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.

Don't Mess with Sophie

Sophie has become very chatty lately and is speaking in sentances. I find this fun in that you discover more of a kid’s personality when they talk. Sophie has always been very easygoing (esp. compared to her high maintenance brother) but she is turning two and it is starting to show. She loves to declare things “MINE” on a regular basis and I know that is par for the course. She loves it when I ask her to do stuff. Last night I asked her to call Charlie for dinner. She enthusiastically shouted, “Okay!” and ran to the top of the stairs and called, “ Charlaaay, dinnertime!”, “Charlaaaay dinnertime now! Charlaaay come here now! Charlaaay – go to room, timeout for you!”

God bless my little bossy boots. She comes by it honestly in that her mother abhors lingering when she wants to get something done.

Poor Charlie, he’s totally screwed. If he doesn’t get it from his mother he will get it from his sister.

Voila. Monkey Bread.

I finally got around to downloading my pictures. I now present to you - (drum roll please) Monkey bread made by Charlie and Sophie. I KNOW you've been dying to see this picture and I do not want to disappoint.

The strange thing is on this blogspot thing you can only upload one picture per post and now I have tons of pictures. This was my only one of food though. Seriously just last night it just about killed me to get chicken breasts, veggies and rice on the table in under half an hour. The natives are hungry the second I get home so leisurely making a nice meal is next to impossible. Does anyone else go through this meal time guilt? Some evenings I even give my children what we refer to as a "snacky" dinner. It consists of cold meat, babybel cheese, fishy crackers, raw carrots and cucumbers, strawberries or chopped up apple and a yogurt. I know technically its not bad for them but I feel bad that I haven't made something. My cooking lately is mostly just assembling things on a plate.

I pretty much know my children's likes and dislikes when it comes to food and I really can't complain because they are pretty good eaters. What drives me batty is when they go and change the rules on you. What might be considered delicious (or in Sophie's case - dewishus) on Saturday may be something that will be abhorred the following Thursday. I can't stand the feeling of having cooked up a storm and being very pleased by presenting this meal made with love to be coldly met with a resounding "yuck". It feels like you are getting slapped. We have a rule around our house that if you try something and like it then it goes down on the list as an approved food and you will agree to eat it again. If this approved food shows up on the dinner table and you decide it is not to your liking then tough. It's that or nothing and don't even think of asking for desert! Wow, I sound tough. That's rare.