before, I am a middle of the night worrier. I would lie beside my dozing husband and itemize all the stuff that needed to get done. Phone this person, complete this form, clean out this drawer, make sure son's homework is done. Homework! in Kindergarten? WTF?

This stress with me leads to other stuff like cankers. I know, how crazy is that? Mouth cankers that make it impossible for me to eat leading to crazy weight loss. So crazy that I drink protein shakes and instant breakfast crap. I also think I now have the metabolism of a stressed out Meerkat. Have you ever seen those hyper little things? I kid you not that I have a closet full of clothes that range from a size ten to a size three. The three's are getting loose. I used to think that would be great but really it's not much fun.

So I am getting over the hurdle of a particularly busy time and I want to get back at this blog. Also Thomas was kicking my ass about it earlier this evening, telling me how I have to get back at it as I enjoy it.

So yes - please check back as I hope to be here. Thanks for coming back!

'Scuza My Back

Hi everyone,

Lots going on with children, work, and a tough time being had by a beloved family member. Yet again I was up at 4:15 with Chloe. I cry Uncle. Actually I just want to cry in general but stuff must get done. I must sally forth!

Does anyone remember that cooking show Pasquale? It had this sweet little Italian man who could whip up four courses in the space of half an hour. He would sing opera and cook and take sips from his coffee cup and wink while doing so. I found him highly entertaining. Whenever he had to drain the pasta he would have to turn around to use the sink and he would always say," 'scuza my back!"

With all I need to do I'm going to have to ask for a 'scuza my back moment. Please check back on the weekend for a new post. 'scuza my back!

I miss Pasquale.

Game On!

I said that I would speak about something lighter today didn’t I? Something fun, something interesting. Lets’ try this one on for size. Chloe was up at the crack of sparrowfart this morning which loosely translates to, oh let’s say, 4:15 a.m.!! If this had been our first born we would have let a little more crying out occur by now. If she is allowed to rage then she will wake Henry and then it will be ballgame over. I’m really at a loss with this one as we are putting her to bed an hour later and she still rises ridiculously early. We’ve tried giving her a bottle of warm milk right before we put her down in case she is waking hungry but that’s not working.

This morning I climbed into her bed with her and gave her a bottle. I took the bottle away when she was done and tried to lie with her to entice her back to sleep. Apparently she hasn’t read any baby manuals because although she lay quietly beside me she thought it would be jolly good sport to try to stick her finger in every orifice of my head. When I rolled with my back to her she started wrapping fistfuls of hair around her fingers. Bah. I then tried to slide out to my own bedroom.

I then realized that my pillow is indeed not in my bed but back in Henry’s room where I started a snuggle with him at 2:30 am due to a bad dream about Sesame Street. I’m sorry but it is incredibly wussy to be having nightmares about The Count! (ONE Snowflake, Ha Ha, Ha!, TWO Snowflakes, HA, HA, HA!) Instead of going back to Henry’s room I slid in beside Thomas who kindly gave me a corner of his pillow served up with a deep sigh of frustration. After a relaxing three minutes of piece, someone unleashed the Tasmanian devil in my daughter’s room and we could hear her staggering around in her room calling for us. Damn she can really crank the volume now!

Thomas then mutters a not terribly Christian expletive so I got out of bed and brought her downstairs. At 5:10. Okay I am appealing to any parents as to what they would do in this situation? This madness MUST stop. I don’t like to go to bed the second after my children fall asleep but in order too function I’ve been off to bed at 8:15 pm some evenings. I’m a wild woman I tell you, WILD.

It’s almost six so I must wake the man to watch Chloe so I may shower. The grocery deliveryman arrives at 7:00 and I’m sure he doesn’t want to catch me with giant Velcro rollers in my head. Then again, why not, it might give him a chuckle. I could ask him to “take me to his leader.” What passes for funny at this god-awful hour is really quite sad.

Any suggestions would be most appreciated. Carry on with your normal adult lives.

Here Comes Santa Claus.

It’s Santa Claus parade day here in Toronto. We will watch from our warm family room where we can eat snacks and listen to the bad commentary. “Gee Gus those bagpipers sure are snappy!” I have absolutely no patience to wrangle two little kids who would have perpetual runny noses and want to run around and not stay on our little square foot of sidewalk on University Avenue. Maybe when they are older I can take it, not yet.

I also have a bad association with the Santa Claus parade. When I was 27 years old I was standing in a room in Princess Margaret hospital. Not to be maudlin but okay this might be a bit. Okay it totally will be, so there. My Dad passed away on the afternoon of the Santa Claus parade. I was leaning my forehead against the cool window and looked out on University Avenue. There were the bands, the floats with the kids in costume waving away, those creepy upside down clowns that look like they are walking on their hands but are really walking right side up. It was such a shock. After the experience I had just been through, to turn one’s head from the frolicking paraders and see your father in that state, it was too much. Too much of a shift. Too much of a contrast.

I remember driving home to my apartment at Yonge and St. Clair that day. My brother and sister went home with their respective spouses yet at that time I was single. I wanted nothing more than to get to my apartment so I could officially let myself fall apart. Not forever, just for a day. Let it all go. BUT guess what? I couldn’t get home. I couldn’t get across University Avenue because of the damn parade. I couldn’t cross Bloor to go North because of the damn parade. I couldn’t think straight and be clever to figure out how to simply get home. I drove and drove and drove. I had the ugly cry going at this point. I couldn’t stop it. When I reached stoplights I would look neither left nor right. Home, home I just wanted to get home. My body was being pulled to my parent’s home but no one would be there. My little bachelor-ette apartment was home and I so needed to get there.

I fretted and fretted and scorned and swore at the world. I drove and drove. I finally reached the underground parking of my building. I took the long elevator ride up to the twenty-first floor. I wanted to get there and dreaded to get there. I unlocked the door and walked into my small place. I slowly took off my coat and gloves and put them away. I filled the kettle and plugged it in. I sat down on the couch and then the phone rang. I answered the phone and my sister was on the other end. I was home.


Sorry for the self indulgence. Happier times tomorrow. Promise.

One For The Common Folk

Well this is just a quick one. I work in a certain part of Toronto where it is hard to find a sandwich for under $7.00. There are quite the number or hoity toits (sp?) and big shots that run errands in this particular area. There is one upscale food store that I often buy lunch at. NOT because I have lots of money but because I am lazy. Today as I was at the counter about to be served a certain TV/Magazine personality swanned into the store. This woman has the art of swanning down pat. I’m not a swanner, wish I was.

Let’s back up a bit. Last winter she swanned into the foodstore in a puffy fir coat and equally puffy hair. She shouted over my head to the man behind the counter something to the effect of, “Hello Jean (or whatever) my regular please I’m in a bit of a rush!” She pushed someone aside, paid and swanned out. About four of us who had been in the store before her sort of gave each other that eyebrow raised, what the hell, look.

That one impression of her has soured me towards her. If I ever saw her on T.V. I would scream at the screen, “raving bitch! Budder!” This all brings us to today. I now know her evil moves and am sufficiently equipped this time to deal with it. A soon as she came in, she did her whole “Hi ho! My regular please!” I blocked the register area and said to the man behind the counter quite loudly, “I believe that I was here first.” The swanner then wrinkled her nose at me like I was bug and told the counter man in an angry voice, “Fine Jean, I'll be back in ten.” I gave her one of those evil raking looks and looked her up and down with a “who do you think you are “glance. She didn’t even apologize for trying to bud at all.

After she left an older British gentleman in line behind me started to chuckle and said, “quite right, well done!” I was chuffed I tell you. Quite.

Thomas Speaks!

Hey! Get this. Two blogs today, yes two for the price of one! My husband Thomas wrote something up for fun so I am throwing it in.


Over the years I have done my share of airline travel and I thought I would share some observations.

Going through Security

It couldn't be more clear to "remove all metal from your pockets" if you didn't know this before, in a post-9/11 world you really should. I always vow never to be the idiot that slows the line down and completely strip myself of any conductors and yet it happens...BEEP and yes Hilda, coins are metal. Another thought is I'm not sure how comfortable I am with the person watching the screen as your carry-on bag goes through the x-ray. What if they are having a bad day? What if they are pissed about not getting the promotion and let the black object with the wires around it slip on through? I think I'd rather leave this up to technology than to two ladies talking about their grandkids as they occasionally glance at the screen.

In the Terminal

I always like the guy who must take a conference call in the airport, you know the one pacing back and forth on the hand free set almost shouting into the microphone as to draw attention to himself ,"see how important I am?" Or how about the people who refuse to move out of the way for the golf cart shuttling some elderly person to their gate? The combination of the beeping horn and flashing light should be obvious to most people unless you are sadly both deaf and blind.

At the Gate

For some reason people seem to think that the poor attendant at the desk actually has any power. I've heard travelers rant about service with exclamations like "what are YOU going to do about this? or "This is unacceptable" or the person with an overinflated sense of importance "I have a critical meeting that I can't miss...do you know what will happen if I am not there?" My sense is that hey buddy, if you were really that important you'd be laid back in a private Gulfstream shipping champagne. I often feel sorry for the attendants is those situations, I look into their eyes and can imagine what they are thinking "I can't believe I have to take this S*#@ for $12 an hour" or "If I had gun right now I would shoot this person in the face" or even worse,"I should have become an accountant".

Preparing for Takeoff

Sometimes there are delays or cancellations due to mechanical issues, my opinion is that I'd rather they fix the problem and be late, than encounter a worse fate. I'm glad the pilots do their due diligence before departure. Can you imagine if the pilot said "The hydraulic pressure warning light is on. But you know, I'm feeling kinda lucky today, LETS GO FOR IT!"

For some reason, simple instructions are lost on some travelers. You know when they announce preparation for takeoff that your seat should be in the upright position and your trays secured. And yet when the attendants go through the cabin they have to tell at least 5 people to pull their seat forward and lift the tray. "Oh were those instructions for me?"

People also have interesting timing when it comes to bodily functions. We know we can't get underway until everyone is seated and yet there are always two people who must use the lavatory at the last minute. Here is a traveling tip. When you are sitting for an hour at the gate and you might have the "feeling" then please go pee.

I also find it funny when they seat someone in the emergency exit row who weighs less than the door itself. Listen, put me in the row (for one I want the extra leg room) because if there is a crash you can be damn sure I am going to get that door open and throw it 30 feet from the plane (yes adrenaline is a powerful thing).

What I also find amusing are the safety instructions. They should really stop demonstrating the seat belt. I mean really, if you can't figure that out you should really stay at home. As for the oxygen masks they say "Place the mask over you face, pull the strings to tighten and breath normally...". If the mask falls in front of me I'll either go into cardiac arrest or breathe so hard I will actually suck the bag into my lungs. Lets face it folks, when those masks fall down someone has forgotten to lock the door, or the plane has popped a sunroof. Either way at 30,000 feet you are absolutely screwed. The only thing the mask is going to do is give you the 40 seconds of air to say your prayers and good-byes before you smash into a million pieces (so there is a dark thought). It’s also funny when they say that "your seat cushion could be used as a floatation device in the event of a water landing". Again, you are going to need more than a cushion to save you if you crash in water. I like travel in general and am not afraid to fly but every time I do I think for a minute, "Is this the flight that is going to make the news? Will I survive to tell my story to Oprah?" Then I realize that I'm in a situation where I have absolutely no control, there is nothing I can do to change events.

Something else that bothers me are the people who must use their electronic devices when they are not supposed to. I don't know the real effect these frequencies have on navigation and such but I don't want anything screwing with the pilot's ability to fly or the control tower communications. I'd love to see people thrown off the plane for not turning off their Blackberries.

Arrival

After a smooth landing (thank God) you might hear the attendant say "we have a few passengers at the back of the plane with very tight connecting flights, please remain seated as to allow them to deplane first." And wouldn't you know it, when the plane is at the gate and the seatbelt sign turns off, half the idiots get up and start reaching for their luggage. I guess upon arrival, Darwin's law kicks in and it's survival of the fittest, "Every man for himself. I don't care about the little guy". I've often been tempted to stand up and say, "Listen, if you are not in 23A and 24D,,,SIT DOWN!!!

Airports can be a stressful place but they really don't need to be. Get there on time, follow instructions and if there are delays, take a deep breathe and relax.

For those of you with travel in your future, good luck and have a safe trip.



P.S From Stephanie. What is all this business about deplaning? Do we detrain? Do we decar? I think not.

Pakistan and Cows!

Well Jesus, Mary and Joseph, its 8:40 and I’m pooped. I have to say that a number of things are on my mind. Firstly, what the hell is going on in Pakistan? I know this generally isn’t a huge issue for North Americans but things over there are totally heating up. Musharraf is giving Bhutto house arrest and Bhutto is planning on a big protest march and let’s not kid ourselves, possibly hundreds of people will be blown up if this occurs. This particular part of the world is a powder keg and I don’t pretend to know all the in’s and out’s at all but I do know that whatever happens will have huge ramifications. I fear for the world impact but on a more humane level I fear for loss of life. Coming from a Western country it’s very easy to say, “Well there is like millions of folk over there so a couple hundred lives aren’t really anything” but dammit they are. Could you imagine a headline such as, “Toronto’s Mayor David Miller led a protest march today and two hundred people were killed”? Lives are lives, no matter where they are from. Every life is just as worthy as another no matter what.

Well this post was most rudely interrupted by Henry who was in need of yet another goodnight hug. Guess what happened? I went up and put on his yoga relaxation music. I kid you not I try to bliss out my high anxiety child nightly. We call this his “night-time music”. I’m not trying to raise an urban granola kid here. We highly condone the eating of meat and I don’t have it in me to serve tofu and that textured protein stuff. Steak! Chili! The real thing. Next I’ll be saying Cholesterol! High Blood pressure! The real thing. Oh please, I’m not that bad, I made an extra trip on the way home from work for more fruits and veggies. Truly I don’t want my kids developing scurvy. What they do in their own homes in the future is their own deal but really I don’t want to give them another reason to blame me for something in the future. I’m sure they are building up quite the arsenal already.

So I laid down (lay down?) on his bed to give him his desperately needed hug at about 9:00 pm and the next thing I knew, Thomas was waking me up at 11:00 asking me if I was coming to bed. Well rat shit. I blissed out on the yoga music (I should get some for my room!) and in the process I lost a whole evening. Yet another day of go go go and off to sleep without any down time. Mama need’s a vacation. Everyone here who thinks so please raise your hand? Yes you in the back row, when you get around to having kids’ I’ll cover your back. Arm up please!

So now its 5:30 am and I’m up with Chloe, the time change resister, who is enjoying a baby Einstein with her bottle of milk. Wait. Now she is yelling MOOOO! MOOO! at the cows at an alarming decibel level. She never yells at any other animals besides cows which kills me. Cows I guess are one of the least active animals and they really need to spice things up to entertain the ever moving toddler. Mooooo! Dammit. Moooooooooooooooo!

Well I like to tie things up at the end of a post but who can connect cows with Pakistan?

Wait! I can! I actually remember wondering if the cow was revered in Pakistan like it is in India. You know how the Hindu’s love their cows in India. Cows there are not eaten and pretty much have free reign over the place. But then I started thinking about how Muslim’s do eat beef, Halal Beef, but still. Try to imagine a discussion between two cows on the border of Pakistan. “Hey Sundeep – don’t cross that line over there.” “Why not?” “Well you know how we are treated like Minor deities over here and can wander into anyone’s backyard or house if we feel like it?” “If you cross that line you might become lunch.”

Food For Thought

Hello friends: my whole eight or so internet folk who are reading. Plus let’s not forget my one reader from Italy (yet again – ciao! send food!)

Well firstly I have to apologise for my last number of posts being on a more somber note. With the sickness of children and myself I was wee bit down but never fear I am back to my angst ridden self.

This post is going to be a jumble of thoughts but things I feel like getting off my chest. Stick with me.

There are certain turns of phrase that are sending me around the bend. For example if someone says, “I have a bone to pick with you” you know you are in for bad news. Next time I hear this I will quickly reply, “well I don’t condone picking bones so I’ll speak to you later, bye bye!” The WORST. I mean the absolute worst has to be when a person starts a statement with, “no offence, but”. At this point you should brace yourself because you are about to be offended. It will always be a criticism of some sort and it will be bad news. I really think people should work on their tact because I am all about tact. Why put somebody’s back up when you want them receptive to hear something? It’s akin to saying, “hey I’m about to really piss you off but please be nice about it.” Um no. Not really. Okay that rant is done - for now.

Today was one for the books as for work I went on a tour of a construction site and had to wear huge rubber boots and a hard hat. The site was impressive and the project was very worthy. If the foundation’s money were mine to spend I would have given everything we have. I am the only employee of a large, private, family foundation. It’s a great job in that giving money to worthy causes is highly satisfying. It is challenging in that I report directly to a board of directors. If there is a mess up, it is mine and mine alone. I have to prepare very carefully for every question that can be volleyed at me at a Director’s meeting. These Directors are no light weights either. We have finance people, lawyers, a university chancellor, a national paper contributor, a hospital consultant, a professional fundraiser and board experts. They are great people individually but can really scare the hell out of an employee who must answer to them as a group. I’m not complaining. I love my job and have been at it for ten years now but when confronted with that breadth of knowledge it can be overwhelming.

As a cap to my earlier mentioned construction tour, we visited another of their sites that was amazing. It has a food bank and a community kitchen that serves lunch three times a week and breakfast three times a week (for free). The kitchen has over two hundred volunteers that are mostly the people who avail themselves of the food bank and community kitchen’s services. This place also gives out information on all community services that the neighbourhood provides and holds things like flu vaccination clinics etc. The food bank doesn’t just have the standard fare of packaged food but also has fresh veggies and fruits and are able to cater to individual cultural and religious needs. I was humbled. The poverty in North American cities is not so easily seen. Families on social assistance are not visual. Often very nice looking homes serve three families instead of one.

I had lunch there with a bunch of people who can’t afford a decent meal of their own. Either that or they are so isolated by poverty that a meal with neighbours would be a high point of their day. All the food at was organic. We had beef stew with couscous, mesculin salad and excellent bread. I had conversations with a number of people at my table. This particular neighbourhood has many Brazilian, Portugese, Irish and Caribbean families. It was so interesting to see how much we all have in common. The way a meal draws people together is truly astounding. I will try to champion this cause to our board and try to keep this particular organization in their field of vision.

Wait a second, I haven’t been snarky at all during this post. Damn these excellent do-gooder organizations, they make me the kind, gentle person I want to be. Bah! Wait give me a second, I’m sure I can find something to bitch about. Oh yes, my poor parenting skills. Henry had a bad afternoon. In the last number of weeks he has become particularly mouthy, and seemingly deaf. It’s been driving me, Thomas and our lovely daytime Nanny around the bend. Where did this come from all of a sudden? When I got home our Nanny was distressed. The teacher had commented on his lack of attention in class yesterday and he was quite monsterous at a playdate last friday. We aren't parents that let things slide. I've been hoping that this can be attributed to the time change or some friend at school but as you know, you can't control your child's behavior when they are at school or you are at work. I felt like a failure. Henry and I had a long talk and decided to come up with a secret code word that would remind him of his slipping behavior. If after that he was still mouthy, he would lose a pokemon card for a month. This might not sound like a big deal but GOD this kid is into pokemon so it is the best currency we have to deal with. Also may I just add, I hate pokemon cards with the burning fire of a thousand suns. Damn you pokemon people, damn you.

Okay - I have to go to work so if I post this with errors then - sorry sorry sorry! I'll fix it later.

Also a bunch of you are sending me lovely emails about the blog, which I love and appreciate - but the comment box is there for that purpose too and you can do it anonymously if you want. Also you can agree, disagree, tell me to get my head out of butt. It's fun! Y'all can even engage in some fighting matches which I would think would be highly entertaining!

Just a Little Thing

A little thing can sometimes become a big thing. I was just remembering something that happened to me when I was a kid. I bet no one else even remembered this but years later it still affects me.

When I was six years old and in grade one, a little incident occurred that shaped a lot of things for me. Back then, in our grade, boys and girls would change for gym in the same classroom. It wasn’t really a big deal. After gym kids would often rush back to the classroom to change quickly. As you know running in the hallways is always a bit taboo. One day, Kelly F. (Hi Kelly!) and I were the first out of gym. We did that funny run/walk that kids do by holding their arms ramrod straight at their sides and trying to walk without bending at the knee. Who did we think we were kidding? So here we were goose-stepping it back to class ahead of the others.

We immediately started to change when our teacher, Miss Hill, came into the class and ordered us to walk back to the gym slowly and then walk back to class. Kelly had changed her shirt and had her shorts still on. I was in a tee shirt and my underpants. I said something like “just let me get my pants on” and she stopped me short and said, “No. Go as you are.” I couldn’t believe it. I wanted to die. The class went silent. We walked out into the hall and I tried to pull my tee-shirt as long as it would possibly go. I can’t believe that a teacher would allow a six year old in her little waist high undies walk through the halls of the school. We were totally silent and maybe only passed five other kids in the hall. Kelly gave me a look like, “holy crap I can’t believe she is making you do this.”

When we returned to the class it got worse. I hurried into my pants while the other kids snickered and I heard whispers of underpants, underpants. I sat down at my desk and started to cry. It was one of those silent cries where you can’t help have the tears slide down your face. I glanced at Miss. Hill (yes her real name) and she just gave me the snake eye. Almost as if to say, “cry all you want kid but you deserve it”.

I felt utterly powerless. An adult was allowed to shame me, humiliate me and it almost felt like she was happy she had done it. Now I always told my parents everything but this is one thing I didn’t tell them. I was confused and embarrassed. Years later when I was in High School I told them and they totally freaked out.

I know this doesn’t sound like a big deal whatsoever but it caused me to have issues down the road of being comfortable with myself and somehow being undressed became attached to the feeling of shame. I’m sure Miss. Hill had some good qualities but I will never forget that incident. I also have learned that sometimes even the smallest event can have long term lasting repercussions on a child. Most importantly, confusion and shame can prevent a very open child from telling you something. That’s pretty scary.


Home front Update:

Chloe’s big girl bed is still causing some early rising. Yesterday she was up at 4:30 am. We got a space heater for her room as it seems to be the coldest in the house. It must have helped because she was up at 5:30 today. It’s amazing when 5:30 is practically a sleep in.

Yesterday we went to IKEA. We don’t know why but Henry likes to call it Mykea. Whatever, weird kid. He LOVES the play place there so that entertained him for about an hour. We found a couple of things that we liked in the marketplace but really I just don’t like the furniture anymore. I turned to Thomas with a look of horror and said, “Is it possible that we are too old for IKEA?” Mon dieu.

The Birth of a Frog

I was having trouble coming up with something to talk about (very rare!) but then I read a post at my favourite blog, Plain Jane. She said that after all your years of living you must have thousands of story’s to tell. She said anybody could come up with something, anything, even the story of your birth and that got me started thinking. I could talk about that.

I was born in August of 1968 in Scarborough of all places. No offense to people from Scarberia because there are lovely areas there but really, I’m stuck with Scarborough on my birth certificate forever. I was the daughter of a teenage mother. She was unmarried, had to drop out of high school when she began to show and eventually became a shampoo girl in a hair salon. Her parents kicked her out when she became pregnant. Lovely. Her boyfriend, my birth father, fled Toronto and abandoned her. Also lovely. It turned out that my birth Father’s parents managed a number of apartment buildings and offered her an apartment until the baby (me) was born. In the social workers notes it mentioned that she was depressed, smoking heavily but otherwise in good health. Well I guess so. If I was abandoned by my parents and boyfriend I might be too.

She gave birth to me on a Wednesday alone at the hospital. I wonder if she ever saw or held me. I was named Linda-Ann and yes it was hyphenated in the Betty-Sue kind of way. I guess then the social workers started to look for a place for me to land. I was Linda-Ann for nine days. I was up for adoption well before I was born. My parents got a call on a Wednesday telling them to come and pick me up on Friday if they were ready. Could you imagine a call like that? I mean they obviously registered to adopt a baby but it is so immediate. At least if you are giving birth you have a ballpark idea. They had no idea when it might happen.

I guess technically I am a bastard, illegitimate. I find that funny. If someone said, “hey you bastard!” I could say,”yeah so what?” Imagine if I had been born a hundred years ago I would be considered an undesirable. I would have trouble making a good marriage. Like this whole birth thing had anything to do with me. I didn’t get to make the choice. Thank goodness we are past that nonsense.

My mother said I was the easiest birth she ever had. No swollen ankles, no recovery, no sore privates. Simply drive to the hospital and bada-bing baby! She said they ran around like crazy on the Thursday getting things ready for me. On the Friday my parents drove to the hospital to meet me. How surreal would that be? Much like my son, all photographic evidence points to the fact I looked a bit like a frog. I was a skinny 6 pound baby with large eyes. In retrospect I hope they weren’t disappointed. Sort of like, “hey we are about to pick up a bonny baby! Ohh well look at this tiny, skinny, froglike child, umm great! Thank you god for our frog child. Hallelujah!”

I still think that it’s a huge leap of faith. Having your own child naturally (you know what I mean) you pretty much know the odds going in. Okay, you have a kooky Aunt Helen, and I’ve got an Uncle with unexplainable warts but let’s take the risk. You and I are fairly average looking people so we might get away with an average looking, fairly bright child, let’s give it a shot. Imagine taking a newborn with no insight as to how they might be. I can’t comprehend my parent’s thoughts. “Well this little frogchild might grow up to be bright and somewhat attractive or she might end up killing us in our beds but let’s just give it a whirl!” Thank god they did.

My parents did not keep pictures of our time as children. Oh no, they kept slides. Urg. The evil Kodak slides which could only be viewed a couple of times a year as a “show”. There is a slide in one of our reels that states, “Stephanie comes home”. It was akin to me being delivered by the stork. I was not born, I was “brought home”. How nice and clean and clinical that sounds. Nine days of being by myself and I was now, brought home. The pictures are delightful in that my parents and brother and sister are all looking very “ooohing and ahhhhing" over me. There is a picture of my brother removing my booty and while he laughs I am crying hysterically. Could you blame me? I mean I’ve been here 9 days and these folk are all trying to play familiar with me. Cut me some slack people.

I wish I had dug out some old pictures to scan. After my frog phase I went into the Winston Churchill phase. In one picture particularly whenever we looked at it my dad would intone, “We shall defend our Island, whatever the cost may be we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender!

Winston Churchill phase aside, I was lucky, so very lucky. I came a hair’s breath from not being these people’s daughter. I guess my birthstory wasn’t perfect but that wasn’t what mattered. What mattered is that I came to be part of a family that was perfect for me.

The Raging Henry

Oh yes, isn’t this lovely? I took a lovely smiley picture of Henry just prior to this. He was about to put his Halloween costume on and asked me if he could have some treats from the bowl in the front hallway. This is his expression exactly two seconds after I said no. It gets tiring being a parent who sticks to her principles. You have to pay the price of your convictions which in our house can often lead to heartache and loud behaviour. (Apologies to my friends in the States as I use Canadian spelling – we like to throw in that extra “u” from time to time).

Henry is a boy of extremes. My Brother-in-law recently mentioned that if Henry ever had to do a survey he would only ever chose the options of “strongly agree” or “strongly disagree”. There is no grey in Henry’s world. Everything day is the “best day ever” or “the worst day ever”. The smallest thing can tip the balance. He could have a day of a farm, a playdate, treats, his favourite dinner and then if we didn’t have the right ice cream it would instantly become “the worst day ever”. It’s very trying to say the least. All parenting books counsel us to stay the course, keep the limits etc. I’m sort of at the point of crying bullshit because either Henry hasn’t read the books or will need twelve years to make the connection between bad behaviour and consequences.

Okay enough whining about the behaviour thing, let me tell you about his school. Henry is in Senior Kindergarten. (Here in Canada we have Jr. and Sr. Kindergarten. One begins J.K when they are four. Unfortunately they usually only go a half day which creates a logistical nightmare to the working parent.) Our local public school has become a school for developmentally challenged and physically challenged children. We chose to send him to a nearby Catholic school for numerous reasons. Firstly we are both Catholic and wanted to raise him as such. Secondly we are lazy and if we sent him to public school we would have to do the whole Sunday school rigmarole and we just weren’t up for that. The school has uniforms which I am cool with as there will be no fashion angst at least until he is twelve because the school goes up to grade 8. I went to a public school and resented the long catechism classes every Sunday and the evening classes when I was confirmed.

Henry’s school is about eighty percent Italian with some Irish and Polish kids thrown in the mix. For those who don’t know, Toronto has the highest Italian population outside of Rome. That’s right, there are more Italians living here than say in Naples or Florence. That makes for some good eatin’ people. I am a fan of the Italian restaurant and boy do we have tons. I was on my Maternity leave year with Chloe so I was able to take Henry to and from school for his whole J.K. year. What an eye-opener. I would say about 80 percent of the kids were dropped off by their No-no’s or Nona’s (grandparents). I love the fact that the extended family are a large part of the children’s lives. I am totally jealous as both my parents have passed and Thomas’s mother works full time. I also love the fact that they parent as a community. Frequently on the playground a No-no would grab a kid’s collar (a kid they don’t really know) and say “hey tough guy why don’t you pick on someone your own size?” “You touch Gian Carlo again and I’m telling your teacher and Mama.” This really wouldn’t happen on a Waspy playground where everyone just minds their own kid.

There is also another strange phenomenon I had discovered. I once had Chloe with me and a Nona sort of gestured at me and said, “What. No hat for the baby?” She turned to the nearest Nona and said, “People don’t know how to dress kids these days!” Umm. Excuse me but I am standing RIGHT HERE. You want to talk smack about me then go at it in Italian. The same Nona also sort of let me have it another time. The very last day of school she approached me and another Nona and smiling sweetly said, “So, I hear you’re going back to work.” I agreed and then she said, “I don’t get it. People going around having babies and then not raising them.” Hoo boy was I pissed. I think I was also sort of shocked because before I could come up with something in reply the bell rang and my chance was shot. I don’t know, maybe she resented her daughter in law for going back to work or something. But boy did it ever mess with my head. I called my husband on the cell right after and sputtered something like, “Should I be going back to work? Am I a bad mother?” He told me I would be a bad mother if I didn’t go back to work as I wasn’t happy without adult interaction and without more mental stimulation so I would be a crabby, shitty mother if I stayed at home. Thank god I got over THAT.

Well nothing really in closing except to say that we buzzed all of Henry’s hair off last night and he looks like a Marine. With his big lovely eyes I actually think he looks more like Sinead O’Connor. This bothers Thomas so I think I will teach Henry to croon, “Nothing compares – to you” in the bathtub. Heh.

Also with the time change Chloe was up a 4:30 this morning. Thomas said he was done with that so he promptly dismantled her crib and decided that she could use a big girl bed and play with toys in the morning until we get up. Wish us luck with that.

Forgot to mention - please feel free to email me at steformation@gmail.com Also let know if you want to be added to my notify list so I can send you an email when a post is up. My goal is to update daily.

The Pay Off

Well hell in a handbag it was quite the eventful weekend here at Casa Virus. Henry was recovering from a viral infection with the added bonus of croup. He’s a crouper, which is not to be confused with a croupier. In fact I would much rather that he was a croupier. Henry was a preemie who was forever on the puffers and nebulizer's and all that fun stuff that is included with a kid with respiratory problems.
When he was six months old he contracted RSV which landed him in hospital for two nights. Even though we had private coverage he was placed in quarantine in an RSV ward room. Picture this if you will. Four babies and four parents sleeping in the same room. We lucky parents had plasticky chairs to “sleep in”. Please keep in mind that as therapy the children are given a nubulizer (gas) of a drug which helps open their airways and as an added bonus raises their heart rate so they are over stimulated. So basically my baby at 1:00 am was lying on his back in an iron crib kicking his legs as if running a marathon and apparently I had to try and keep him quiet. This is a task akin to cleaning the Augean stables.

I asked his pediatrician if he caught RSV because he may be asthmatic or if he as asthmatic because of the RSV. He was honest and said, “We really have no clue”. Super. Henry then began to get the croup regularly. Croup is an upper respiratory viral infection which affects the voice box and basically makes your kid wake up at 2:00 am barking and whistling with the scariest cough ever. We’ve learned to take him outside for drives in the middle of the night all bundled up so that the cool air will open his airways. The people at Tim Horton’s know of this phenomenon. Many a time I went through the drive thru at 3:00 am and they would say, “hey another croupy kid!” I guess I wasn’t alone.

It got so bad that we had to go to the hospital in the middle of the night so many times that our Dr. finally prescribed us Dexamethasone which is a strong steroid that is usually only given by Doctors. At least we now had this thing under control. That is until last Friday.
Yes Chloe has now discovered the joys of croup. Four hours after being in a pediatric clinic they gave us the Dexamethasone and we immediately came home and gave it to her. One minute later she threw it all up. Aaaaaaaarrggggggh. So we had another sleepless night and 2 hours in a clinic to get another prescription.

I know one hour doesn’t sound like a very long time to wait for a pharmacist to fill a prescription but when one has a crying, coughing toddler it is an eternity. I was so tired of baby wrangling at this point that I parked her stroller right beside the pharmacy check out. I gave Chloe a kiss and whispered, “Okay baby scream your head off”. She was spectacular with the sobbing and coughing and back arching. Guess who had their prescription ready in the next two minutes?

So yes, all things considered we are getting back to normal after a week of two very sick kidlets. At one point both of them were crying simultaneously and if I recall correctly, Chloe was so upset that she was actually rubbing her face into the carpet. My husband looked at me wide eyed and said “Exactly when does the pay off begin?”

It already has but sometimes we are too tired to notice.

Alberta Finds Self Respect

Dear Big Oil Companies,

Well last week was a tough one for you wasn’t it? Yes Alberta is raising its taxes on each barrel of oil. Wait. Is that you freaking out over there? Are you starting to bluster and threaten Canadian jobs? Oh my, Big Oil Companies, I feel so, so, not very sorry for you. Really.

Okay let’s look at some facts shall we? Oil is a finite commodity. Alberta has the cheapest oil in the world. Alberta is the safest place to purchase oil in the world. You do not have to pay exorbitant fees to ship oil to the United States. The fact is, we have it, you want it, and you should pay for it.

Albertan oil has been the cheapest in the world and has never been in line with the other oil producing countries. The Government of Alberta has finally put a stop to that and put two and two together. One day there will be no oil left in Alberta. It takes three barrels of water to make one barrel of oil and guess where the oil companies are getting that water? From rivers in Canada for FREE. Scientists predict that when the tar sands are empty of oil there will be a crater large enough to been seen from the moon and Alberta will be suffering a major water shortage. Oil production also leaves a not so lovely end product of sludge that is currently residing in large reservoirs. The sludge has begun leaking into the water table and as Erin Brockavitch can attest to; this is bad, bad, business.

Let’s look at some other advantages of getting oil from Canada. Would you rather deal with the Government of Canada or a large number of dictators from the Middle East? Would you rather have your people running to Tim Horton’s or running from I.E.D.’s? I’m sure the cost of risk-pay for a worker in the Middle East must be insane.

Alberta will never be the same after the oil sands are depleted. It makes sense for the people there to get some money to assist in their problems in the future and by bringing their oil prices simply in line with the rest of the world is totally understandable. I know the oil companies are threatening jobs etc. but the fact is that they are not in a place to take their ball and go home. Companies pull hair and rent garments about the cost of R&D and oil extraction but the fact is that this tax wouldn’t be invoked until the company starts showing a profit. How sweet a deal is that? We are the only game in town and they need us. I actually believe that all Canadians should benefit from this tax but if I said this aloud in Alberta there would most likely be a bar fight. That’s a discussion for another day.

So Big Oil Companies I don’t feel your pain because as the richest companies in the world you really don’t have any. Lastly, if you want to take Alberta to the dance the least you can do is buy her dinner.

Kindest regards,
Stephanie Smith

I Lost a Friend Over the C-Word

Okay I don’t mean THAT C-word. Let’s face it, that C-word is really just very nasty. (I'm talking about the word that rhymes with hunt.) I never really understood it either. I mean it’s just a body part. Imagine if I got really really angry at someone and started calling them a ---- big fucking aorta! Take that you big aorta! You’re such a nasty aorta! Bah! It’s also demeaning to women so why the hell would I want to use it and sort of beat up myself at the same time? In order for me to freely use that word it would have to be for something really, really bad. Something like, ummmmm, ethnic cleansing! Damn those ethnic cleansers, not only are they big c’s but also huge aortas!!!

The word that cost me a friend was, cervix. You heard me. Cervix. I kind of like the word cervix. It sounds like a name from ancient Greece or Rome. “It would please the Senate if the great Cervix Maximus would cast his vote.”

Let me start at the beginning. I met Caroline (not her real name) at work many years ago. She was nice and very ladylike. We were both single back then and would often go to lunch together. We chatted about things that would interest twenty-somethings such as work, clothes, family, perspective boyfriends etc. Over the years, even though we no longer worked together we emailed and went to dinner three or four times a year to catch up. We both got married and bought houses etc. and we started to grow a little apart in that our interests were different. I then got pregnant with my first child. Caroline emailed me to ask how the first ultrasound went. I reported back that the baby was fine but they found something that would result in me having to have a c-section and I was pretty upset. She emailed me back and asked me exactly what the problem was. Well I emailed her and told her about my issue and it included the word cervix. This is where everything went terribly, terribly wrong.

She sent me an email whereby she said that my using such detailed anatomy made her feel uncomfortable. She went on to say that this is not the first time this has happened. I'm sorry but what the hell? Please know that I had NEVER discussed my sex life or any other bodily function with this woman. This was a one off where I said cervix and dammit she ASKED. I felt horrible. Here I was worried about this female plumbing situation and I couldn’t even tell my GIRLFRIEND. Not only did I feel like I was a bad person what with all that cervix talk but I felt she was rather harsh. I asked another friend about it and she was horrified. She told me to phone Caroline and scream, “Cervix! Cervix! Cervix!” and for good measure to yell vagina! Vagina! vagina! Seriously, what are girlfriends for if you can’t discuss this kind of stuff with them?

Now Caroline never used a swear word. Ever. This should have tipped me off. As I said before I don’t usually swear in public but with my best friends, in the privacy of an email or phone call one likes to get a bit peppery. After feeling so badly I then went to the inevitable anger phase. I was thinking that the pretty, pretty, princess couldn’t handle words about basic anatomy. After I cooled down I realized that she most likely did nothing really wrong, she just wasn’t one of MY people. Most of you will get what I mean. No, I don’t mean that my people are white, Irish, Catholic. They are just the type of women you meet that you know are like you. I like women who can laugh at themselves. Women who fight the daily fight like I do, with a husband, children, work, dinner etc. I think most of us innately know who our people are.

Well Caroline and I had some words, and made up and we went to dinner and so forth but things were never the same. We both, I think, sort of let things slide and just went our separate ways. It’s strange because I miss her, yet I know that I could never be my real self with her. I would always be minding by p’s and q’s (and c’s) with her and feel like I was lacking in some way. I’ve grown too old for that.

Conversely, I met my girlfriend Ollie just about nine years ago or so. I knew instantly that Ollie was one of my people. Not only did we share the same nickname as children but we both don’t eat eggs. Need I expound on that? Ollie is a veritable encyclopedia of medical knowledge and is one of the kindest people I have ever met. Almost weekly Ollie and I have medical summits on some issue or other. I could call and say something like “cankers – how do I get rid of them?” Then there will be discussions, internet searches and book references. It’s almost a sport. “Quick – conjunctivitis – can a toddler take polysporine drops?” I know that men probably don’t get this but women relate by shared experiences. There is nothing I couldn’t tell Ollie. Nothing. This is what makes a friendship I will have for life. I do miss Caroline and I wish her nothing but the best. I hope she finds her own people and feels safe and happy too.

I only have one more thing to say – brace yourself – cervix!

Puttin on The Ritz

Well it is a whole day later and I have finally calmed down from the whole lost post debacle. I am sitting here demurely in the corner of the lobby of the Ritz in Montreal trying to look like I am typing an annual report or some such thing.

On Sunday night upon my arrival at the hotel they were sorry to say they did not have the type of room that I had booked months ago. Before I had a chance to even get a little snitty guess what they had the unmitigated gall to do? Yes dammit they had the sheer audacity to upgrade me to a large corner room with four windows, a lovely chandelier and I kid you not, a fireplace. French bastards!

Please don’t go thinking that I hang at the Ritz very often. I usually get a couple of nights away for a conference or board meeting about twice a year. This is my first business trip after coming back from my Maternity leave. My boss, my lovely boss, apologized that she would be out Sunday evening and would I mind terribly getting room service, taking a bath and watching a movie. Could this GET any worse?

The conference went well and was interesting and I felt pretty snappy in my new pantsuit. Unfortunately I had to wear the dreaded knee high nylons and as any woman can attest they always squeeze the bejesus out your legs just below your knee. Also eleven hours is a very long time to be social and keep introducing yourself adnauseum. Those damn name card necklace things rested at about chest height so while everyone was peering at names they looked like they were checking out each others racks. Highly disturbing.

After a long day of being social and engaging I came back to my hotel and guess what those damn French did now? Once again they pissed me off by turning down my bed and putting four chocolates on my pillow. Yes. Four.

On the flight home on Tuesday night I had the bad luck of sitting next to someone who was highly annoying. He was blackberrying away like crazy and sighing over his VERY IMPORTANT emails. He kept muttering to himself such things as “gotta plan a meeting” or “that’s not the report I want” etc. What really bothered me is that after the stewardess, pardon me, Flight attendant lectured us about not using electrical devices he kept doing it. Just before taking off the flight attendant asked him again to shut it off and he scoffed, “oh puuuuuuhlease”. I for one gave him the hairy eyeball because I really didn’t feel like dying. I swear to God mister if we all end up at the pearly gates I will call you out. If everyone from flight 439 is lined up waiting for St. Peter I will point you out and start screaming “He did it! He did it! Mr. Proctor & Gamble here just had to email Luc in Brussels about a market survey” “Don’t let him in! Send him the other way!” God must have been listening because Mr. Blackberry’s touch screen entertainment panel froze up and he couldn’t watch the news. Heh. Heh. Nothing like a little Schadenfreude to make my day.

Getting back to the whole French thing I think I must explain my history with the French language. When I started learning French everything was going great. Rouge, Chat. Chien. Good times. Once we hit the whole “Tue es, Elle a” stage things went downhill rather quickly. It didn’t mean anything to me. This wasn’t conversation. It was just a list of words that half the time didn’t even look like words. I also was very self conscious about speaking it aloud in front of my peers. I believe I sounded much like Pepe Le Pew. I also really couldn’t stand Georges, Nicole and Xavier stories. They are much like the Dick and Jane of the French world. I took umbrage with their eurotrash clothes that were garishly coloured in a Caillou like fashion. Also I found Xavier to be condescending to the others as he was forever telling them to go pick up a ball or go climb the stairs. But I digress. I’m a digresser.

In grade ten we were able to be exempted from final summer exams if we earned 68% in the course. I pulled in a mighty 66 and begged Monsieur Blackburn to give me extra work or something to get me exempted. He thought for a bit and then gave me the classic Gallic shrug. He told me I didn’t have to write the exam if I promised NEVER to take French EVER again. Jackpot!

This is why I am uneasy in Montreal and French speaking European countries. Well that and I’ve met quite a few French bitches. (Apologies to any of my female French friends who clearly are not bitches.) I like to communicate and not being able to makes me feel stupid. I hate feeling stupid. This is why I would love to hate the French and then they go doing things like upgrading hotel rooms and giving me extra chocolates on my pillow. God.

Speaking of God, he clearly wants me to make up for the room service and everything because when I got home my son had a viral infection and my daughter had an ear infection. The good times never end.

Oh For The Love of God

Hello Friends.

I just spent an hour and a half writing a blog entry. But here at the hotel the internet connection is not so great. So guess what? I lost the damn thing. I am so flipping frigging mad I cannot stop swearing. So instead of my witty repartee and such please just enjoy a picture of Chloe in her natural state. Little hussy.

The Weight of a Stare

Well darn it. It’s now 5:03 am on Saturday and I am up with the early riser who seems to have mistaken herself for a rooster. If you haven’t read my first entry please go do so now. Really. I’ll wait. This is the way this whole blog thing works. Welcome back.

My darling Chloe used to be an early riser that would babble quietly in her crib for about an hour before demanding release. I’d still be awake but at least I could doze a bit. Now with her newfound grasp of the English language she has become rather insistent. She now stands in her crib and calls out “Helllloooooooo” at an alarming volume. She raises her voice and sounds like either a parrot or an old lady. I haven’t yet decided. This morning, my morning to get up, she started trilling at four friggin thirty in the morning. Thomas did the whole grunt and angry rollover and in my head I was saying “dammit Hazel go back to sleep for the love of god”. Nothing doing. With the added pressure of waking the other child I had to get up. Fabulous. I hope the Globe delivery man has been here so I can at least be entertained somewhat.

I must confess to doing something quasi-creepy last night. When I went up to go to bed at 11:00 (woo, wild thing). Henry was thrashing about in bed and sort of whining. I went in and settled the mighty head sweater, (don’t know where that came from) and lay down beside him for the requested snuggle. He has a queen size bed so we fit easily. He fell fast asleep and I just stared at him for about five minutes. I think he’s pretty darn beautiful but then again, Thomas and I thought that about him when he was born and all photographic evidence points to the fact he looked rather like a frog. I was pretty impressed that he could sleep so deeply with someone staring at him so intently.

The fact is that when I can’t sleep I get to feeling sort of lonely so I do the creepy stare at the nearest sleeper thing. I love the fact that if I stare at Thomas for any period of time, even if he is fast asleep, without opening his eyes he will say in a monotone voice, “stop staring at me”. Heh. It’s as if the weight of my stare wakes him up. I’m heady with power. I did this too as a child. I went through a bout of insomnia when I was about five. I must have been stressed about learning to tie my shoes or some such thing. I would toddle down the hall to my parent’s room in my footie pajamas with the trapdoor on the back. Wouldn’t it be great if they made those for adults? I digress. I would go and stand about five feet from my father and begin the intent stare with the goal to will him awake. I must admit he handled this with great aplomb and over time became used to my nocturnal wanderings without jumping six feet into the air. The weight of my stare affected him too. After a minute he would wake and fling his arm out so I could hone in for a quasi one armed hug. I would then go back to bed by myself most likely with dad thinking, “damn creepy, needy kid. Back to sleep goddamit”.

I’m a night worrier. It’s become worse as I age. Now if I am tossing and turning and bothering Thomas he will once again pipe up in his sleepy monotone voice without opening his eyes and report, “you’re fine, I’m fine, our relationship is fine, the kids are fine, the house is fine, our finances and health are fine now stop thinking and go to sleep”. He just doesn’t get the night worries. He has reasoned that he can’t do anything in the middle of night so one might as well just sleep. Ah if it were only that simple. Men.

Everything Has A Beginning.

Look! I've been talking about doing this for over a year and my husband never believed I would do it. I like nothing better than proving him wrong so I am now officially taking the plunge.

I will be writing about things in my life and things that are of interest to me. This is something that I am doing just for me. As all parents can understand, something for yourself is a bit of an anathema so I have decided to try to let go of my people pleasing nature (lordy am I ever a pleaser) and just write to please myself. If you find things you don’t agree with then feel free to say so or if you find something offensive then please feel free to just go away. Really! Also please stop reading now if you can’t handle swearing because god almighty there shall be swearing. I’m not a big cusser in real life but in my thoughts I can be as salty as a longshoreman after a particularly bad catch. Please know that I do know how to be socially appropriate and not swear in front of polite company, my grandmother, and my children. Wait. I do swear quietly behind my children’s backs when they are being particularly difficult but they are none the wiser. I actually once flipped my son the bird behind his back after a heinous display of selfishness on his part but he never saw that either.

I should mention that I will be using my real name but I will be changing the names of my family members and maybe some others because why should they have to suffer at the hands of their talkative wife, mother etc.

The following are the people who play a large part in my life:

Thomas my husband is a whole four months older than I. He has worked for the same company for eighteen years and has only ever called in sick once. This must tell you something about him. Sometimes I secretly call him hospital corners. He is tall, dark, and handsome in a good way because he doesn’t know it. I find this comforting. He also is a newshound as am I and we love to try to scoop each other. Just yesterday he called me on my cell and said, “Calgary School bus crash, and bombs in Karachi aimed at Benazir Bhutto, I win!” We also both love reading and history and we have a very strange affinity for historic battlefields. I think this is a good thing as we will have something to talk about when we are eighty whereas some beautiful people will have nothing once everything starts to go south.

Henry my son is 5 years old. He is loving and chatty and challenging and our secret nickname for him is sweet bastard. My son’s victories are very hard won. This child never stops speaking from the second he wakes up until the second he falls asleep. May I take a second to apologize to my late parents whom I must have put through unadulterated hell because I never stopped talking either. I know Karma when I see it and my parents are laughing with glee somewhere in heaven. Henry is ahead of his peers in verbal expression but is behind in terms of emotional development. We have had this damn kid tested every which way till Sunday and all the professionals report that he is totally fine but is a bit behind emotionally and has a persistent personality which makes parenting difficult. No kidding. As tough as it is being his parent he comes out with things that are pretty darn delightful. Just last week he ran up to me and reported that we are upper middle class and then skipped upstairs in search of goldfish crackers. I recently found him colouring a yellow face and trying to be the engaged interested parent I asked him if he was drawing a smiley face. After straining himself with a huge eyeroll he said, “no mom! It’s the death mask of Agamemnon.” We’re totally screwed.

Chloe is 16 months old and a delight that lurches around our house like a drunken sailor and bumps into walls all willy nilly. I don’t know if it is a girl thing or a second child thing but she is much more relaxed and easy going. Then again she is not yet two and has never done anything to really tick me off but I’m sure that will come in the future. In the meantime I will enjoy her chubby sausage arms and drooly kisses.

Well this is a start and on some level I feel I need to explain why I am starting to write a journal. On second thought, in the spirit of trying not to always be a people pleaser I shan’t explain, I’ll just write.

Hopefully I will have some interesting stuff to report as I am off to the Ritz in Montreal on Sunday for a conference and oh what a treat that will be.