Chicken Pox and The Art of War

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Quick Newsflash Update

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

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

The Busy-ness! It's Crazy making!

Hola,

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

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

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

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

'Scuza My Back

Hi everyone,

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

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

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

I miss Pasquale.

Game On!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here Comes Santa Claus.

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

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

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

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


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

One For The Common Folk

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

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

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

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