Coming Clean.

Yes, let’s clear the air. I have a confession to make. Brace yourselves people. You all know I love my husband dearly. Well I have to come clean and admit I am also in love with another man. Yes it’s true. As hard as it is to make this admission I must do it. Please know that Alan is aware of this and has agreed that I can officially make this public so we can somehow work through this. The name of the man I am in love with is – Dr. Oetker. Now this name might ring a bell with some of you especially if you have been to a Loblaws or “Metro” (how dumb is the new name for Dominion?) lately. Dr. Oetker is not living anymore but his products live on. It turns out he wasn’t even a real doctor but actually a scientist who came up with some special type of yeast for bread products. Yes I am in love with a dead German man who said he was a doctor but really wasn’t. I also don’t really care that he wasn’t particularly hot either. Well, maybe he was hot in the turn of the century kind of way but it doesn’t really appeal to me. You see my darling Dr. Oetker created these pizzas. I still remember the day. About two Christmases ago I was at a house party and they were passing around snacks and on one tray were these small pizza slices. They were thin crusted with only tomato sauce, cheese and little pesto. It doesn’t sound that great does it? After one bite I was a goner. I immediately ran to the hostess demanding to know where this slice of heaven could be found. Dr. Oetker my angel pizza man made them and from there the romance began. The pizza’s themselves are much smaller that the regular frozen pizza’s like Delissioso so they are really only big enough for one adult or two children. I must always have at least one in our freezer or I become jittery. Alan generally is out two nights a week so those are Mama’s Dr. Oetker nights. (Please don’t call on Tue or Thur btwn 8:30 and 9:00 as I am having my “alone time” with Dr. Oetker). I actually wait until the children are in bed so I may have total peace whilst I am enjoying my secret pleasure. Yes for some women it is chocolate but for me it is Dr. Oetker. Go try them – and then thank me. Thank you Alan for being so understanding.

And now for something more seasonal:

Fourteen Serious Questions Raised By” Rudolph The Red-Nosed Reindeer"

1.) WHY IS SANTA SUCH A COMPLETE BASTARD?

I'm going to say he has a chemical disorder, probably Bipolar. The elves sing him a very nice song and he's a total jerk about it, leaving the desperately co-dependent Mrs. Claus to patch things up. He has some sort of eating disorder that causes his weight to fluctuate wildly. He tells Dasher he should be ashamed for presenting Rudolph to the community simply because the child has some sort of nose disorder. He only changes his mind about Rudolph once he figures out a way to exploit him. Plus, this guy is absolutely ITCHING to cancel Christmas. Hey Santa. It's not your call. Christmas is the day Jesus was born. God will let you know if Christmas is cancelled. Until then, get in the damn sleigh.

2.) WHAT'S UP WITH CLARICE?

A generation of men is all screwed up because Rankin/Bass decided to make Clarice disturbingly attractive. She's a little forward, a little coy, and those eyelashes! I swear to God, men should all organize a class action suit to pay for therapy.

3.) WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THE ELVES?

Why are they such fascists? Like the head elf isn't way different than all the others? And what about the tall elf? Is he an engineer? Is he from MIT? Why is he tall? And how come the head elf and the tall elf don't get in any trouble but Hermy does? 4.) WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH THE REINDEER?Okay, Rudolph's glowing, squealing nose is weird, but why do the other reindeer find it terrifying? What is it about a glowing, squealing nose makes other reindeers pupils shrink and their bodies convulse? And why does it mean that Rudolph can't 'play in any reindeer games'? He's the best at flying !

5.) IS IT HERMY OR HERBIE?

My word to God, he gets called both over the course of less than an hour.

6.) WHAT'S THE DEALIO ON THAT TALKING SNOWMAN?

Forty years ago, Burl Ives, who lent his voice and a lot more of his image than you'd think to the Talking Snowman was a big star. Now nobody remembers hits like "The Big Rock Candy Mountain" or "The Ugly Bug Ball" or his Oscar winning turn as "Big Daddy" in "Cat on a Hot Tin Roof". All anyone remembers about Burl Ives is that he is the talking snowman and they don't even know he was really Burl Ives. I imagine this makes the ghost of Burl Ives just about as mad as hell.

7.) WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH TIME AT THE NORTH POLE?

Okay, follow me here. Rudolph runs away from home right after Reindeer practice. He has adventures with Herbie and Yukon Cornelius and visits the Island of Misfit Toys. Then he leaves them behind and is off on his own long enough to enter puberty and grow antlers. Meanwhile, his Dad went to look for him right after he ran away, followed almost immediately by his mom and that Little Tart Clarice. The near adult Rudolph returns home to be informed by Santa that everyone's gone looking for him. We know it's been less than a year because Santa says he can't fly the team without Rudolph's dad, but it sure as hell has been a while. Rudolph goes directly to the Abominable snowman's cave JUST IN TIME TO STOP HIM FROM EATING .....CLARICE! How are we supposed to view this sequence of events? Where Mom, dad and Clarice looking for Rudolph for almost a year before the Abominable caught them? It's just a coincidence Rudolph stumbles upon them moments after that? I think this stretches credulity. I'm forced to assume that somewhere in the vicinity of the Island of Misfit Toys there's an object of immense mass, perhaps a Fallen White Dwarf Star, and that proximity to this mass causes relativity in time so that Rudolph has aged nearly a year while only having left the Pole for about a day.

8.) DO CLARICE'S PARENTS JUST NOT GIVE A SHIT?

Rudolph runs away and his folks go after him. Clarice disappears and her parents… don't appear in the special. Is she an orphan? Is that why she's always on the make, looking for the love she never got?

9.) WHY IS KING MOON RACER SO DAMN COOL?

Aside from the fact that a Lion with wings is pretty cool to begin with, no one knows. I mean what does he do? He's king of an Island of Misfit Toys and all he wants is for Santa to take them off his paws. Then what would he be king of? A lot of Permafrost, that's what. But he's still cool as hell and anyone who says he isn't can meet me out back for a serious beating.

10.) IS THE BUMBLE MENTALLY CHALLENGED OR WHAT?

Ten minutes before Herbie yanks his teeth out, This hulking brute snapped a stalactite off of the roof of his cave and beat Rudolph unconscious with it. Now he's harmless because he doesn't have teeth? HELLO! You still have huge friggin' claws! You're still a friggin' GIANT! Get another stalactite and beat Yukon Cornelius to prospector paste instead of letting him push you off a cliff!

11.) WHAT'S WRONG WITH THE DOLL ON THE ‘ISLAND OF MISFIT TOYS'?

She looks fine, right? She isn't. She wouldn't be on the ‘Island if Misfit Toys' if she was. Check it out. Rudy tells King Moon Racer that if he ever gets back to the North Pole he'll give Santa the 411 on the Misfits. Christmas Eve, when the doll thinks Santa isn't going to show, she goes on a crying jag and accuses Rudolph of having promised to help them. Okay, A.) He never made any promise B.) Rudolph doesn't run Christmas, Santa does. I'll tell you why the doll is a misfit. She's a little liar.

12.) WHY DOESN'T CHARLIE IN THE BOX CHANGE HIS NAME?

You can do that, you know. Have your name changed. Plus I’m kinda partial to Charlie.

13.) WHY DOESN'T THE JELLY SQUIRTING WATER PISTOL EMPTY OUT THE JELLY AND PUT IN WATER?

I mean, it's not brain surgery. Stop looking for Santa to solve your problems. He's a bastard.

14.) WHY DOES RUDOLPH AGREE TO LEAD SANTA'S SLEIGH?

I mean, when someone treats you that way, all they deserve is a swift hoof in the privates. I'm serious. Guide your own damn sleigh. Then when you crash in the Andes you can eat your Reindeer to survive. Nobody likes a skinny Santa.

On that happy note – Have a great day everybody!!

Darling Boy

Dearest Charlie,

My love for you knows no bounds. Every triumph of yours is like my own. Every sadness you have cuts me to the bone. If I could wrap you in cotton and stick you in the closet to know you are safe I would. That doesn’t seem to be an option though so we must carry on as normal. All that being said, let’s just put that aside for the moment.

You have started to play basketball with the EBA (Etobicoke basketball association) and they gave you your own jersey and kid sized basketball. You love your new ball. You love to bounce it in the house which I perhaps don’t love as much as you do. Guess what happened to me the other morning? I woke at 5:30 and couldn’t fall back asleep so I decided to go downstairs and read in the family room. As I was walking down the stairs in the dark, and this is the important part so please pay close attention, I stepped on your ball that was at the bottom of the stairs. The ball went shooting forward and I landed on my scrawny butt on the bottom stairs. Keep paying attention because my little story isn’t over yet. As I lay sprawled on the bottom step I sort of flopped in a fish-like fashion onto my side, still in the dark, and rolled onto some large Lego pieces. These Legos’ bit into my side and added to the pain I was feeling from my fall. I rolled over one more time, happily not hitting any toys this time and started swearing under my breath like a fishwife. I contemplated getting up but was afraid of what might happen next. So guess what I did? I just laid there in the dark. Really. I just decided to just be. To do nothing at all. It’s been a heck of a long time where I’ve done just nothing. I realize if I’m not working or parenting then I’m reading or checking the news. I think your Mommy needs to learn how to let go sometimes and just be. The funny thing is that I recall we did the “clean up” song and tidied the family room before I went to bathe Sophie. This small ensuing mess must have magically happened afterward.

So through your basketball placement I actually learned something. I need to be. I need to breathe. I have to be still. This is a lesson that I know will take me years but once again in a weird way you have given me food for thought.

Dear Charlie – you are my biggest challenge and my biggest reward. You have tested me in ways that I could not believe but I have learned so much from you. Your tenderness and capacity to love leaves me breathless.

Now – go pick up your toys.
Love Mommy

Princess Problems

Oh Hey!

Yes, it seems like I have disappeared, yet again. Here's the thing. Sometimes the more I have to say the less I blog. Funny isn't it? Well I've started numerous entries and deleted them because discretion got the better part of me. Damn that discretion voice in my head!

I've just gone through a long period of dealing with some people who are frankly nutbars. I would so LOVE to give you the details but Alan has cautioned me against it because as you know once something is on the net it is out there forever. Darn Alan and his appropriateness - blame him. This is the sort of thing I hate. Whenever someone says, ohhhh I have some juicy news BUT I can't tell you! It drives me crazy! Doesn't it want to make you throttle people? No fair and bad form I say. If you know me and want the deets then email me and I will spill the deets privately. But seriously - crazy folk. Enough said.

So let's talk about Princesses. Anyone who knows me knows that I am not a girly girl. Yes occasionally I get girly but I'm not super girly. Since I've had Sophie I've put in a lot of thought about the Princess phenomenon. Frankly I'm not crazy about it. Yes, imagination and fairy tales are lovely but that's what they are, fairy tales. For the longest time I've been resisting the exposure to the princess stuff with my daughter because I choose not to feed into it. The fact is that I don't believe that "every girl is a princess" nonsense because guess what? We're not. I don't want Sophie to be spoon fed this nonsense. Yes, every person is special, but the fact is we all are not going to move into castles and be super rich and beautiful and the Prince isn't going to solve everything.

I get queasy when I go into little girls rooms where it looks like Walt Disney has thrown up in there with all the Princess stuff. The pink and purple and glitter just seems like too much. Here is the thing though. They seem to be totally drawn to it. One Saturday morning when Sophie saw a commercial for "My Little Pony" she almost lost her mind. There were ponies! With long beautiful hair! And shiny Jewels! It rocked her world. Despite my best intentions of having a non-girly girl it seems like I just might have one.

The saving grace is that when I asked her who her favourite Princess was she said, "oooh Sinner-ella!" Now I can totally get down with Sinnerella. My theory is that she has long, glossy black hair and shows more cleavage that the average princess. Whilst the other princesses are busy flitting about castles singing songs of love and happiness under her breath she is muttering, "this is total bullshit". Whenever the princesses are called together for yet another photo-shoot for a backpack or lunch box she asks about the next coffee break. You know she secretly just wants to sneak a smoke or text her boyfriend who is decidedly un-prince like. Sinnerella has all the other princesses numbers and isn't afraid to use them. "Oh yeah Cinderella? You just haven't found closure for losing your mother!" "Jasmine, admit you hate that Arabian sexist regime!" "Bella, please, a beast? Really?"

For all my hopes my dear daughter now sports a Princess backpack to preschool (sans Sinnerella) but I will remain optimistic that she can outgrow it.

With no segue at all I must mention that I am thinking about stopping this blog. Mostly because it seems to have a, "Look at me! Look at me!" aspect about it and I've never wanted to be that type of person. Let me mull it over.

So You Had A Bad Day?

This picture was taken the day before the super bad day. We went to Chudleigh's apple farm and a good time was had by all. They are all squinty because the sun is in their eyes but I'm surprised at how much they actually look alike.

Okay on to the BAD day. Please know that I understand that in reality I live a charmed life of security, a loving marriage, and two great kids. BUT this is my place to let loose so I will do so. Brace yourselves.

So yesterday morning I was behind the eight ball in terms of having lunch made for Charlie etc. It was a super busy morning of getting the three of us fed, dressed, lunch made and everyone out the door with time to meet the bus. Charlie had what I call Monday-morningitis. He hates to leave me after we have spent the weekend together. He was crying as I drove away and that just feels like a knife through the heart. I know that in a minute he would stop but still it makes me feel like the worst Mom ever. I constantly question the whole working Mom thing and stay at home Mom thing and it drives me crazy.

Once I got to work I got in trouble. Now bear with me as this is very rare with "the best boss on the planet" Seriously, I'm lucky to work with this woman who is lovely and bright in every way. I'm not going to go into details but there was a meeting that was missed. We both missed it and it reflected poorly on me. I felt so badly you wouldn't believe it. I don't like messing up because guess what? I'm a people pleaser. Surprise, surprise!! I've worked with this woman for almost ten years now and you could not know how badly I felt with what went down. Also I had to miss a day last week due to a childcare situation that I had no control over whatsoever which also made me feel like crap. I wanted to crawl under a rock.

Normally on the way home from work I would have called Anne or Kimberly or my sister but I lost my cellphone last week so wah wah wah! (As an aside I placed an order for a lovely frosty pink cellphone so all will be good soon!) I picked up the kids and Charlie had a total meltdown as I didn't get the "right" babysitter to sit for less that an HOUR as Alan and I had to go curriculum night at his school. THEN, oh yes right after I gave the kids dinner and Alan got home Sophie had the most spectacular terrible two meltdown of her life. I think she screamed and wailed in my arms for almost fifteen minutes. Poor bunny, must have had a lot of toddler stress to expel. I know this is just a stage but gah it makes one feel horrible.

After all this I had to cancel weekend plans with friends, which I NEVER do in principle. BUT it was a last minute invite to Father Joe's 70th birthday. This man married my parents, baptized me, did my first communion and confirmation, did the funerals of both my parents, married Alan and I, baptized both my children and just recently did the funeral of my Grams. Alan and I have dinner with him often and he is like a second father to me. So the upshot, if you'll excuse swearing whilst I talk about a priest, oh wait, he was made Monsignor about two years ago, is that I felt like a total shit cancelling with an old friend who has become a renewed friend and she and her husband are cops and that is Charlie's dream to hang with cops. Seriously. (Sorry Kathy! You have firearms and that makes me not want to piss you off!)

Soooooooo, off to curriculum night we went to the school which was fine. We sat at little kids desks to listen to the teacher and I swear Alan's knees were up by his ears on these tiny chairs. Charlie had told me he hadn't eaten his mini-babybel at lunch and lo and behold I looked into the desk I was sitting at and there was a tiny babybel. Also in the desk was a bunch of notices to parents that hadn't come home with my sons' name on it. Coincidence? I think not. In some parallel universe my son and I are so connected it's scary.

So on our way home I told Alan that it was my Dad's birthday. I know it's been thirteen years since I lost Dad but for some reason I was feeling the sting yesterday much more that usual. I told Al that after we put the kids to bed I might need a cry. He said, "I don't get it. I don't have to plan to cry or need to that often." So I said, "Well duh, you're a boy. Boys are told not to. Girls are given permission and methinks we are better off because of it."

So after the kids were down I followed Alan around like a puppy asking for fortifying hugs and declarations of love. Poor guy, he probably just wanted to watch the news.

After a pretty good night - I only had to put Sophie down once at 3am or some other ridiculous time, I awoke at 5:45. Unprompted Alan rolled over and put his arm around me for about twenty minutes before we got up. I took a deep breath and thought to myself, "with him I am home. A new day with no mistakes in it to set everything straight."

Here's to new beginnings everyone.

Hellooooo Sailor!

See this weird thing in the picture? Let's discuss. The other day I was reading a blog of a friend who lives in Kansas. She mentioned she wanted a Kindle for her birthday and I had no idea what the heck she was talking about. I was lead to an amazon.com link and what did I find? Manna from heaven people, manna. So the Kindle is a reading device whereby you can download books in under two minutes for about six to ten bucks. This thing is as thin as a pencil and super light with an "electronic paper page" to read by. It is light, has a long lasting rechargeable battery and is wireless. You don't need wireless Internet to download anything. The cost of the downloading is built into the cost of the book. You can keep it with you and take it to appointments, download a bunch of books to take on vacation or even take it on the bus (to which Alan would say "not a snowball's chance would Steph take a bus. bah!)

Also, let's face it. Kindle is a great name. It reminds one of kindling, and who doesn't like easy, lovely kindling for a fire? Kindle is also reminiscent of Kinder, the German word for children as in Kindergarten (which means children garden) and who doesn't like that? How friggin cozy and lovely is this name?

So let's review. You can download any book in minutes and it is much cheaper than printed material and it has an adorable name. Umm I just have to say, Helloooooooo Sailor! You had me at hello.

I showed it to Alan who said, "Do it, just do it". Guess what? NOT AVAILABLE IN CANADA. Well I can't tell you about the utter disappointment. It seems we have this crazy expensively weird wireless in Canada that can't make friends with the U.S. Anyone who has tried to download a T.V. show from the American networks will be met with the evil, "show isn't available outside of the United States" message. Well hell and damn is what I have to say. I need to interview a Canadian candidate for Prime Minister to discuss this nonsense. I truly want a Canadian red Kindle and I would line up overnight to get one. Much like a Star Wars geek.

Let's reiterate. Any book. Any time you want it. Jesus, Mary and Joseph that would be the best.

Speaking of the best, let' talk about Amelia. Amelia was the cleaning lady in my parent's home when I was about sixteen. She is Portugese and the sweetest, kindest woman I know. Amelia had trouble with English back then and had her daughter call me regarding any issues, day changes etc. Amelia brought us gifts when she went to Portugal every other year and became part of our family, part of our home.

Amelia cleaned our family home after I moved out and found Dad having a seizure one day right before he passed. She was there when I came in that morning and even though her English wasn't great she could give me the details and hugged me close before we took off in the ambulance.

Now Amelia is here for us every two weeks and adores our children like her own. Even though her English still isn't great she chases the kids around and does tickle games and kisses their sweet necks until they scream with laughter. They adore her. As do I.

Now that our children are Nanny-sharing during the day at the other family's house Amelia doesn't get to see them as much. Alan and I make a point of making our house totally tidy before she arrives so that she can clean and not tidy. The other day I came home from work and our house was completely immaculate and she had done our laundry and folded it also (which I have NEVER asked her to do). I can't tell you how good I felt. It felt as good as if I had been in the Bahamas for a week. Her kindness has touched me to the core. I want to buy her a Kindle.

An Insult to Pitbulls Everywhere!

Hey! Yes I am still alive. The weird thing is that I haven’t felt like updating lately and I can’t quite put my finger on it. I think it has to do with end of summer stuff and beginning of school stuff. I just haven’t felt like I had too much to say which for me is extremely odd. Oh sure I’ve had opinions. I could go on for days about that crazy nutbar Palin. Alan and I love American politics and actually watch each debate and talk talk talk about the insaneness of the Republicans. It’s one on our guilty pleasures. You might enjoy chocolate? We enjoy Republican bashing. The Biden-Palin debate just might be the high point of our year in terms of entertainment!

The sad thing is we can’t seem to muster the same excitement about Canadian politics. I was wondering if it was just me but I asked my boss, a Senator’s wife, and she agreed that indeed Canadian politics were a yawn compared to American but in one sense that might be a good thing. We, as Canadians, are much less divisive than Americans. I guess that is positive but infinitely less entertaining. Well look at that. I started out wanting to discuss one thing and it turned into politics. I have much more to add about the whole Palin thing but I’ll save that for a later day. I don’t know when. Oh maybe when she has the guts to actually grant an interview. Don’t even get me started on the whole Hockey Mom/pit bull dog and pony show which is insulting to women and mothers everywhere because I might just lose my mind! Okay let’s all take a deep breath now. That’s better.

Speaking of mothers I’ve done a hell of a lot of mothering lately. My darling Alan is away golfing with nineteen other guys in PEI. He left last Friday and won’t be back until later this week. So it’s just me and the little people and I kept them busy with an action packed weekend of playdates. The weekdays are crazy too. I know a lot of you have young kids too and as you know once your feet hit the ground in the morning (which for me is around - oh FIVE AM!) you never stop until the little people are in bed. And then maybe some laundry and kitchen cleaning and voila you get maybe a half hour of TV and then off to bed. BUT I cannot have a day go by without reading.



I've mentioned this before but I must, must, must read lots, daily. It's an escape for me that I need mentally to function. Even when I have no time to myself I will get up at 2am and read for a couple hours and go back to bed for a couple of hours. I was about to say that I became a big reader at about 17 but in reality I've always loved it. Every couple of weeks my brother, sister and I would get home from school and there would be three books on the kitchen table. We didn't even have to ask Mom which one was for whom because she knew us so well and knew what type of book would interest us. Another thing my parents did intentionally was to have interesting Magazines out on the coffee table so we would casually pick them up and read. National Geographic, Owl (when we were little), Macleans, Toronto Life and eventually the Economist. I swear I NEVER thought I would read that but since it was just lying around I picked it up and guess what? It was actually interesting. That's one lesson I plan to do - make reading material available.



Anyhoo - when Mom was diagnosed I was seventeen. I could NOT sleep with worry and fear so guess what I did? I would read myself to sleep every night. Sometimes it would be a half hour or and hour but I would always fall asleep with the light on and a book most likely on my face. Mom or Dad always shut off the light for me at some point. Reading was the only way I could stop my mind from racing and worrying. Every single night since I was seventeen I've read myself to sleep - just ask Al. Poor Alan has to take off my glasses (I wear contacts during the day) and remove the book from my hands and turn off the light every single night. Since he is away when I wake in the middle of the night, because I always do, my light is still on. Who knew how handy husbands could be?



Due to all of these reading shenanigans I have read lots of stuff. Biographies, Memoirs, great fiction, non-fiction and some bad stuff too. I reread books I love so I can return to places that are comfortable and made me happy. I HATE book snobs. Sorta like people at a dinner party with black turtlenecks who tsk tsk because one might not have read a very specific Bertrand Russell or something like that. Sure I've read and loved many of the "heavy" authors but I abhor (I seem to use that word a lot don't I?) people who act like Judgy McJudgersons. I can dig a Wilkie Collins or a Maeve Binchy equally. I can read some lite chick-lit or get down with some Leon Uris or Sartre. Just give me something good something, something I can escape into.

Alan has very specific reading tastes. He's not a fan of the fiction. He loves real life adventures of life on the high seas. Real life pirate accounts or explorers or certain voyages. He keeps an atlas under his side of the bed so while he's reading he can whip it out and look up a certain island or something in his book. I often don't ask him if he's going to read but more so is he going out to sea?

If anyone wants to borrow a book - send me an email or give me a call!

Recommendation : I just finished the Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society and it totally rocked. (This might appeal to women more than men - but oh it was a great escape.)

P.S. I decided to do a blog today because Liz was asking why I haven't been around. Hi Liz! Nostrovia!

I'm Not Going to Jail!

Well. Let me be perfectly honest. Between losing my Grams and having a tangle with the taxman I haven't felt like posting. Also I was alone with the kidlets last week as our daytime Nanny had the week off and Alan had to work. It was a looooong week. Lots of fun was had but parenting 24-7 mostly by one's self is hard too.

So. About four weeks ago I got a letter from Revenue Canada (woo!) stating that they needed to verify my child care claims. We e-filed and got a lovely return so they wanted the receipts and stuff which we had. BUT! Guess what? We couldn't find them. We both knew that we wouldn't have thrown them out but the thing is they disappeared. (Into what we tend to call the black hole in our house). For almost FOUR weeks I fretted and freaked and dug and went through things. It got worse in the last two weeks in that I couldn't sleep. Well, I could fall asleep but if I woke at 3 or 4 am I would be up for hours worrying. I even had nightmares. You see, I tend to have authority issues and worry my ass off about this kind of stuff. So the upshot is that we had to have everything to Revenue Canada by this Friday or we would have to PAY BACK OUR RETURN. Here's the part that sucks: I have a registered business number and pay monthly payroll deductions for our Nanny so the Government already has all this stuff!! Yet they want to harass me and ask for more stuff. Bastardos I say! I have been beside myself looking and fretting. Today Alan called the business that prepares our taxes and guess what? Turns out we NEVER picked up our stuff after they e-filed!! So I've been ripping the house appart for nothing!! Relief. Relief. Relief. Tomorrow at 9 am we pick up the stuff, I fill out forms and courier it. Disaster averted. My life seems to follow this pattern of freak out, freak out, and then Okay!

Is this just me? Does this stuff happen to any of you?

People of The World..............

Dear People of Greece,

Thank you for your lovely feta cheese, Kalmata olives and for the humble Greek salad.

Dear People of France,

Thank you for your fresh baguettes, raw cheeses and Steak Frites. Please tell your pretty, pretty pastries to knock it off with the attitude as they come across as snotty little bitches. Desserts are not to be created ruler straight and thin with tiny designs. Also please take time to consider why the rest of the world tends to think that you are much like your pastries.

Dear People of Italy,

Thank you for hands down the best food on earth. With your Veal sandwiches, beautiful pastas, roasted meats and wee potatoes you are unquestionably the best. Wait. I’m not very fond of your desserts as they come off as very dry and tasteless. Then again I’m not a dessert person so nevermind! Buen Appetito!

Dear People of Switzerland,

Thank you for the best cheese fondue on the entire planet. My first fondue was in Lausanne Switzerland and you have ruined me for life because now nothing can compare.

Dear People of Germany,

Thank you for your schnitzel (the food that most sounds like a sneeze), Oktoberfest sausage (with the accompanying Oktoberfest mustard) and in fact for Oktoberfest itself. A holiday that is completely dedicated to wearing lederhosen and drinking beer sounds okay to me. Ein prosit.
P.S. WWII – Boo, Bad form!

Dear People of the Country that produces the most Goat Cheese in the world,

My love for you is steady and everlasting. I could eat goat cheese for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Please don’t tell this to Parmeggiano Reggiano as he comes in a close second and I don’t want him to get all jealous and angry like the passionate Italian he is.

Dear People of the Country that produces the most Eggplants in the world,

Eggplants suck. They are simply vegetable filler that takes on the flavour of food around it and has an unpleasant and spongy texture. Please don’t try to tell me I’ve never had it prepared properly because I’ve had it done every which way til Sunday and I still think it sucks. I think people buy Eggplants because they are lured in by their beautiful purpleness only to discover that Eggplant is a shallow mistress.

Dear Cankers in my Mouth,

Please, please go away so I can eat all of the lovely aforementioned foods. You last for weeks and make me lose weight. Yes you might be a good diet aid but I don’t want to diet. Shoo! Go away!

Dear People of the United States of America,

Please take note that you are not the only country competing in the Olympics. I know this might be hard to believe if you look at your media coverage but it is true. If I hear another U.S. athlete predict an American sweep of the medals I might just have to off myself.

Dear People Who Read This Blog,

Thank you for coming out and for your continued support. Now please break out into small groups and speak amongst yourselves.

Carry on.

Update: Sweet Jesus I forgot to mention Pizza. How could I forget the most delicious ambrosia on earth? I could go on and on about about pizza. In fact I think pizza deserves it's own blog. Coming up next - PIZZA!

Rain Dancer

Last night as I was about to take Sophie up to bed the skies opened and it started raining like crazy. As I mentioned before I love a good storm so I took Sophie and Charlie out to sit on the front porch. They squealed as the mist of the hard rain came over us - sort of like our own personal maid of the mist. And then before I knew it Sophie jumped off the porch and right into the downpour. She held her hands aloft to the sky and leaned back so the rain could hit her in the face. She started twirling and swirling her skirt as she started to get soaked. Charlie started yelling, "oh no she'll get wet! Oh no!". Please note this is coming from a kid who thinks he will melt if he gets one drop of rain on him. Sophie discovered there were puddles now on the front path so she started stomping in them and was squealing, "Sophie all wet! Sophie all wet! Yay rain!"

At that point Alan came out and noted she was totally soaked. I just told him that a little rain dancing was going on and she would dry, no harm done. She was grabbing hold of life with her two little hands and squeezing every bit she could from it. She sort of reminds me of someone. Her Great-Grandma.

This Woman's Work

Let me tell you a story about a life. Not mine, but a story of a girl born in Toronto in 1914. She was the daughter of a Polish immigrant and one of nine children. Yes, nine. Her father was a tailor who worked out of his home in a workroom making mens vests. The house was off of Ossington right near Queen Street. He had a horse and buggy kept in the backyard shed and there was a lane behind the house to manage the horse traffic. The girl shared a bedroom with her five sisters. She was small, thin, very pretty with shiny dark hair and blue blue eyes and was sassy and athletic. She won prizes for speed skating on Grenadier pond. She played softball and foursquare and was always outside playing every night til the streetlights came on. Her mother was a big, soft, dark haired woman. Dinner every night was some kind of soup served with bread and butter and pickles. Her father made the pickles every year and put them in a big barrel. The children ate in shifts.

Church every Sunday was a must and all the children were turned out very clean with their best clothes. Their house was heated with Quebec Heaters that had a stovepipe that went upstairs thru the bedrooms. A bed near the stovepipe was apparently coveted. Her father was a weekend drinker. This led to some bad times for the children as one can imagine.

As she grew up she went to Sunnyside in the summer and danced the evenings away at the Silver Slipper and the Palais Royale. She had a string of boyfriends, none very serious as she wanted to play the field. She was beautiful, and difficult. One boy, Francis (called Frank) was smitten with her when she was 19. He asked her to marry him and she told him to ask her again when she was 25. On her 25th birthday he came to her house and asked her father if he could ask for her hand in marriage. He agreed and they became engaged.

They got married and moved to an apartment above a store on St.Clair. The store below was her husband's plumbing store. Her husband became the first Catholic of the Toronto plumbing union. Her husband belonged to the Knights of Columbus and on one night out they met Frank Sinatra.

She had one daughter, Maureen, my mom. She had difficult times carrying pregnancies so this was a bit of a miracle. A few years later her husband, my Grandfather, bought a home on Chestnut Hills in Etobicoke. He joined the Islington Golf Club and spent a lot of time there. The pretty girl, my grandmother, was quite the lady. She had her hair and nails done every single week of her life. She kept thin and well dressed and was every inch a lady. She was also a sports fanatic and knew every Blue jay and Maple Leaf and could quote stats on every player. Every boyfriend I ever had was enamoured with her. She was an elegant smoker and liked to have a few Rye and waters on special occaisions. She always smelled of perfume and cert mints.

She was our favourite babysitter. She would sing old songs to us when we went to bed. "My Blue Heaven, Show me the way to home and Me and my Shadow". When she was done singing to my sister and I she would run down the hall to my brothers room and yell "GERONIMO!" and jump on my brother as he screamed with laughter.

She lost her husband when she was 56 and the men in her apartment building were on the prowl. She could have easily snagged a man but she was ready to be on her own. Sadly she lost her only daughter (my Mom) when her daughter was only 48. It was hard. It was out of the order of nature and she was really upset and angry.

She moved to a local retirement residence about nine years ago. We were happy in that she never would have to fear falling alone or missing a meal. It was a lovely place and I often went and we would order in pizza and she would ask me to "get Grandma a little drink" as she had a rule about never drinking alone.

She was an avid reader and sports fanatic so she said she made the ideal old person in that she was occupied and happy.

I always kidded her every time I left and said "hey you, behave yourself, no wild drinking parties and single men!" she would always say, "That's my trouble, no men to be found!"

Grams broke her pelvis about five weeks ago when she had a fall. It has been downhill since then and we knew she wasn't getting any better.

This wild, athletic, sassy, stubborn, difficult girl who became a beautiful woman and turned 93 this year told me just six months ago that inside she was still a six year old girl. That she was still the same person she was then. She still dreamed of playing hopscotch and skating on Grenadier pond and playing foursquare until the streetlights came on.

This beautiful girl died this morning.

I kissed her and told her how much I loved her. I cried and gathered her clothes for her funeral.

It was so hard to leave her room. It was the final goodbye. I stroked her face and kissed her forehead. Before I left I whispered in her ear "You be good."

Meet the girls.......

No, not this girl. Once again I have posted a gratuitous toddler picture just because I invented her. She's lovely and dictatorial, just the way she should be.

Here's the thing. I think people have been trying to send me a message. A message in a not so subtle way because sometimes I need to be slammed over the head to get a message.

I am attending a party this weekend, (Ok my husbands and I!) and I have to find an outfit - not dressy dressy and not too casual casual. There lies the rub. I had a lovely sundress in a beautiful sky blue that was elegant, demure and pretty. I brought it in to work to show my boss who agreed that it was elegant, demure and pretty but not..... celebratory enough. She said I had to step it up. My other officemate told me that I had to take one step outside of my comfort zone and to start channelling my inner Angelina. Ha! I mentioned this to Alan who totally agreed and that was when the revelation occurred. I'm staid. Boring. Sportyish. Whenever I tried on a top with a low neckline I asked Alan if it looked slutty. He would laugh and say you are not even near the postalcode of slutty! Well dammit the gauntlet has been thrown.

My boss, (aka harbinger of good taste and knowledgable of all that is fashionable) said she was taking me to Holts and we would find the appropriate celebratory outfit. I followed in her wake and awaited what was to be found. Lucky for me I had a healthy sized gift certificate (from lovely aforementioned boss) and the now or never sale was on. We went spelunking in the racks and came up with some great stuff. A Diane Von Furstenburg top and Ralph Lauren bottoms. The top was not just one step out of my comfort zone but two. It is fabulous and low cut and shows off the girls way more than I normally would. Part of me said - screw it, I've always played safe and I'm turning 40. As soon as I got back to work I thought, Oh jesus what have I done?

In actuality it just shows some cleavage but I guess I'll live. Maybe when I answer the door at the party I can say, " hello, my breasts welcome you and I do too!" " If you need anything just ask my breasts and they'll get them for you! They are great multitaskers.

Wish me luck while I attempt to appear comfortable. And hey - all you chicks who know me and read this, please play along!

Flatness..........

Yes this is a gratuitous toddler picture placed here for no other reason than I kinda like her. I just might keep her.

My husband has a problem. This problem manifested itself when we lived in our old (but nicer) house in Mississauga. Alan has a problem with stairs and will be the first to admit it. Apparently the size of risers that has been universally agreed upon by all builders in North America are not big enough for him. He argues they are not wide enough for his feet.

Early one Saturday morning about four years ago he went upstairs to change a light fixture. Yes, a strange thing to do at seven am but Alan is all about seizing the moment. He was coming downstairs when I heard a “THUD, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM and SMASH”. I ran into the hallway and saw the broken light fixture and Alan rolling about on the floor calling, “ My ass! My ass! I’ve broken my ass! “ I was all, “its okay, its okay you’ll be alright.” I sat there thinking what exactly is the protocol when one believes they have broken their ass. Should I offer to rub it? Should we get an ass x-ray? I thought he might be faking it a bit until I saw the stairs. The green colour of his pajama bottoms had actually transferred onto the carpet of the stairs. Poor bastard had the worst bruise I had ever seen – and it hurt for a long time due to its unfortunate location. The good news was that there was no ass breakage.

In our new house Alan had fallen once and then fell again this morning. As per our usual morning routine I would head into the shower first and Alan would take Sophie down to the family room to sit in her princess chair and have her sippy cup of milk. All of a sudden I heard, “THUD, BOOM, BOOM, BOOM – AHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” I ran to the family room where Sophie was just fine but Alan was rolling around, “My arm! My arm! Oh God!” He said Sophie was fine because she sort of rode down the stairs on his chest but he had sacrificed his body to keep her out of harms way. He asked me to look at his arm. He had about a ½ inch wide bloody rug burn going from his elbow all the way to his wrist. He saw my face and said, “What? What? What does it look like?” I told him it looked super bad – because, well, it did! I asked him if he thought it was broken and he yelled, “ How the hell would I know? I’m not a Doctor, I’m a Marketing Manager!” Needless to say we started laughing.

“I hate stairs!”, he said. “I need flatness. Super, super flatness. A bungalow with no where to fall.” "If I were eighty I would be dead right now because of my falls!” He dreaded going into the shower and getting water on the rug burn. “Ignore the screams of pain” he said. My poor stair-challenged Alan. As he walked I away I said, "I am so going to blog about this." He just sighed and said, "I figured".

Shake and Bake.

Okay this is going to be fast because I've gotta get moving.


So the weekend: Cottage with relatives (fun ones) Charlie with a tummy bug, he was sick 8 times. Sophie not concerned with napping, went to bed early and would wake SUPER FLIPPING EARLY. Woo. Yesterday Van cost 900 bucks to get fixed. Now lets just move on and forget all that shall we?



So I was off to shake and bake today (my light treatments at the hospital) if you don't know what I'm talking about then scroll down a couple of entries. So yes, back to the nakedness in front of strangers. The nurses now think I should cover my face and neck because I am all clear down to my legs now. "So" I asked, "how do we do that?" Oh you just put a pillowcase over your head. Excuse me? I wanted to know if I had to wear the stupid cataract goggles under the pillow and they said yes. So into the machine I went, naked except for my goggles and pillowcase. Now remember I have to grab the handles over my head in this tiny florescent lit telephone booth thing. So the nurse had to help me FIND the handles because I have a pillowcase over my head. "Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" I exclaimed. The nurse just giggled and said yes it sort of looked like I was a member of the KKK. What. "KKK nothing" I said,"this is totally Abu Ghraib!"



Well the nurses were killing themselves laughing when she told the story and I yelled out, "I CAN HEAR YOU!" They were at the nurses station around the corner. So at first I was okay. Kinda hot under the pillowcase with the damn goggles but then things started to change. Oh god how long was this going to take. I started sweating and worrying and thinking - what if I pass out here in my little booth all naked and masked up? I started to breathe deeply and say to myself that it was only 3 and a half minutes. These things that happen to me.



Happily I can say that I am fine now. I have graduated from the program and my skin is totally clear. As I passed the nurses station today I said, "thank you for being so nice to me. It's not easy to be naked in front of people all of the time!"

So that's one less thing off my plate and I love plate clearing. Speaking of plate clearing I am bracing my self for the "Great Purge of 2008". And no I'm not referring to a religious revolution of some sort. Basically I need to get rid of toy pieces, my clothes that are five miles way too big etc. I'm sort of worried about the clothes because what if I need them in the future. Alan soothed my fears by telling me that even if I would wear them again they would be out of style hence I would need new stuff. I think I'll go with that plan!! I am going to be merciless - join me in the purging revolution my friends. Let us sally forth and make it so. Then we can flop on the couch for a glass of wine to congratulate ourselves.

Have you ever seen the rain.....

If you live in the Toronto area you would have heard the thunderstorm early Saturday morning. I'm sure most of you just rolled over and snuggled under the covers and went back to sleep.

Well that wasn't exactly what happened with my girl Sophie and I. Lets go back to yesterday and I'll explain. As you know it was hotter than Hades yesterday and the AC at my work wasn't working. I left work a little early yesterday due to the fact I wanted to visit my Grams and I have the "best boss on the planet earth." So off I went. I hadn't got far when I smelled something burning. Was it the construction site I just passed? Was it my engine? I pulled over at a gas station and filled my loser cruiser with gas - almost 80 bucks! WTF? As I was getting back to my car I smelled the hood of the van. Yes, a very scientific diagnostic process done by mechanics everywhere. I popped the hood and smelled again. Oh yes, a burning smell coming from my engine. Damn. Here I was at Dupont and Davenport on a Friday afternoon and my car was close to catching fire.

I called the CAA and they came and showed me where to put water in my rad but I still had engine trouble. The high heat sign turned off on my dash so I knew at least I could drive - with no air conditioning. The CAA guy said if my car started to overheat on the way home I should turn the heat on as it sucks the heat off the engine and dumps it inside the vehicle. I told Mr. CAA man he was some kind of masochist and he just laughed at me.

So I made it home and was a basically just a puddle of a person. The family was supposed to go to ribfest - because hot damn our family loves Bar B Q. BUT. Darling Soph was a mess. Hot and crying and coughing with a chesty cough. I sent Alan and Charlie off to ribfest and took Sophie to the walk in. I swear to god that in two hours I must have aged two years. My poor sweaty toddler was miserable and just cried and cried. and kept repeating things like "Sophie go park?, Sophie go park?" or "Mommy mommy let's go Mommy!" and then she would cry for daddy. I ramped up the "Mommy show" and carried her around the waiting room. I kept saying inane things like, "look at the flowers! what colour are they?" You know the whole distraction thing.
Anyhoo after a diagnosis of two ear infections and armed with a prescription we went to the drugstore where it took at least forty minutes, aka. an ETERNITY, to get her antibiotics. The crying, crying, crying and tears and snot and sweat and hot toddler in my arms squirming, squirming while I was once again pointing out things, "look! Dora!, is that Boots? and hey, the Big Red Chicken!" (I love the big red chicken.)

Needless to say I was frazzled. I got her home and drugged up and gave her a quick bath and plonk into bed she went. Thank you Jesus. She was so tired she was out like a light.

Now came an evening of indecision. We are supposed to join family at the cottage this weekend. Should we stay? Should we go? Whats better for the baby? Will it disappoint family that came all the way from Ireland? UGH.

Happily I only had to get up with Soph once last night. She was up at 5:30 so I brought her downstairs and we went out on the porch. It was teeming outside and it was warm and humid. We have a covered porch so we sat down and watched the rain run down out street. She kept pointing things out, "grass drinka water! Trees drinka water! Car get wet." Then a huge flash of lightning flashed across the darkened sky. The thunder was crazy loud and I was worried she would cry. She just started squealing and laughing. "Storm! Loud Storm!". Thank god. She is a storm lover like her Mom.

After these marathon parenting sessions when I think my nerves can't take anymore I always feel closer to my children than ever. After a long night at the hospital with Charlie due to croup or hours in a waiting room with Sophie I feel sometimes we have walked through fire together and have come out stronger on the other side.

From The Deep.

I could tell you about everything that is going on but I really don't want to relive it right now. I've whinged and whined enough so I want to talk about something I like! Not something negative.

So let's talk about something that I love. Something that thrills me as well as all eight year old boys everywhere - Sharks! Oh yes. In the heart of this suburban mom (when the hell did that happen?) lives a shark lover. I mean I could lose my mind when "Shark Week" is on the Discovery channel. I think there are very specific reasons for this. Much like preteen girls and their penchant for horses. And no, I never was into horses and all that pretty pony nonsense.

I specifically remember the night my romance with sharks began. I was youngish, maybe nine or ten. I had a wicked case of bronchitis that I used to get every winter. I was consistent in my ways even back then. My parents let me stay up late one wintry, snowy night on a Saturday to drink my Neo-Citran. I guess with the coughing and nonsense they thought it was better for me to be upright for a while. My older brother and sister were in the basement about to watch a movie and I still remember that the only lights were that of the fireplace and the T.V. It was perfect.

The movie was the forbidden blockbuster - JAWS! Cool. I had seen the posters of the bikini clad girl swimming away from this evil behemoth of a shark everywhere. It was an impossibly grownup experience for me and I was ready for the thrill.

It started out with a long haired couple (remember this was the late 70's) going swimming in the ocean. I think there was some unseen skinny dipping involved that added to the whole daring excitement of it all. Then the couple got attacked by the unseen predator and I think the girl's hand ended up on the beach or something. I was terrified. It was awesome. It was scary but not scary because I knew no shark would find me in my panelled basement with shag carpet and pine furniture.

I remember Roy Schneider as the Sheriff with his angry intensity at being misunderstood regarding the danger. I remember the silver haired Mayor who was ticked that anti-shark sentiment would ruin tourism for the town. Mostly I remember the fear of little kids on blow-up rafts with Jaws frolicking in between them. I don't remember all of the details of course but I do remember the old hoary fisherman with his tails of the worst shark ever. He would tell his story by lantern light on the fishing boat with a freaked out looking Richard Dreyfus as freaked out and neurotic as ever. It was great! It was a as exciting as the poem "The Cremation of Sam Maggee" by Robert Service. Go look it up on google - prepare to be creeped out. My Dad used to read it to us in the winter by flashlight. It was awesome. I'm digressing. I do that, bear with me.

So I think the combination of the summer sun, the island, sand, illicit hinted upon sex, and scary sharks from the deep were wrapped up in a parcel that was utterly thrilling and terrifying at the same time. Don't even start with the scene where Jaws bites away at the boat and the fisherman guy slides down into his mouth. I was hidden behind a huge pillow and peaking out and screaming and loving every second.

Whenever I am near a body of water I think about Jaws. I've been in a cool Muskoka Lake having fallen on my water ski's and waiting for the boat to come around and think about Jaws. I start freaking myself out even though I know it's only the Muskies that will get you. We had a pool when I was growing up and as I swam underwater I thought of Jaws coming up and getting me. In a pool for heaven's sake! Get this. I loved my snorkel and mask and actually used them in the bathtub with my mom supervising. I would float in the the warm water listening to the my slow breathing with the quietness of being underwater and wanted to stay there forever. Until I thought of Jaws. In my tub.

I don't know exactly what the allure is but Sharks remain my greatest fear and my greatest draw. I could actually see myself going in a cage someday to face my fear and let him go. Any takers?

Re-arranging deck chairs on the Titanic.

I'm back!

So here's the scoop. Grams is still in the horrid hospital. I won't name names but the fact is she is in a very sub-par hospital because that was where her ambulance was routed. She is depressed (no kidding) and is not eating or drinking. The Dr. told her that if she doesn't eat she will die. She has told us that she wants to go back to her nursing home - this time in an assisted living floor instead of her independent floor. My sister and I have made all the arrangements for her room to be moved. Tomorrow (Sunday) we are all going to do the move. The hospital won't release her yet because of her condition. The big trouble is that I know she will eat and get up to sit in a chair when she is back in her place with her own stuff and big TV etc. BUT the Dr. won't let her go and the fact is she will get much better care at her retirement place. The hospital told us they can't guarantee that grams will be fed each meal (she is too weak to feed herself) so we have to have a family member there to feed her at each meal. Ummmm oh boy. My mother was my grams only child. My Mom passed away when she was 48. So my sister and I (and my brother but you know boys) are the next of kin. So now I feed grams breakfast ever day and my sister does another meal and we have to hire someone to do the other. It's friggin ridiculous that you can't get the basics on a geriatric floor.

Yesterday morning when I went in my grams tray was on her table pushed against the far wall where she couldn't reach it if she wanted to. So I pulled it up and got Grams in a sitting position and chatted away about mundane things like the kids, and my husband's trip etc. I then told her very clearly that if she didn't eat they would not let her go back home. I buttered a soft warm bun and pulled off a little piece and tried to give it to her. She told me "no, you eat it". I told her that I didn't want to be a toughie but the fact is that she has to eat. I asked her if she wasn't eating because she was uncomfortable (tummy wise) or if she wanted to die. She told me she just was not hungry. I tried to feed her again and she refused. I then asked her again if she wanted to die. She said "YES". I took a deep breath and said, "Grams do you know what you are saying?" and then she answered, "not really."

It was tough. I took a wee time out and went into the bathroom and had a little cry. After many deep breaths I went out and once again told her that the DR. wouldn't let her go home unless she started eating and the decision was up to her. She drank her juice and started to slowly eat the bun. Maybe half.

If Grams wants to die then I support her. BUT the fact is that we have to set a palliative care plan in place. If she has lost the will to live and chooses not to eat we have to make sure it is done in a way that is comfortable for her. (Most likely with Morphine etc). We are really in a twilight zone now of getting better or letting go. I am with her on either decision but want to get a grip of which way we are going.

So as I said earlier, my sister, her husband and my brother and his wife and my husband and I are all set to move her stuff tomorrow. This is plan B. She may never get "home" but we have to be ready.

This is hard. After losing Mom and Dad, my Grandma is the only "adult" in our lives. When she goes the oldest person in our family will be in their early 40's. It makes me feel a little rudderless. Maybe a lot rudderless.

Where did she go?

Good Question.

Sorry for the lack of communication. Grams is holding her own in the hospital and my sister and I have arranged for an assisted care facility for when/if she gets out of the hospital. I simply don’t know how she can survive on a couple of bites of toast and a couple spoonfuls of clear soup a day. Also Grams is 93 and weighs about 85 pounds soaking wet. I’ll keep you posted.

Last week Alan and I went away for a three night getaway by ourselves which was great. It helped me to recharge my batteries for this week. Alan is in Chicago all week and between work, the kids and grams I’m going to be pretty busy.

Lotsa updating to come.

Ooooh! We bought some kitchen art. It’s pretty and makes me happy. I’ll take a picture for you.

Grams.

We’ve had a rough couple of days. My Grams fell in her room at her retirement home on Tuesday night and she spent the night on the floor until someone found her. An ambulance took her to the hospital where I met her waiting to get into emerg. Grams and I spent the entire day in the hallway of a crazy busy emergency ward. My poor little Grams with a broken pelvis and pneumonia. She didn’t even get pain meds until 5:00 that afternoon until I went a little Shirley Maclaine on someone. She finally got a room last night. She can’t feed herself and they tend not to give her medication unless we ask. We don’t know which way this will go.

I know I’ll have more to say but I just can’t right now. And I thought a little skin issue was bad.

A little bit of skin.

Okay this entry might fall into the too much information category but what the hell. My husband loves me and his opinion is the only one that matters regarding this.

Let’s talk about skin. Since I was a child I have had mild scalp psoriasis. Basically your skin cells turn over at a certain rate but some people, like me, have excelerated skin turnover. Maybe my skin cells are extra smart? Anyhoo – it was very manageable in that I would use special shampoos and it wasn’t a big deal. Funnily it only occurred with the change of the seasons and then would go away. It’s genetic and not contagious and basically looks like dry skin. Being blonde it never really showed and it never really bothered me.

So this brings us to what happened this December. I contracted strep-throat from my darling daughter. This was the absolute worst sore throat I have ever had in my life. Swallowing anything almost made me cry. (wussy wussy, I know). So about a week later I came out with guttate psoriasis. If you would like to freak yourself out go look it up on the internet – I’ll wait. So, Strep infections are a common cause of guttate psoriasis which is basically thousands of red dots on your trunk, arms and legs. Sexy! Smokin! It is itchy as hell and really psychologically wearing and sorta throws your self esteem in the toilet.

So I had to suffer with it for a while because due to our health care system it takes a million years to see a dermatologist. I was quite shocked when I met my dermatologist because to put it mildly he must have seen a plastic surgeon friend of his. He was “brightened up” in the sense that his skin was pulled so tightly the corners of his mouth turned up with a perma smile. He also had an eye or brow lift of some sort because he looked permanently surprised. So, he told me there was two options. One, I would have to use strong topical steroids that would seriously mess up my skin or two, I could have light therapy which can involve some photo-aging risks but much less than steroids. Great. Sign me up.

So I now go to a certain downtown hospital three times a week for light therapy. Of course I had to meet with a dermatologist there who checked me out in my birthday suit to see exactly what type of therapy I needed. Then I met a nurse who explained the whole rigamaroll to me. She told me that the only side effect would be some tanning of the skin. Bastards! Giving me a free tan right at the beginning of the summer!

So I had my first session which was sort of shocking. Let me explain. Once you are called to the special room you get naked. Yes, buck friggin naked. Then a nurse comes in and looks you over to see exactly what wave of UVB light you need. Did I say naked? Because yes, you have to be naked. In front of a stranger. THREE times a week. And these strangers change. So like, a whole ton of people see you naked. All the time. Just like those old topless German ladies on vacation. I told Alan I might as well just post a picture on the internet and be done with it.

Okay enough with the nakedness. (For now!) So then you go stand in a booth that has what looks like a hundred fluorescent lights, (still while you are NAKED) and you put on these glasses that look exactly like cataract sunglasses that senior citizens wear. You take a hold of handles above your head and then the nurse turns on the machine for 24 seconds. YES. Twenty four friggin seconds for all of this hullabaloo. Then you get to put your clothes on. Hallelujah! So this goes on and on three times a week and the time gets longer with each session. I am now up to one minute and twenty five seconds. And here is the thing. Um certain bits of your body that have never been exposed to sunlight are now sorta getting burnt. Not to be indelicate but my boobs and ass are now sunburnt. That’s just so wrong.

So the upside is that my skin is looking a thousand times better and in a couple of weeks any trace of those dots will be gone. The rest of me now has a nice tan which is a nice side effect for the beginning of the summer. But really, back to the nakedness. I thought that after having two children I would be over the whole being naked in front of medical professionals. Apparently not. I mean how should one stand totally naked in front of a stranger? Hands on hips? Arms akimbo in the air? Hands coyly covering something? I have no clue. Why does shit like this happen to me all the time? My husband can only shake his head. Sorry baby, you married a weird one.

People are strange..........

I was just thinking this morning about people’s idiosyncrasies. Things that are specific only to them that make them who they are. I have a number of things that most people would think are strange. Let me share them with you and you can decide.


Things about me that are strange.

Some will be stranger than others but here goes.

I like ice cubes in my skim milk.

I am afraid of Squirrels. Seriously. A girlfriend once made me a squirrel cake for my birthday! When I was a kid I had a recurring dream of a squirrel biting me on my right hand and I had to shake my hand like crazy to get it off. I’ve been waiting for this incident to occur in real life for over 25 years now. Last summer a squirrel ran down from a tree and sort of headbutted me in the ankle. You should have heard the screaming. (Me, not the squirrel.)

I count the number of buttons on remote controls.

I count the number of stairs on every staircase I climb.

I hate eggs. (except for the kind that assists in the making of cake!)

I talk in my sleep. (it’s never-ending!)

I always have to have toilet paper on the roller so the paper comes from over the top, not underneath. One day the toilet paper came from underneath and a very bad thing happened that day. I’ve actually thought that the bad thing might not have happened if I had placed the toilet paper on the roll properly. (I told you strange).

I worry in the middle of the night. Not panic attacks or anything but I start creating lists like: Call this person, Make sure to write those letters a work. Don’t forget Charlie has show and tell tomorrow. Buy stuff for the barbeque – what am I going to make for the barbeque? Do we need more relish? This goes on and on until I get to bigger things – have I called Grandma enough? Am I a bad granddaughter? I don’t know how this happens but everything gets so BIG in the middle of the night. Alan’s theory is that if you can’t do anything about stuff in the middle of the night then just go to sleep. Ah, men, everything is so simple. It’s like they have boxes in their head. You know, the work box, the marriage box, the children box. And when they are done with a particular item they can just close the box. Voila! Also men can only deal with one box at a time. Sort of like, “of course I couldn’t tidy the house, I was watching the children.” Women never close their boxes and all boxes are totally interrelated. Okay enough with the boxes.

I don’t have a big gang of friends. I have a small number of very close friends who know absolutely everything about me. Everything. (Have I scared you Alan? Heh).

I am able to see things in shades of grey. Not everything is black or white. The one thing that I am totally clear about is that I cannot abide people who are unkind. I also have no time for really angry people. I always remember when my Mom was ill – she said not to treat life like a dress rehearsal. This is the once chance we get. So I guess sitting around taking nonsense from an angry person is one thing I really don’t need nor want.

I can’t whistle.

I dance by myself all the time. I especially do this when tidying the kitchen. Alan is used to catching me doing this on a regular basis. It remains embarrassing every time.

I’m not afraid to kill any type of bug that needs killing. The fear of them running around scares me more.

I startle very easily. Weekly you will hear me scream if Alan all of a sudden pops up in a doorway.

Whenever I get really upset I throw up. According to my Doctor I’m literally a gut reactor.

I need to learn how to relax. My father once said that if I ate coal, I would poop diamonds. Clearly I need to do more yoga.

I read on average four books a week. I read before bed, I read if I am awake early. If I can’t sleep I will read for a couple of hours in the middle of the night. I regularly re-read books if I enjoyed them in the past.

I hate libraries because they don’t display books like in a bookstore. The books I want are always out and I always forget to return them because they get absorbed into my humongous bookshelf.

My favourite gift is a Chapters gift card. Hands down.

I have very little jewelry but what I have is real. This leads me to another issue – I am incapable of properly accessorizing. I am an accessorizing retard. That is why I don’t have much jewelry. I need a friend to tell me if something looks good.

I have clothes in my closet that range from a size 12 to a size 0. My husband says I have tons of clothes. Currently I have 3 pairs of pants that fit me so that is totally untrue. Clearly I need to purge to show how few clothes I have that I can wear.

I still sort of leap into bed when I get in at night. I have residual fears of the boogieman under my bed. At least I don’t run and jump like I used to. Oh wait! If I turn off the lights in the basement I still do run up the stairs.

It freaks me out when my son stands on his head as I am sure his neck will break.

I’m not afraid of being alone overnight in the house.

I’m very good at crying. Commercials can make me cry. I routinely mist up when I am in a card store.

I love real Parmigiano Reggiano cheese. I have routinely ripped off the price tag so my husband won’t notice that I spend like 12 bucks a week on Parmigiano cheese. I have just fessed up to this behavior this week. But then again hey – he has expenses at the tennis club, I can have my cheese (and eat it too!) .

I love bouncing on Trampolines.

I occasionally have a thought that if I called my old home phone number that my mother or father might pick up. Hey – Dennis Quaid did it in “Frequency” why can’t it happen to me?

Wow – I could go on and on. I really am very strange. Tell me about your strange stuff. See that thing below that says comments? Use it! (Kathy does. Hi Kathy! Lets all try to be like Kathy).

and Betty when you call me, You can call me Al!

Okay since I've outed my children's real names on this site I might as well out my husbands because it is getting confusing. Yes Thomas is not Thomas, Thomas is Al. Well Alan. You see I met Alan in high school - alphabetically his last name came right after mine so I first met him in homeroom in grade 11. He was known as Al back then, not Alan. We were friends and nothing more in that I sort of felt that he was out of my league. I was very shy back then esp. with the opposite sex. Wait. Maybe I should say members of the opposite sex that I liked. Anyhoo, the weird thing is that at prom time it turns out that we both had broken up with our respective boyfriend/girlfriend and found ourselves at loose ends. We were in the Cafe (cafeteria) most likely cutting class one afternoon when I suddenly said, "Hey Al! We should go to the prom together!" I said it in a sort of kidding manner in case he said no. But happily he said that it was a great idea. Woo. So yes. Armed with a hard as nails french braid (with baby's breath of course - this was the 80's) and in hindsight a very bridesmaidish ROYAL BLUE dress (what the hell was I thinking - damn you 80's) off we went to the prom. We had lots of fun but thing is the bastard (just kidding Al!) never made a move. So pfssst. That was it. Nada for 12 years.

Fast forward 12 years. With a myriad of relationships with the wrong people (not many just a few ) I all of a sudden got an email from Al. He saw my email address on a joke broadcast email. I discovered he was single. My prom date. He asked me out for drinks. Screw that I thought and upped the ante and said, "hey how 'bout dinner?" Heh - I'd become streetwise in the passing years. It was weird but great at the same time. We were different people but essentially the same.

Fast forward yet again about a year and a half and we were married. Al preferred to be called Alan now. It's very hard to call someone you know by a different name I found. In some instances when one is in a hurry they shorten peoples names. One afternoon my mother in law was over and I called upstairs, "Hey Al, could you bring me a diaper (or something like that)". His mom said, "His NAME is Alan!" Ummmmm, okay. I get that, you sorta like invented him and everything but seriously, I think that as his wife I can call him whatever the heck I like.

Either way, Thomas is now Al, or Alan if you can mange the change. Whatever the hell he is called he's my guy and that's more than enough for me.

P.S. I would have made this post much mushier but Al, I mean Alan, is a much more private person than I am. I can sit around with my girlfriends and have detailed conversations about menses and digestive tracts and tell them everything. Alan thinks I am much too open. But hey, I'm a girl, this is what we do.

Cleaning up

Last week I was in our laundry room spraying Charlie’s soccer Jersey with Oxi-clean stain remover when something hit me right out of the blue. Holy crap I’m a soccer mom! How the heck did that happen? Let’s see, Husband – check. Children – check. House in the burbs – check. Driving the Mini-van (aka Loser Cruiser) – double check. Have son who plays soccer (not very well but still) – check. Dear lord! I AM a soccer Mom. I’m like someone straight out of a Tide commercial for heaven’s sake. I guess I should say an oxi-clean commercial but I really hate their sales guy who just keeps yelling about how great their product is. I find it wearing.

Calling Miss Jones.............

A friend from the past and I reconnected just the other week. We hadn't spoken in 14 years but it felt like it was yesterday. She was desperately trying to get a visa to a certain country to be with her love. Methinks she was succesful because I have visits from a certain I.P. address that seems to come from the city she was hoping to move to. The weird thing is that she was an active facebooker but has now disappeared. Dear Miss Jones, if you read this email me so I know you have landed safely.

Well that sounded very cloak and daggerish didn't it? Sort of like - The fat man walks alone or the blue dog howls at the yellow moon.

Mother's day, Food and Celebs.

That's my boy! Charlie is an excellent smiler in real life but in photos it looks either like he is surprised or is baring his teeth. Love the school tie though. This was taken at his mother's day extravaganza at school where the kids are up on stage and sing a number of songs that are designed to try to make the mother's cry. Then each kid goes up to the microphone to say why their mother is special. Last year he said "my mother is special because she tucks me in a night". This year's was, "My mother is special because she loves me." aaawww. But still that sort of seems like the default answer. They also do this for father's day and when Charlie decided he wanted to say "my father is special because he wrestles with me" the teacher told him he couldn't say it. What the hell? Little boys love to wrestle and horseplay with their Daddies. Thomas was totally ticked.


Now some kids come up with comments that are totally outing their parents. One was "my mother is special because she watches TV with me." Wow! If that was the case maybe I might bet the best, parent, ever! I'm really good at watching Toopey and Binoo and I can never resist dancing to the Backyardigans. Another kid said "My father is special because he plays Xbox with me!" Wow again. Great parenting nowadays seems to involve some kind of electronic device. Note to self - start baking more with the kids so they can say something like I'm special because I bake. Which technically I don't. Once again my style is to arrange things to make food. Like Pillsbury apple turnovers. Where you just unroll the dough, squeeze the apple filling baggy, role it up and voila! I've baked something. See how easy it is?



Yes once again I agonize over my assemblage of food. Just last night I took out Chunky Soup (sirloin beef) and it was in a large microwaveable container but I just HAD to put it in a pot and heat it up because I needed to feel like I was cooking them something. So now I've got to wash a pot that wasn't necessary. Lordy, the lengths I go to to try to make me feel like a better mother.

I did get some satisfaction of doling out some nice healthy soup (except for the sodium levels but let's not go there) into little earthenware bowls for my darlings to eat and it made me feel like goddamn Mrs. Ingall's. (Except for the fact my daughter is not blind and my husband does not have long Michael Landon hair.)

On a totally unrelated matter I had a celebrity encounter today. This would be the third in my lifetime. The first was John Travolta on Prince Arthur Avenue. He came up to me and said "excuse me miss" and I turned and I think my mouth dropped open for a second because come on, it was Danny from Grease! He asked if I knew where the cut through was to Bloor street. He must have come from the Four Season's and wanted to avoid the Avenue Road and Bloor intersection. I was all tongue tied and said, "ahhh, yeah, sure. You just go through the parking lot and see that entrance by the convenience store? You go right in there." He said and I quote, "I sure do thank you." and off he went. It seems like an americanism to me the whole, I sure do thank you business. But still, he was very friendly but what was weird is that even though he was slim his face looked sort of bloaty. Weird.

My second encounter was outside of the Timothy's at Yonge and Summerhill. The guy from "Ed" bumped into me because he was sort of walking backwards talking to somebody. He was all like, "ohmygosh I'm so sorry!" as he was shaking his hand because some of his coffee landed on it. I was breezy and said, "no problem!" In hindsight I was probably a little too smiley but I always was fond of that geeky Ed.

All of this nonsense brings us to today's celebrity encounter. I was in a Queen Street parking arcade across from St.Mike's hospital where I was going for an ultrasound. And no, I'm not pregnant. Shutup! Actually I emailed my husband and told him I was pregnant, with twins. Boys. He emailed me back that he would not be coming home from his business trip to Nashville. Ever! ha. Anyhoo, I got out of my Loser Cruiser (i.e. van) at the same time a man was getting out of his spiffy Mercedes. He had on just jeans and a windbreaker but I recognized his profile. I was walking behind him and we both stopped to wait for the elevator. I tried to sort of look at him out of the corner of my eye to confirm who I thought it might be. He was tanned and his hair was swept of his face and he was sorta wiry and slouchy. I was 99% percent sure it was Rufus Wainwright but when I got in the elevator and noticed his shiny silver leather driving mocs I knew that was the clincher. So without thinking, because I seldom do, I said, "are you Rufus Wainwright?". He smiled and said yes and then I said, "I really like your music!". To which he said, "thanks". There was a bit of silence, and lord knows I abhor silence, much like nature abhors a vacuum, so I said, "Well that was awkward!" He was very sweet and was all, "No, no. It was really very nice of you." So we got off the elevator and he sort of tapped my shoulder and said something like have a nice day. And here's the weirdest part. My first thought was, well thank god I'm having a good hair day. Like this talented gay singer would possibly notice my hair but still it feels good not to be caught on a bad hair day. I tell you once again it's the little things people.

Please excuse me while I go assemble food for my children.

Happy Mother's Day from the Third Reich.

Hi everyone,

I received a lovely card from Charlie for Mother's day and it was covered with the usual stick on things kids get to decorate with. Now look very closely at the blue thing in the middle. Do you see what I see? Oh yes it's the good old mother's day swastika. I kid you not. Now I am aware that the swastika was a symbol that existed before the Nazi party and they adopted it. In fact I know of an airforce base in the U.S. that has a dormitory in the shape of a swastika but this dorm was built pre- world war II. But still, please, the swastika has been accepted as a symbol of the Nazi party. I have no idea how on god's green earth this darn symbol showed up in a bag of kids decorative things. I'm sure it was made in China or something but please, who does not know this is the Nazi symbol? Who doesn't know that they were big fat meanies, wait, that's putting it mildly, they were the most evil modern day regime known to man. You know what? Sometimes I think I am a very naive person in that I am constantly shocked by the actions of others and this is just another one. Ein Prosit folks.